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gukyi · 4 years

Text

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.

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

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

“Mr. Jeon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

“You figured correctly,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is,” Jungkook agrees.

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

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

“For what?” Jungkook asks.

“For listening to me.”

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

“Of course,” he tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what are you gonna do, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, yeah.”

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

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

“And your investments are public, correct?”

“Yes.” Jungkook nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, it helps?” You ask with a smile.

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

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

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

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

“That’s noble of you,” Jungkook says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the matter?” You call out.

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t we just order takeout?”

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

“Get what?” You challenge.

“You don’t know how to cook.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re the kitchen!”

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

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

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

“Is it easy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old family recipes die hard, you suppose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna bet?”

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

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

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

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

“Will I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices.

“I never take it off,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother would have loved it.

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

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

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

“I know,” he says.

You can’t sleep.

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

But tonight, you are wide awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we considering that strike three?”

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

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

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

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

“Can’t sleep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has become someone he wants to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A modern day crisis,” you joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We thank you for your service.

Oh.

Already?

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

You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well.

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

So what changed?

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

It isn’t over already, is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Jungkook says.

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

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

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

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

Another person to fill up this barren house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homemade meals make your insides warm and fuzzy, but having someone to spend the night with makes your heart feel comforted. Makes it feel like it’s been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someone’s hands.

“What happens when I learn everything?” You ask. “What will you do then?”

Eventually, this routine must come to an end. Eventually, there will be nothing left for him to teach you, nothing left for you to learn. You know that your days are numbered, that there is only so much time that the two of you can spend together. What will happen when you reach the last day? When there will be no tomorrow for you to rely on?

Jungkook must know that you can’t stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then, I’ll find something new to teach you.”

This arrangement has always been temporary.

But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise.

There’s a golden glint on your chest of drawers when you walk into the room, the glare flashing in your eyes as the sun hits it.

You, admittedly, don’t go into your room very often, usually only to do the thing that bedrooms, at their most basic level, were meant to do: sleep. But Jungkook retired early to his room tonight, citing some ridiculous reason like he hadn’t worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever he’s not around.

When you step closer, you can see it. See the thin chain that rests on the dresser, the key that hangs from it, a similar size to the charms on your bracelet. The gold is faded, shine erased, leaving behind this gentle matte texture, smooth but worn. It’s much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores today—bright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is.

There’s a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven.

To Y/N,

Found this in my mother’s old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides it’s not her style anymore. Didn’t really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think it’ll match your bracelet well! I hope you like it.

Jungkook

You smile as you read the words, take in this meaningful little gesture that Jungkook has done for you. The bracelet from your mother has always been your most prized possession, but with its new golden makeover, it reminds you that you don’t always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your mother’s charm bracelet has a matching partner.

Standing in front of the mirror, you put the necklace on, fingers craning to attach the clasp to the chain, metal slipping from your grip. After a bit of a battle, you finally manage to connect the two ends, letting the key hang low past your collarbones, the gold resting gently against your skin. It doesn’t match your bracelet perfectly, but the two aren’t so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete.

You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep.

Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkook’s bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. It’s dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You don’t spend too much effort peering into Jungkook’s bedroom, not when it feels like you’re invading his space, his privacy. He’s already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.

He’s not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found.

You push open the door to the rooftop, rounding the corner to the deck to find Jungkook doing laps in the pool, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks. The water sloshes around his body as he swims back and forth, kicking up splashes as he goes. You watch for a few moments as he works out, not wanting to interrupt him he burns away the calories in his body. This is the closest you’ve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you don’t really mind. At least he’s got shorts on.

When he stops, he stands up in the pool, sopping wet hands running through sopping wet hair, strands that frame the sides of his face, make his hair look longer than it actually is. He wipes away the water on his face, blinking the chlorine from his eyes, when he spots you.

“What are you doing up here?” He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features.

“Came to say thank you,” you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says honestly. “Besides, my mother was never going to come back to get it, so I figured that it should go to someone who will actually wear it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, slowly sitting down along the edge of the pool, letting your legs dip into the water. Jungkook makes his way over to you, water splashing at his torso as he walks through the pool to stand before you. “Was it always gold?”

“It was, yes,” Jungkook says with a nod. “My mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. That’s why it’s pretty faded.”

“It looks nicer this way,” you say. “Shiny gold looks cheap.”

“Spend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?” Jungkook jokes. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Can’t help that I’ve got an eye for nice things,” you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that he’s got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t eyeing him at least a little bit.

Jungkook pretends that he isn’t paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. “You swim?”

“I learned when I was little,” you tell him. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head.

“What? I like being dry,” you say, hands on your hips as you defend yourself. Besides, when you were little, swimming always meant showering afterwards, which sucked because then you had to waste water just to clean yourself of other water. Your mother always said that being able to swim would carry you far in life, would be an invaluable skill. You haven’t swum since she died.

“But, you wouldn’t mind if I… oh, never mind,” Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention.

“What?” You demand.

“If I…” Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until he’s right beneath your feet. “Did this—?”

Without a second of warning, Jungkook’s wet hands are grabbing onto your ankle, pulling you and your fully-clothed-self into the water with a splash, making you shriek as you feel your skin freeze up at the cold temperature. Luckily, it’s shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now you’re soaked from head to toe, sopping fabric sticking to your figure.

You come up from beneath the water, positively accosted, hands wiping across your face as you clear your eyes so that they can narrow in on your target. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats.

“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for swimming,” Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows he’s being a nuisance.

“Maybe for you!” You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. “I’ve been betrayed.”

“Admit it,” Jungkook coaxes, “you love me.”

You refuse.

When the rage has died down and the water begins to feel less like an icy death trap and more like a pleasant dip, you and Jungkook paddle around each other, swimming in circles like two fish in a school. Looking up, it is a nice night, clear skies as a crescent moon hangs above your heads. There are seldom any stars in the middle of the city, but the especially bright ones still shine, flickers of white in an otherwise deep blue ocean. You wonder how many times Jungkook has come out here, spent the night underneath the sky when he cannot sleep away the hours in bed.

You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him.

“I sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea.

There’s a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. “I do.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you say, looking at Jungkook.

He sits across from you in the booth, face lit up in a warm yellow from the rustic exposed light bulb above your heads, this soft, homey glow to his features, sharp jawline but rounded cheeks. He’s cleaned up well, in a different way than how he gets ready for work, when he has to make sure his collars are crisp and his hair is sleek and straight. Here, his dark brown hair is bouncy, loose, like he had blown it out after jumping out of the shower and then immediately ran his hand through it a couple of times to mess it up. He wears a plain button down, nothing fancy or chic, no tie, no suit jacket. The beauty of how he looks is that it’s so simple, so timeless, like he doesn’t need to put any effort into how he looks because he is just naturally perfect. Like the cover of a magazine. Like a sculpture come to life.

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. “We can’t just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t complain if we did…” You reason, because you’ve been better fed in the few months you’ve lived with Jungkook than in the years you have spent on your own. Not to mention the fact that everything Jungkook makes tastes eons better than the meals the professional chef whips up, for some odd reason. “But you’re right, a night out is fun.”

“Sometimes food tastes better when you don’t make it yourself,” Jungkook points out, motioning to the dishes before you, these high-class servings of fish and pasta and vegetables that look like they belong on a cooking show rather than on the table in front of you. You and Jungkook may have mastered (or at least… gotten better at) cooking, but presentation is a whole other battlefield. Besides, it’s all going to the same place, so why bother?

“Mmm,” you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldn’t have dared step foot in a restaurant like this one, would have probably gotten kicked out after you walked through the door, so being here feels like a real treat. One that you think you could definitely get used to.

“Thanks, by the way,” Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something.

“For what?”

“For your idea about the investment management,” Jungkook says, sending the both of you back to that day in his office, where Jungkook was on the verge of flipping his desk over because he couldn’t figure out a solution.

“Oh, is it working out?” You ask, curious to know if your suggestion is truly paying off or if you just had too much faith in the goodness of humanity.

“It is.” Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. “It was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we weren’t investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We aren’t bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.”

“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and it’s another for him to actually implement it. “That makes me happy to hear.”

“You’re not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,” Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. “All they are is an in-depth study of human nature. Some economists assume that everyone in the world is selfish and cares only about themselves, but you’re different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.”

Like Jungkook.

Like Jungkook, who has given up his home, his work, his life just to deal with another person hovering around him. Who gifts you gorgeous pieces of jewelry and takes you out to fancy meals, who lets you screw up a recipe in the kitchen and obligingly eats peppers that have been charred beyond recognition. Who is so much more honest, so much more selfless, so much more giving, than you could ever be, sticking around because to not do so would cost you your freedom, because you would rather stay here than be anywhere else.

“I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone,” Jungkook says, cracking this weak, terrible smile. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought from his mind, to exist only in this very moment, choosing to ignore both the past and the future. “I think I’m starting to rely on you being there.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, distantly. Something weighs heavy on your chest, pressing your heart down, slowing its temperate rhythm. The truth is that your heart stopped a long time ago, it stopped when you realized that there’s more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you can’t bear to imagine a life different than the one that the two of you share, no matter how temporary it is. But this weight, this burden on you, it serves as nothing but a reminder that without Jungkook, your heart cannot count in time. “Me too.”

You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldn’t have finished even if you tried. Jungkook takes the container from your hands as you excuse yourself to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the thoughts that rest heavy in your heart, cleanse yourself of the lies you can’t seem to stop telling. There’s this naive part of you that thinks, when you wash off the makeup, change back into your raggedy old clothes, all of the secrets you carry with you will vanish as well.

You know you’ll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why you’ve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. He’ll begin to wonder why you haven’t dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didn’t have to know him the way that you do now. When you didn’t feel like there was something else trapping you here.

When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up.

You head back out into the living room, ready to settle down and wrap up the night by watching a movie or something, when you see Jungkook standing by the couch, your old tote bag sitting on the cushions from a laundry trip earlier today, a shimmering piece of parchment in his hands.

“Jungkook—”

“How long?” He asks, voice cracking. He’s clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he can’t believe the words that he’s reading. “How long have you been free to go?”

“Listen, I can explain—”

“A week? A month? When were you going to tell me?” He pleads. When you can’t even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. “When?”

“A month,” you tell him weakly, desperately.

“A month? You’ve been staying here for a month when you didn’t even need to?” He asks, and he isn’t angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like he’s in pain, like he’s hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?”

“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”

“All this time,” he says, more to himself than to you, like he can’t believe how foolish he’s been. “All this time you’ve been using me? Using my money?”

“No, Jungkook, it’s not like that.” You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew.

“Then what is it like?” He demands. “If you weren’t using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldn’t get on your own?”

You stop. Why did you stay? Normalcy? Opportunity? Company? All things that you never dreamed of having in a million years. And while being with Jungkook did provide you with all three, none of them feel quite right.

“I don’t know, I just—” You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. “I didn’t want to go back just yet.” It’s a pitiful excuse.

“So you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?” Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. “Let me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?”

“I never asked for you to do those things for me,” you remind him firmly. It’s not like you were scrounging for money from his pockets, selling insignificant gold sculptures on the black market to buff up your empty bank account. “You wanted to.”

“Because I thought we had something special, Y/N,” Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. “I did those things because I felt it, Y/N. What you were talking about, that night at the pool, where you saw me sitting at the edge of the water. I felt it. With you,” he begs, hopeless and anguished. “I didn’t understand what it meant to make the magic feel special again until I did it for you. I turned your bracelet and it made me feel like I had something to give to others.”

“You know that that’s not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head. “I was talking about your gift, not us.”

“Aren’t they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Don’t they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?” He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him.

“Love? You don’t mean that,” you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you don’t have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened.

“I thought we had something,” Jungkook admits sadly, unable to even bring his head up to look at you, at the tears that are welling in your eyes, the ones you refuse to let fall. “And I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.”

“Jungkook, you know that—”

“What?” He erupts. “What do I know? I know that you’ve been using me all of this time, that you did those things with me because you were getting freebies out of it. I know that I was foolish and—and stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.”

“Jungkook…” You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm.

“Don’t,” he says, swatting it away and standing up. “I get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we don’t.” He turns back to look at you, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get the image out of your head, the sight of him, broken and beaten and empty, a shell of the beautiful, vibrant man you had become so attached to. “There’s nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.”

He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him.

When you step into your house for the first time in months, it feels even less inviting than it normally does. Which is, as far as you’re concerned, rather impressive, considering you’ve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day.

But now, you can name no place you would rather not be than in this graffiti-laden house, a dangling light bulb above the back entrance and dirt and dust all along the walls. You’ve never had time to fix up this place and make it look even the slightest bit presentable, never had the money to paint over the walls and get rid of the big red X on the front door. Day in and day out, this would just be a place where you could sleep, a mattress on the floor and Campbell’s soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing you’d do every morning is get out. The last thing you’d want to do every night is come back.

No place has felt like home in a long time. Not since your mother died, when you lost how her smile would light up a room, how she would spin you in circles and kiss your forehead when you got scared that you were going too fast. You had almost forgotten what it meant to have a home, to have a place that felt sacred, like coming home to a warm hug and a steaming cup of tea. To have a place that you didn’t dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in.

The bracelet that dangles from your wrist is the closest thing that you have left to the feeling of home, of comfort and warmth and solace, of something that makes you feel truly happy. But now, the bracelet has been tinted with the memories of another, of the only other person you can think of that has brought you that same feeling of joy, of these rose-stained memories that rest deep within your heart’s attic. They have always been there, hidden, buried beneath the bad, but when there is nothing left they surface. To remind you of what good life can bring you.

To remind you of the magic inside you.

You hate living here. And for a time, you hated living with Jungkook, too. Hated how extravagant his house was, hated how he refused to even speak to you. How there were so many unused rooms, so many empty spaces. But what changed, there, and what hasn’t changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms.

Living with Jungkook made you feel like coming back after a long day was worth it. Planted the knowledge inside you that you would always have him there, could always rely on another’s presence within the apartment. He’s only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Year’s Eve. He’s funny, and witty, and gorgeous. He’s caring and honest and cheeky, just cocky enough for it to be charming as opposed to egotistical. He cooks like nothing else and spends his sleepless nights beneath the stars, looking at the same moon and sky as everyone else.

You don’t hate living here because it’s shit. You hate living here because it’s lonely.

There was a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty. It had been overtaken by the part of you determined to make it to the next day, determined to stick it to the Realm, to its leaders, to all of the people that look down on you because you aren’t made of money.

But when you left Jungkook’s house, you realized that that space had slowly been filled up with him. That over time, bit by bit, moment by moment, Jungkook returned what you had lost, revived what you thought had long been dead.

The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone again. Of being forced to fend for yourself, forced to come home to an empty house with no one to waste away the night with. Of being forced to live like every day is a threat rather than a gift.

Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well.

Being hurt by someone you love feels like an arrow to the chest. Like a puncture wound, deep and piercing, but too painful to even want to pull it out, patch up the hole. You had already experienced it once. You didn’t have any plans on experiencing it again.

But losing the opportunity to love someone feels like an ache throughout your whole body, this crippling sort of pain that spreads through your bloodstream, setting every organ it passes on fire. It feels like there is something tearing you apart from the inside out, like every piece of you is slowly crumbling.

Jungkook’s biggest mistake wasn't falling in love with you. It was thinking that you were still falling in love with him, when the truth is, you had already fallen. It was letting you leave when both of you wanted nothing more than for you to stay.

Loving someone is a gamble. It’s a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers.

But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted.

Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you.

The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkook’s apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you don’t knock soon, the pizza will go cold and you’ll probably eat all of it before you can even say hello to him. You have more food in your hands now than you have the past week you’ve been back at your old place.

You ring the doorbell.

“Coming!” Jungkook shouts. Oh, is he expecting someone?

Ten seconds later the door opens to reveal someone you hardly even recognize. Gone are the soft loose strands of hair and oversized button down shirts. Jungkook opens the door still wearing his suit jacket, tie tight around his neck, like he hasn’t bothered to change since he got home from work over two hours ago. His hair is sleek and straight, a little shorter than you last remember it. He looks the way he did when you first met him, this rigid, workaholic guy that doesn’t care about anybody except himself. He looks like he’s done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep.

“Hi,” you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”

“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”

“Wait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,” you plead, a hand going out to stop him from shutting you out completely. All that you can see through the crack of space between the door and its frame are his piercing brown eyes, absolutely unreadable. He doesn’t budge. “Also, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I won’t be able to finish all by myself.”

Jungkook budges a little bit.

“Please?”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, opening the door. “I hope you aren’t planning on staying here too long, this time.”

The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine.

“Just enough for you to hear me out,” you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper ones—you didn’t even know he had those!—and returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent.

Your stomach grumbles, but you can’t eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself.

“What did you want to talk about?” Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. “If it’s about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It won’t be much, though.”

“No, no, it’s not about that,” you say with a shake of your head. “It’s about us.”

“What ‘us’ is there to talk about?” He asks economically.

“The ‘us’ that I left behind that day,” you say softly, a gentle reminder. “The ‘us’ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.”

“If you’re just here to tell me that you’re sorry for not loving me back, don’t,” Jungkook says bitterly. “I don’t expect you to love me back or anything. You can’t change how you feel about people.”

“You still love me?” You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light.

Jungkook grumbles. “Yes. It doesn’t go away that easily.”

“You aren’t stupid, or foolish, or idiotic for thinking that I was falling in love with you at the same time that you were falling in love with me,” you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. “You were stupid for thinking that I wasn’t already in love with you.”

Jungkook’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wildly. You can see the way that they glisten, with hope, with tears, with desperation. With the possibility that not all is lost.

That old memories can become new once more.

“You were right,” you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. “Magic, powers, love, they’re all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.” You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. “But most importantly, they are meant to be shared.”

A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin.

“I stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,” you tell him honestly, because it’s real and it’s true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. “And I’m here again because I can’t stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.”

“You make me feel like my heart is made of magic,” Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. “You make me want to use it just for you.”

“You don’t need to,” you say, pressing yourself into him, letting your lips hover above his own. He reaches a hand out, lets it rest on your waist, waiting desperately for you to close the last inch between the two of you. “You’re already made of it.”

With that, you close the gap, pressing your lips against his, the soft sweet cherry taste of his lip balm filling up your senses, leaving you gasping for air. It’s just a kiss, just a press of lips, this simple gesture, but it takes your breath away nevertheless. It makes you feel like magic swirls inside of you, like your heart is sparking, catching fire, sending it sizzling through your veins. Jungkook has taught you what it means for a house to become a home. You have taught him that magic is only special if he has someone to share it with.

It’s hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other.

It’s hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met.

Jungkook kisses you and it feels like you’re finally whole. It feels like what has been missing in your life has returned. What you have kept locked up, in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of your heart, in the spaces between your bones, has finally been remembered.

Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.

“I love you,” he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. “You are my most precious gift.”

“You are my home, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”

Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew.

You made it all by yourself for the first time last night to celebrate Jungkook donating over a million dollars to various different animal rescues and human rights organizations, taking the kindness that he has been given and paying it forward. Besides, he can make money at the touch of a finger whenever he wants, so he might as well, right?

You also don’t accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because you’ve gotten enough of a taste of office life and have declared it not your ideal profession, but the nice thing about that is getting the whole house to yourself while he’s gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting.

You never realized how good love makes you feel. How it lifts you up from the inside out, brightens up every day no matter how dull it is to begin with. You had forgotten. What love can do to a person.

Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever they’re happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. It’s a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other.

Well, you suppose that there’s a first for everything.

Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where you’re hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him.

Loser washes the dishes! ♡

You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect.

And then he shouts,

“You’re on!”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #jungkook scenario #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #bts au #jungkook au #w: midas #FINALLYYYY #this fic gave me a hernia!

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internalsealpanic · 3 years

Text

Love Through the Ages (Jason Todd)

Summary: Love like baggage needs to be declared.

a/n: This is part three of a series that is a fic rec list disguised as a fic. For these fics, most of the characters will be speaking different languages, so unless specified otherwise assume that the characters are speaking in the first language I mention. They’re all vampires with centuries under their belt. Why wouldn’t I make them all polyglots. Also, thank you to the proof reading gang for putting up with my shenanigans. I will have links to the fics I recommend in the fic itself. ALSO, y'all can thank @littleredwing89 for the poem that comes up.

Warnings: Everyone is dramatic.

Masterlist

Series Masterlist.

You tap at your phone screen, planting seeds in a satisfyingly hypnotic rhythm, the sounds of the train vacillating in and out of your periphery. It was soothing having your own compartment, a little world you can isolate yourself in while you anxiously await for the inevitable.

It wasn’t a secret that you found Gotham stressful. It was about as much a secret as Tony Stark’s civilian identity. You pulled your knees up to your chest at the thought. Big cities were stressful but Gotham was a different beast entirely. It was a writhing monster of steel and smoke. You wrinkle your nose deciding to sweep the thought away.

Instead, you concentrate on your plants and your farm. You wince looking at your journal. It looks like you’d forgotten another quest. Pursing your lips, you decide to turn your phone off for a bit and pretend the NPCs can sort it out on their own as you look out the window.

You lean against the wall, pressing your cheek to the cool window. You can’t help but smile to yourself thinking of a sea of black curly hair interrupted by a shock of white, sea green eye perpetually alight with mischief or intelligence (9 times out of 10, you really couldn’t tell which it was.), freckles like star map, and a mouth permanently set in a cocky grin. It’s hard not to smile like an idiot when thinking of Jason Todd.

Your skirt flutters in the wind as you dance your way through the crowd, bobbing up and down on your tiptoes over the sea of humans. Sometimes the smell of them still makes your mouth water but not now, not when the smell of Gotham is so pungent in the air.

You see a gloved hand wave at you on the other side of the crowd. You pin your sunhat against your head as you rush through the crowd, your luggage dragging behind you.

Jason waves a two fingered salute at you in front of a motorcycle, his foot clearly stomping a cigarette. You toss your hat to him. It flutters over the crowd. Jason catches it easily, putting it on his own head.

"Hey Princess, welcome back." Jason greets, the syllables of your native French gliding off of his tongue so easily. Fighting down a blush, you swallow your own greeting. Jason would have been a great ambassador in a different life were he not inclined to murder someone with a desert spoon for being a jackass.

He offers his hat back to you, but you shake your head. "You might freckle too much in Gotham's sunny weather." He gives you a hearty chuckle keeping the hat on.

"Missed you too, princess."

You roll your eyes. Pinching your nose, you look around. "You forgot to tell me to bring a gas mask."

"Every city smells like this."

"Darling, you've been in Gotham for too long."

"And you've been in your French villa for too long." Jason says, putting his sunglasses on you. You glare at him through them.

"First of all, it's a cottage."

Jason snorts, "As if that makes a difference. It's still in the idyllic French countryside, isn't it?"

"I-"

"I rest my case."

You cross your arms. "You're welcome to visit, you know?" It was a hopeful suggestion at best.

"We both know the quiet will drive me crazy."

"I said visit," you say, "besides, I think the train ride alone would drive you up the wall." You remember how Jason is with tight spaces.

"Not with you there." Jason winks.

Your heart presses a bruise into your throat and you hate Jason Peter Todd all over again.

"Ah yes, you plan on driving me mad. Evil. Truly evil of you." You say, grinning back at him.

"Here's a wild idea, how bout we just not listen to Roy? How does that sound?" Jason gently suggests, handing you your offensively pink cup of caffeinated goop. Jason can smell the sickening amount of sweeteners added. He might gag.

"Nope," you say, smiling at him as you slurp your ooze. Jason's stomach rolls. Alfred would have an aneurysm. "He was even nice enough to get us both tickets." You hand him one, fingers brushing against his. They felt calloused as they always did. Jason suppresses any oncoming reaction.

He instead turns his attention to the ticket in his hands. Love Through the Ages: Gotham Museum Exhibition on expressions of love. Jason runs through the numbers. "These are $59 each."

"So sweet of him, isn't it?" You chirp adorably.

Jason makes a mental note to kill both of you. "You're only going along with this cus you want to watch me suffer." Jason says, slumping his chair. His foot kicks out to tap your foot.

"I'm doing it affectionately," you say, tapping his foot with yours. "Besides, it's a universal pass time at this point." You swirl your drink and grin at him. It was your real grin, all bright and eager and stupidly sweet. Something in Jason's chest twists. It's always hard to breathe when you smile at him but really Jason would rather all the oxygen in the atmosphere be burned up than see your smile disappear.

He sounds dramatic and he knows that but still he knows it's true.

"C'mon Jay, it'll be fun."

Shoulders slouched, Jason smiles at you indulgently. "Fun for who?"

"Mainly me but you can have fun too."

"You are so lucky you're adorable when you're being evil."

Your smile brightens and with a tap of his foot against yours, he thinks he'll survive whatever Roy has in store for him.

You and Jason have been walking around the museum for quite a bit with Jason's arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders and homicide radiating off of him every time someone even looks at you funny. He'd said that the arm slung around your shoulder was so that you wouldn't get lost. As for the homicide, he elected to ignore the question entirely.

You flush as Jason quotes another line from 'Master Valentine' back to you. You definitely regret letting him house sit. You regret even more not hiding your books. You squirm as Jason whispers the quote in your ear in a husky drawl. The erotica in the book is amazing and you're normally comfortable with talking to Jason about everything, but this- this was just cruel and unusual punishment. It's what you get for trying to make him suffer.

All the pet names he murmured in your ear crawled up your spine. You shove his face away hiding your own in your sleeve. He laughs into your hand enjoying your sudden bout of shyness.

Jason mumbles a half-hearted apology into your hand, pressing a soft kiss into your palm. You lower your head. You're still clearly avoiding his gaze but you let him press you to his side. Jason Todd is an asshole.

You point to a pair of ice skates so well worn and well loved that you almost miss the little penguins stitched on the side. "Love on the ice? That's so cute!"

Jason glances at them with mild interest. "Sounds like hypothermia." He says, shrugging.

Swatting at his chest, you pout at him. He rolls his eyes nudging your shoulder with his. You scowl at him and stick your tongue out. Jason leans down, unable to stop the urge to press a kiss to your brow. You scowl even harder.

"Admit it, doll. The whole exhibition is just Dickie's favorite fanfiction tropes."

"Professor Todd, be a dear and enlighten my troglodyte ass."

He snorts, "Princess, if I was a professor we both know I'd have the highest attendance rate."

"And the highest failure rate." You say cocking a brow.

"Probably."

"You're terribly humble today."

"I just know I look good."

No, you don't, you think. You shake your head. "That explains the leather jacket."

"You love my leather jacket."

"Well, Biscuit certainly loved your previous one."

Jason wrinkled his nose thinking of the yellow disaster. "That dog was a menace."

"She is the sweetest creature on earth."

"She destroyed my jacket and ate my wallet AND phone."

"I never said she was smart... wait, we're getting off topic."

Jason narrows his eyes at you then points to a crown. It was an intricate lattice of silvers and golds with diamonds that glittered like starlight. "Royal AU," he says simply, "go on read the description."

"A prince and a princess from rival nations are bound by a marriage of convenience. Through a series of missteps. They fell for each other.... that one was pretty easy. Do it again."

He points to a blue feather. "Mythology AU."

You arch a brow at him. He waves at it, urging you to read. "A god descended to earth to be with his mortal lover only for him to lose his memories of her." The feather's glow is incandescent. You can feel the power radiating off of it, a sure sign of divinity.

Once, you would have brushed it off as mere story. You've spent more than twice your lifetime now dipped into the world of myths. You glance at Jason. Simple divinity no longer fazes you.

"See?"

"I- Nope."

"You're just being stubborn."

"Would you have been my friend if I wasn't?" Would you have saved me if I wasn't?

You think Jason hears your unspoken question when he frowns. Instead, he turns on his heel to face the other direction. He points to a bouquet of wilted roses tied together by a green ribbon. They still smell of blood and something you couldn't identify. Your eyes drift down curious. Your eyes trace over the words feeling your stomach tumble.

"Gruesome." Jason vocalizes inanely. He hooks his head on the crown of your head, neatly slotting your body under his. You're safe, surrounded by walls of muscle. The crease in your brow softens. You would think that Jason would be less protective after you'd turned but now that you were a vampire, he was somehow even more protective. Roy always joked you only got Biscuit and your other dogs as lap dogs because you already had Jason. He may not have been too off on his guess.

"This should be in a horror exhibit," you say leaning into Jason's chest, "kind of reminds me of you though." You tilt your head up grinning at him.

"If you make a joke about me being jack the ripper again, I swear I'll-"

"-Bury me alive 6 feet under concrete with a recording of Roy singing Auld Lang Syne in a terrible British accent. Got it. What I meant was... you're just as protective as the man in the story." You say, smiling at him.

For good reason, Jason thinks.

Jason buries half of his face in your hair, hiding his answering smile. You smell like sugar and cinnamon. It's a familiar combination of smells that puts him at ease despite the atrocious amount of people in the museum.

You point to another artifact, afraid that you'd accidentally picked at an old wound.

"Star-crossed lovers." He mumbles into your hair.

"Bullshit!"

"Read it and weep, doll."

You read the plaque and the words 'meet' and 'different world' assault your eyes. You scowl at him. "Fuck you."

The grin on Jason's face is genuine. It makes something in your veins sing knowing how much fun he's having.

Your face softens. "You really love this romance stuff, huh?"

Jason narrows his eyes at you.

"You were the one bawling your eyes out when we binged Spaces Between Us. Who the hell cries during erotica?"

"IT'S TRUE LOVE AND YOU KNOW IT IN YOUR SOUL," you protest, pounding your fist against his chest,"besides, you're the one who was crying nonstop when we watched the IDHY duology."

"I was crying because they were accurate book adaptations."

You blink at him confused. "There's a book?"

"Yes, you illiterate heathen."

"You sound like a conquistador."

“....”

"At least they got their happy ending." You say, changing the subject.

"That's true."

"Still better than Titanic."

He furrows his brow at you. "What's wrong with the Titanic?"

"First of all," You pitch your shoulders like you're about to give him a lecture, "That was 3 hours of my life wasted on a shitty movie. It wasn't even that accurate."

"Princess, not everyone can survive the Arctic."

"And second, the most romantic scene in that romantic movie was the old couple staying together as they sank."

Jason laughs, a deep rumbling sound. It scrambles your brain, almost dissolving your annoyance until he opens his mouth again. "You sound like Damian."

"Jason Peter Todd, take that back." You screech, swiping at him.

He jumps back, his laughter still echoing. "Stop sounding like the demon brat first."

You run after him, telegraphing your murderous intent. Jason walks away faster, sticking his tongue out at you. Your growl and claw at the air. You screech obscenities as Jason continues to evade you. He is having way too much fun with this.

You chase Jason around the exhibition for a solid half hour before you come to a skittering halt.

Your eyes land on a vermillion book, leather bound and carefully crafted by skilled hands. You step closer to admire the swirling, arabesque patterns lining the leather. No title is embossed on the front. It's thick. You would wager it was at least 400 pages.

Your eyes drift down even further, finding a familiar scrawl. Below the book were photocopies of some of the pages. Pablo Neruda's 'If You Forget me', Beethoven's 'Immortal beloved', Ibn Hazm's 'My Heart', and a bunch of other poets you didn't know but recognized as ...

"Jason these are your favorites."

"What?" He says, walking over to you cautiously.

You look back down at the pages and your eyes catch on the one in the middle. From the numbering, it was the last.

Love is such a hard thing to define,

I don’t know if I could ever find,

The words to truly express the complexity of such an emotion.

It is an emotion felt in the heart,

Long before it makes sense to the mind,

illusive and uncertain until suddenly it just clicks.

Like so many things in this world,

we tend to know it when we see it in others,

even if we can’t be sure of it ourselves.

I think I’ve always known how much I love you,

When I look at you,

I see everything I’ve ever wanted.

When I look at you,

I see nothing else but your perfect beauty.

Inside and out.

I'm not a poet, (Y/n), but I will tell you anyway I can how much I love you.

-Jason Peter Todd

Jason is a stone next to you.

His mouth is filled with sand as he looks at the far too familiar handwriting. He knew. He knew the moment he saw the red book what it was. Hell, the moment you told Jason it was Roy who told you to go to the museum, he knew what it was. God, why can't he just turn to ash.

Jason can't make himself turn to you. He can't bear to see what ever disgusted expression you make. He just can't.

He feels a tug on his sleeve. He doesn't move. He feels another tug, this time harder. When he doesn't respond the second time, you lace your fingers in his and spin him around.

You squish his cheeks in your hands. "Jason, you actual sap." You say. You look like you're glowing. You beam at him, all toothy and scrunched faced. Jason's lungs stop working again. His mind can't process what you're saying. All Jason knows is that something warm is crowding his chest, pushing everything else out.

"Wha?"

"Jason, you absolute dork!" You repeat, unfazed by his temporary bout of insanity.

Jason is blushing, looking like a strawberry with his freckles. Jason is more adorable than anyone has any right to be. But that's ok. That's perfectly ok cus he's yours.

In a moment of uncontained affection, you pull Jason to you, pressing a kiss against his lips. It's soft and earnest and exciting. It was a kiss Jason spent lifetimes dreaming about. It was you and completely you.

"Jay, they're beautiful." You say in a breathless laugh.

Jason looked down at his feet. "I-" was never planning on giving it to you, he thinks. Because, why would you ever love someone like Jason? Especially, after what he'd done to you.

As if reading his mind, you press your forehead against his. "I love you too, Jay, and you can't argue me out of it. Sorry bud, you're stuck with me."

Jason can't help the smile as it curls on his lips.

He's happy. He's so stupidly happy and he blames you.

"Plus, I already knew."

"Why didn't you say it first?" He asks, his fingers brushing against his tingling lips.

"Cus," you say, pirouetting away from him, "you wouldn't believe me if I did."

"How-"

You put your hand up. "Trust me, Jay. I've tried before." You tilt your head back looking up at the sky light. The curtain of light fell on you like a spotlight highlighting everything ethereal about you. "Remember in Milan? When I told you I cared about you and you told me I didn't."

Jason remembered that. He was angrier back then. He snarled that to you like some wild animal and threatened to throw you out on your ass if you ever so much as spoke a word of that nonsense again. It was the first time he'd seen you look hurt. You face was wide open with shock. Jason felt something in his chest tear at that look. He stormed off, leaving you in that room.

When he came back, you offered him warm tea and a smile. You were quiet, inconsolably quiet.

It didn't…

He didn't…

It didn't occur to him that look in your eyes was heartbreak.

Jason curses under his breath.

You chortle at him, the mirth in your eyes incandescent.

"Yeah. Exactly." You say, clasping your hands behind your back. Jason would like to be buried six feet under with the only words carved into his gravestone 'I am so sorry (Y/n)'.

You snick seeing the look in his eyes. "Or that time in Paris. The one in the little patisserie when I told you in perfect Catalan that you meant more to me than anything else and do you remember what you told me?"

"I told you you were possessed." Jason's shoulders slump. "Please tell me you don't have a third example."

You smile at him pityingly. "I don't-"

"OH THANK FU-"

"I have 50. Well, 51 but the last one didn't count since I was joking that time."

In Jason's mind, his jaw hits the obsidian floor with an audible 'plop'. It would be loud enough that the entire museum would hear it were it real. He blinks at you. "You tried more than 10 times?"

"I was encouraged." You say shrugging.

"Of course, you were," he grumbles and you laugh. Jason's heart skips a beat but he pushes past the feeling in favor of pleading with you. "Please don't list them."

"Oh, I'm not." You hum.

Jason sighs with relief.

"I'm gonna leave that to Roy."

"Son of a- He knows?"

You look over your shoulder. "Yeah. Who do you think I complain to?"

"Who else knows?" He asks, trailing behind you as you walk to .... Jason doesn't know at this point and he doubts you do too.

"Oh just your family."

"I'm surprised they haven't given me shit about it."

"Oh I bullied them into not doing it."

"Impressive." He whistles and you preen.

"Always," you say smugly. You begin to walk a bit faster, craning your neck. "Now, let's go find out if Dickie installed that bakery I asked for."

"That's what you're after?" Jason laughs.

"It's a noble goal." You protest.

"You don't even need to feed."

"I need to feed my inner sweets monster. She's very fussy and is demanding crepes specifically."

Jason smiles softly at you, amused that of all the human traits you could have retained after being turned was a sweet tooth.

"Sorry to tell you doll face, Dickie still hasn't done it."

You look aghast like he'd slapped you in the face with a large baguette.

"What?!"

"He hasn't put in your suggestion from 10 years ago."

"Where am I supposed to get my fix?"

"Are we still talking about sweets or have you moved on to cocaine?"

"Dunno, have you tried snorting sugar?"

"No. Why- Have you?"

"...my lawyer advised against answering this question."

Jason cackles. "How am I the stupid one?"

"I-" Your scowl turns sickeningly sweet. "Yanno, the third time I tried was when-"

"OK. Stop." Jason's face lights up again. "I give."

"Pfff." You smile, looking far too pleased with yourself.

Jason straightens up, something sly passing through his eyes. You stop. The look in his eyes makes you nervous.

"I think I know where you can get something sweet."

You swallow nervously.

Jason leans in. He’s so close to you. You can feel his breath brush against your lips. Nothing else around you seems to exist at the moment.

You lean in to kiss him but you freeze when you register his voice.

“I’m taking you downtown. There’s a new bakery there and I heard the crepes were to die for.” He chuckles, turning to walk towards the exit.

“What the hell?!” You call out falling into step with him.

He grins down at you, arms folded behind his head. “Something wrong, princess?”

Heat rises in your cheeks and elbow him in the side.

“I want to take you on a proper date and I sure as hell am not starting here.” He says, rubbing his side and conspicuously not looking at you. There’s a dust of peach on his face. Your anger fades away. It gives way to a fluttering in your chest.

“Where?”

He looks at you then, brow furrowed.

“Why don’t I take you to the fair, princess? There’s plenty of sweet treats there that’ll tickle your fancy.”

Your mouth waters when you think about all the cotton candy they have.

“I heard there’s a kissing booth too, so if you’re lucky,” Jason continues, winking at you. Predictably, you blanch at him. You knock your knuckles against his chest. Jason chuckles, rubbing his chest. “Sorry princess, I mean if I’m lucky enough to get a kiss from you.”

The temerity.

The gall.

“As long as you get me something sweet.” You huff, exiting the building.

Jason stops on the steps, turning to you with a sly smile. Crossing your arms, you pause bracing for whatever trick is up his sleeve. Jason tilts his head. He says something but the little noises of the city make the words hard to discern. You lean closer to hear him better. Jason steps closer to close the distance, his lips warm against yours. You’re stunned. Your entire body divided on how to react, some parts stiffen while others turn to jelly.

He pulls away, wolfish grin unwavering. "That sweet enough for you sweetheart?"

@batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @bungunz, @birdy-bat-writes, @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-inkage, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red

#Jason Todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #vampire au #food

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yaku-soba · 3 years

Text

in love with your love

༶•┈┈ general m.list

༶•┈┈ kyoutani kentarou x gn!reader | fluff

tags/warnings: set in the second and third year of high school, getting together <3

word count: 1.36k

a/n: a repost frm my old blog; i’m sorry i disappeared again but i had family issues to sort through :”) hopefully i’m back for good now

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

Most people tend to look at Kentarou and stop there.

It’s hard to explain, but he doesn’t think they see him, not really. They see his scowl, the angry pull of his brows, and immediately give him a wide berth.

In high school, Kentarou spikes a ball into the court. It flattens, ricochets to thud against the walls of the gym.

No one sees it.

The volleyball guys in Seijoh see his dyed hair, the way he barks his words. They see bared teeth and say - look, there’s a mad dog.

Kentarou walks out.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

He meets you in the spring of his second year. Seijoh has lost to Karasuno, and Kentarou’s just lost whatever he’d thought he could have had.

(He’d tasted it. In those precious last minutes on the court, when he’d managed to bump the ball with the inside of his wrist in a miraculous save, he’d felt for a moment like he was part of a team. When he’d hit spike after spike, serve after serve, when Oikawa had set to him-

-He’d felt like they’d finally seen him.)

You bump into him in the hallway a few days after Spring High. When he looks down, a biting remark on his tongue, he’s greeted to the sight of you sprawled on the ground, clutching your head. Your papers flutter in the breeze, all butterfly wings, before settling messily on the floor.

You let out a groan when you realize that the papers that had once been in your hands are now scattered over the ground, moving to pick them up.

And Kentarou just - he just watches. He’s thrown off-centre - there’s been neither half-muttered snark nor apology. He’s not exactly proud of it, but he’s used to students muttering out a rushed apology without meeting his eyes, before running off with their things hastily gathered up.

“Aren’t you going to help?” Your voice pulls him back to Seijoh, to a hallway identical to countless others on the compound. (But something has changed, something has shifted the world on its axis, just barely.)

You’re looking at him somewhat accusingly. “You weren’t looking where you were going, either,” you say when he doesn’t reply.

“What?” He’s aware he’s probably scowling. There’s a small pang of regret at that realization.

But you take no notice, already busying yourself with arranging the papers in some unknown order. “Come on, I’ve still got to hand in this lab report, you know.”

Dumbfounded, Kentarou squats, obediently picking up the pages of your lab report before he notices what he’s doing.

(He sneaks a glance at your name and class. You’re a second-year too - from the class that’s right next to the stairs. He’s never seen you before.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

After that spring afternoon, he sees you around more. Perhaps you had always been there, on the periphery.

You’re hardly ever alone, always with some classmate or other.

He almost goes up to you - he doesn’t know exactly it is that he wants to say, only that he wants you to look at him.

(You do. You sneak glances at him out of the corner of your eye, as he brushes through the lunch crowd in the canteen to set his tray down angrily opposite Yahaba. You linger outside Seijoh’s gym, busying yourself with tying your laces, right outside of the open door to the gym.)

Third-year goes better. He ends up in your class, and as your seat-mate, no less.

Kentarou tries not to scowl as much.

He’s elated when he realizes you don’t care - you just laugh, pinching his cheeks teasingly in the way he despises but can’t quite come to resent.

(He likes the way you ruffle his dyed hair without hesitation. He likes the way you roll your eyes at his biting remarks.

Kentarou likes the way you look at him. He feels seen.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

Kentarou falls in love without really being aware of it.

By the time he does, it’s too late. He’s hooked on the pitch of your laugh and the dizzying curve of your lips in a teasing smirk.

This is okay, he thinks. Kentarou’s never had something like this - all he’s ever had is volleyball and a hunger he can never really satiate. He thinks it’s enough that he gets to feel something like this, even if Yahaba won’t stop teasing him.

(He can’t quite keep himself from smiling a little more around you. You speak and he’ll lean in before he catches himself. He’s never been good with words and he doesn’t remember half the things you say - only that you wave your hands around animatedly as you talk, only the way your voice rises and ebbs with the story like a tide.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“He clearly likes you back,” your friend whispers excitedly once Kyoutani has passed the both of you, waving at you casually before he turns to scowl at something Yahaba had said. “I don’t know why you’re holding yourself back.”

(You wish he’d follow up his muttered thank you with a kiss on the cheek whenever you hand him a bottle as you pop into the gym, just to see how he’s doing now that he’s back to training with the team. You want him to rest his hands on your hips and kiss you senseless against the door to your classroom, you want to tug on his tie and pretend you care about the fact that you’re supposed to be on cleanup duty.)

Sighing, you pick at your bento disinterestedly, “We’re graduating soon,” you reply tiredly, “and he’s probably going to go into professional volleyball.” Despite everything, you crack a small smile at that.

“He loves volleyball. It’d be cruel to keep him from that.” You close the lid of your half-eaten bento. Your friend frowns but doesn’t argue.

(You love Kyoutani.

He loves volleyball, and that’s okay. You’ve made your peace with it.

Still, you’re not strong enough to keep yourself from the small, selfish things. You call out to him from behind the door to the gym and lean into him as you laugh, and let yourself pretend that it’s fondness you see in his eyes.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

It’s graduation by the time Kentarou realizes that you like him back, and it’s almost too late.

You’re standing before him, eyes downcast and cheeks the same shade of red as his palm after spiking drills, and you’re asking for the second button on his gakuran. The one closest to his heart, the one he hadn’t given to the girl who had asked him for it even before you had.

(He sees the way your lashes stutter when he leans in. He remembers with sudden, newfound clarity, the way he sometimes catches you looking at him, all soft and shit.

Oh.)

Kentarou fumbles with his gakuran for a moment before he just rips the button out.

“Here,” he says hoarsely, thrusting it out at you like he isn’t handing you his heart, “I was going to give it to you, anyway.”

He wasn’t. But that was before he’d realized exactly how blind he’s been, and he figures the details don’t really matter, not now.

Kentarou’s lost all his chances without ever really trying, but you’re handing him a new one, and he’ll take it because all he’s ever had is volleyball and a hunger that had never quietened till he’d heard your voice.

You smile, and he wonders how he’d ever thought it would be okay to leave without telling you.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“Are you going away?” You ask as he walks you home that evening, after a dinner that you’re going to call a date, even if it’s only in your head. “For volleyball?”

His steps stutter. “Yeah,” he says after a pause, sounding strangled. “I’ll have to call my parents weekly, though.”

I can call you, he says with every brush of his knuckles against yours, I want to, if you want it too.

“Guess I’ll have to sign up for international calls service, then,” you say lightly. I want it, I want this, I want you.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

a/n: feel free to send me an ask / dm if you’d like to be added to my general taglist!

as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :D

#haikyuu x reader #kyoutani kentarou x reader #haikyuucreations #haikyuu!!#kyoutani kentarou #kyouka writes

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suitetarts · 3 years

Text

pockets full of stone

A mer-may collab with @miranhas-art 💙 See below the cut for another gorgeous Mari illustration! ... and my fic

Din Djarin nearly dies (again) and meets someone from the stories he heard as a child. He didn’t expect them to be so sassy, though.

Rating: General Word Count: 2.8k Warning: Description of drowning, thoughts of death, vomiting (water) AO3 Link

A push, grunt, then a large splash into the lake’s dark and chilled waters.

This was the last time Din was going to talk business on a pier without his jetpack. He knew the bounty was desperate, and for Maker’s sake, the Quarren had thrown his body weight around earlier on the Crest trying to piss Din off by scaring the kid. He should have known better.

Din pulls himself back to the present and away from any blame. He could worry about that later. Or never, and he supposes he’ll find that out soon. His whole body feels incredibly heavy, much more than what he has grown used to over the years. Where metal meets man, he is dragged down; the weight of his padding and armor applying an inescapable pressure as the moonlight fades to black above him. He tries pulling at the water with his arms while kicking with his legs, grasping for anything, but still he feels himself sinking deeper.

Wait, the… Who would take care of the baby if Din can’t....

His breaths are coming fast as he tries and fails to calm himself. Keeping his body upright means that the water still hasn’t crept into his helmet, which is something he can work with. But only for a short few moments. Din realizes he’s probably going to run out of breathable air before he reaches the bottom of this icy lake, much less walk out of it, as he continues to sink.

Din’s mind begins to fog as he figures he might be able to save himself if he loses some of the beskar. He doesn’t have the luxury to dwell on this, as close to his heart and soul the beskar may be. The armor will be at the bottom of the lake whether he succeeds or fails, so he gets going. His normally nimble fingers are cold and difficult, and they fail to find purchase on the slippery latches of his pauldrons. The cape wrapped around his chestplate in such a way to make it nearly impossible to remove without being able to look down and see it. His head lolls forward, allowing water to rush into his helmet and the dwindling air pocket. Din’s mouth and nose are full of water, his throat contracts, his chest stutters, his lungs burn. He can’t focus on the latches to his armor or removing his belts, all he can feel is the cold depths rushing all around and within.

Fuck.

The Mandalorian reflects for a moment. He’s done his best, but his best wasn’t good enough. This is it. He’s flirted with this for years, and it's finally here. Is it honorable? Probably not. Is it what he deserves? Most likely. What’s his legacy? A lifetime spent trying to be worthy of being saved, only to waste it. Figures.

Before Din lost consciousness, two glowing blue lights rushed towards him, but he was too far gone to care. He was finally warm.

Death is a funny thing. No one really knows what happens in the instant before it actually happens. Everyone says they know, but obviously they don’t. There’s no certainty in death, just like in life. What happens to someone when they cross the veil, from one world to the next? If it's anything like traveling at lightspeed, Din knew that like the back of his hand. A shudder felt through the hull, a pause, and then that’s it. Silence and flashes of stars, except perhaps these would fade to black before long. What would he see in those stars? A story?

If Din was to see a story before he died, he knew plenty of them. He had once been fond of the stories that came from strangers. He would beg his father to take him to the cantina, to let him sit in the dirty booths and eavesdrop on the travelers talking about their recent journeys to Coruscant or to any number of exotic planets in the outer rim. The idea of being totally free to do whatever Din wanted in the whole entire galaxy was so thrilling, especially compared to his reality of being tied down to his father’s shop in the bazaar forever. What kind of story would that make for, compared to what was out there in the stars? There were dashing pilots, gunners and soldiers, merchants, bounty hunters, peacekeepers, missionaries. Stories of war in far off places, of mysterious species unlike anything he’d ever dreamed, of personal loss, of unexpected love. Whenever he asked to go -- before, that is -- his mother would give his father a look, one that was always angled so that Din couldn’t see, and then his father would relent and take the young boy out for the afternoon. But eventually, both of them would shush him when he asked. They stayed inside, ‘it’s not a good day’ his mother said, and kept the store closed. There were whispers of war, a real war. The whispers were exciting to Din at first, they reminded him of the stories. The heroes were going to swoop in to stop the bad guys and put everything back to normal. But then the whispers grew into screams, explosions, shooting. Where were the heroes? All the thrilling things he had heard in the cantina, but terrifying and happening to him with no one here to--

Stop. Din’s dead, and yet he continues to torture himself. If he gets one last laugh, it should be at himself.

Din didn’t want a story, or to relive his life. What about something he never got to do? He had always hoped that he could live in a fantasy, if only for a moment, where he could have a simple life. A moisture farmer on some backwater planet, or a working class mechanic for a Mid Rim starport. Although that was never a life he would actually want for himself, a simple life was always a nice thought for a different Din. One who wasn’t so…. damaged.

So here he is, a man on the brink of death. Is he seeing his life flash painfully before him again, is he living in a dream, is he nowhere at all?

A kiss. He’s being kissed.

Now, Din had never kissed anyone on the lips in life. He knew the steps, the basic mechanics, but he imagined that it was a much different experience to be kissing an actual active participant and not just the skin on the back of his own hand. There was a certain give and take that he was looking forward to -- a dance, a battle of will fought with plush lips and soft tongues. Even beyond the direct battlefield, there was the periphery of where one’s hands would be, knees intertwined, legs weak and swaying. His arm wrapped around their waist and his fingers brushing tenderly over their cheek, while they pull him in by the shoulders until they melt together.

He would have much rather died in a kiss like that.

In this brief moment of purgatory, however, he can settle for this one chaste kiss. This ‘kiss’ he is having now, if it’s to be called that, is… Hmm. It isn’t what Din imagined. Everything is dark, and it's not anything like a dance. This person seems to be gasping into him with their mouth wide open, like a fish out of water. Whoever he’s kissing has clearly never done this before either, otherwise why in Maker’s name would anyone want to kiss again? He strains his arms to reach forward at whatever is capturing his lips, but he can’t find his strength. He had never known that kissing would need to be so rushed, or involve so much blowing of air? He --

Oh.

Din grunts around a cough, finding himself on his back and in quite a bit of pain. His insides feel like they are saturated and about to burst. He rolls over onto his hands and knees on the muddy banks of the far side of the lake so that he can proceed to throw up an obscene amount of water, which only makes the burning in his lungs more and more painful with each heave.

A sigh of relief, a soft voice breaking through the silt caked in his ears which seems to speak only above a whisper. “I-I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Din freezes. The discomfort and pained heat in his chest is nothing compared to the inferno under the bare skin of his face. He continues to stare at the ground, but shifts his eyes up so that he is looking in the direction of his savior.

A human, scantily-clad with only a dark cloth wrapped around their chest and some sort of leather skirt, sits in front of him on the rocks, their legs still partially submerged in the murky lake water. They thumb at their wet lips as they smile at him, and he feels a blush creep from his face all the way down his chest. Those glistening, smiling lips had been on his lips.

His lips.

His face.

The Creed.

Despite a sensible voice in Din’s head trying to remind him that they had saved his life, despite the weakness that pervaded every inch of his body, a flare of anger rises in him. He is dar’manda now, because of them.

He pulls himself up into a seated position on the lakeside and puffs out his chest, only to find the pain evaporating his anger. “What did you do….” he asks himself.

Their smile fades as their brows furrow. “I think that’s pretty obvious. I saved your life.”

“I didn’t mean-- My life?” Din sighs around a laugh. He’s done this before, hasn’t he? Why’s this different from the cantina? Because this person isn’t made of metal? He knew going along with anything less than what the Creed requires of him would become a slippery slope. The tears come easily and he does nothing to stop them. “No, my life is over.”

They set one of their hands on the rock beside them, leaning their weight onto it and towards him. They open their mouth around a smirk, then pause. They start again, but with a blank sincere expression. “Why’s that?”

It’s probably the adrenaline from nearly dying and being unmasked again, but for a moment Din considers grabbing their arm and pulling them in for a real kiss. What does it matter now? His body shows no signs of his thoughts, not a single twitch of muscle, but his face must be betraying him as he watches their eyes train in on his as they purse their lips and smile with their dark, shimmering eyes. Whatever blush he still had on his face grew a shade darker.

“You’re a bold one.” They say around a smile, their long fingers twisting through their hair.

Din squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from them, towards the dark sky full of stars. His voice cracks as he gives weight to the words running through his mind, to the feeling of emptiness inside. “I’m dar’manda.”

They snort, and Din can’t help but whip his head at them.

“Can’t be that big of a deal if I’ve never heard of it.”

Din expected them to not know, but not for them to be so arrogant about it. He had an explanation ready, but since he was caught off guard and doesn’t want to get lost in the weeds with this person, he summarizes the summary as, “It means I’m done. I can’t wear the armor anymore.”

“Because I saved you?”

“Because you’ve seen me,” Din explains, finding the familiar words of his Creed. “No living thing can see me without the helmet. That’s… that’s the one rule. And I broke it.”

“But I’m the one who broke it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

They blow a raspberry and wave at the air with their free hand. “You humans really can be so dramatic.”

Din pauses, squinting up at the twinkling stars as he absorbs their words. Well. Now he’s curious. He brings his gaze back down at his savior. It's dark and he’d just drowned, but he didn’t see anything… off.

“You seem human to me,” he says as he turns over and sits back on his haunches.

“You seem duller than I hoped.” They bite their lips around a smile as they laugh softly. They pull their legs out of the water; the skirt seems to shine iridescent in the moonlight, like facets of a precious gemstone. Their feet were…. Hm. Their skirt, their legs, are covered in leather? No, scales….

Din finds his mouth gaping as he stares at a tail, the fin slapping wetly against the rocks in step with the drum of their fingers against their thighs -- singular, thigh?

As he struggles to think of a good first question, they purse their lips in thought. “Let me go get your hat,” they say before quickly slipping back into the lake.

“W-wait, it’s not a...,” Din calls out stupidly, launching himself slowly and awkwardly from his haunches and reaching out in the empty air where they once were.

This can’t be real. Mystical, intelligent beings with the head and upper body of a human, but the fins and tail of a fish. He was more than familiar with the stories, but such creatures were just children’s tales. Although, what was fiction now that he is taking care of a fifty year old infant with telekinetic powers? The galaxy was a big place, he supposed.

The mer-person seems to come back just as fast as they’d left, setting Din’s helmet on the shore at his feet before pulling themselves back up to sit their colorfully-scaled behind on the rocks.

Din reaches down and fumbles for a moment with the beskar, checking the inside before placing it back on his head. The pads are damp and uncomfortable, but not any more uncomfortable than feeling so exposed. “Thank you.”

“It's no problem, hat boy,” they prod as they casually clean their fingernails. Din bristles.

“It’s not a hat.”

“And I’m not alive,” they say seriously, looking at Din’s eyes through the visor somehow. The jovial tone fades to a comfortable yet tense silence. He tilts his head, waiting for them to continue their thought.

“Why get yourself all worked up? No one would believe you if you told them about me anyway.”

“I would know,” Din states softly. The tension dissipates but the two stay motionless. Din contemplates and shrugs minutely in defeat. He would know, yes, but he already knows. This isn’t the first time he’s failed when his Creed has been tested. Yet, who would argue whether droids or mer-people are ‘living beings’? The line is blurry, so it's up to Din to decide when the line is crossed. Considering his responsibility to his foundling’s care, he pushes the thoughts of being dar’manda far from his focus, into hiding in the recess.

Ripples from the lake, bouncing moonlight off of its surface, catches his attention. Save for a brief fading view of two blue lights in the dark water, nothing. They are gone, and Din is alone. His wet lungs wheeze as he reaches down, patting along the areas where they had been, searching for any remnants of their existence. An imprint, a misplaced item, a loose scale. Not a trace.

After a moment, Din pulls himself to his feet and trudges up through the pocket of trees surrounding the lake to a small path leading back to the pier. It had only been ten minutes or so since he had been pushed into the lake, but the bounty and his client were gone. Din assumed they both left giddily, since the bounty could think he was dead and the client didn’t have to pay the back half of his premium. Wasn’t the first time, after all.

The Razor Crest’s security lights flickered to life as her prodigal son returned, the side bay ramp welcoming him inside with a flick of the wrist. As Din walked up the ramp, he was faced with an empty carbonite rack -- and more accurately, what amounted to an empty coffer. He wondered if he still had some of the murky lake water swimming through his brain because he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The beskar helmet quickly pivoted away from the carbonite chamber as he heard a grumble and the shuffling of blankets. The baby stirred from their shared cot, chirping and cooing to be held. Din crossed the hold with long, swift strides and obliged, removing his damp and filthy gloves to thumb over the baby’s warm cheeks.

Din sucked in a breath to speak, but paused. No one would believe you if you told them about me anyway. He would always know, but… He had nothing to hide from his sweet little foundling.

Din sat on the floor below the cot, leaning against the wall as he cradled the sleepy babe in the crook of his legs. The lake water dripped off of him slowly, glinting in the safe yellow glow of home as Din told a story.

#the mandalorian #mando #din djarin #original gender-neutral character #mermay #mando mermay #the mandalorian fanfic #mando fanfic #fic and art collab #gen fic #no romance or smut #pov din djarin #din centric #mando may

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e-milieeee · 4 years

Text

hey cutea

Summary: In which Marinette brings Adrien to a bubble tea shop only to witness him order the most unappetizing flavour on the menu.

All’s well until Chat Noir does the exact same, and Ladybug makes an unsuspecting connection.

Tikki is also very unamused. If only they’d stop dancing around each other.

Notes: a month of procrastinating, the boba reveal,,, is finally here for day 1: cafe of @auyeahaugust! also for @buggachat because kelly started this with a drawing of an adrienette boba date and i spiralled :’)

Word Count: 6.2k

AO3

The shop is called Thirstea, a pun which makes Adrien laugh for a whole thirty seconds as he stares at the storefront.

“Seriously,” Marinette is saying as he pushes the door open for her. “You’ve seriously never had boba? At all?”

Adrien shifts his backpack. He’s hit with the smell of something sweet—foreign, as well, but it’s pleasant enough—and the sight of a bustling interior. A small line has already formed, so Marinette tugs him aside and points at the large menu displayed on a colorful board behind the cashier.

“You can decide on which flavour you want,” she tells him.

Adrien peers up at the board. There’s so many to choose from—hundreds, even—from milk tea to fruit tea to mixed flavours and smoothies and…

His head is spinning when he turns back to Marinette. “Do you have any recommendations?” Because I have absolutely no clue. “What do you usually get?”

She tilts her head. “I have five go-tos. Roasted milk tea is a classic, but the honeydew milk tea is pretty good as well if I want something fruity. If I want something lighter, I’ll get a fruit tea—I like lychee black tea. Uh… there’s also the real fruit bobas, and I usually get taro. Oh! And the matcha latte is one of their best. And I usually get it with tapioca, but if you want to be healthier, grass jelly or aloe vera both taste pretty good. But I mean, it is your first time here and you should probably try getting tapioca just to see if you like it. And brown sugar milk tea, but they said they ran out today…”

The words go in one ear and out another, because Adrien is too busy staring at the way she talks: enthusiasm shining in her eyes, the way she waves her hands in the smallest, cutest gestures to make her point, and…

“Adrien?” Marinette tilts her head. “Um, have you decided? Or do you need more time? Because that’s completely alright too.”

In a panic, he nods and blurts, “I’ve decided!”

She nods sagely, and they enter the line. Adrien has not yet in fact decided.

He continues to stare at the menu from the corner of his eyes, going through all the categories until he settles on real fruit smoothie. Adrien goes through the list: watermelon, strawberry, mango, peach, blueberry, raspberry, winter melon—

“What would you like to order?”

Adrien snaps back into reality. He is not ready to order.

Oblivious to his conundrum, Marinette smiles at the cashier and fetches her wallet out of her backup. “I’m paying for us both!” she tells the girl cheerily. “I’ll have a peach green tea with half ice and thirty percent sugar. With tapioca.”

Adrien gawks at her order. She’d lost him after peach green tea—is he supposed to order like that too?

“Adrien?” Marinette prompts, now waiting for the order that he does not have.

He squints at the menu again, hoping his panic isn’t visible on his face. He scans them. Watermelon. Strawberry. Mango. Peach. Blueberry. Raspberry. Winter melon. Durian.

Durian.

“Durian,” he settles.

Marinette’s mouth quite literally drops open.

He’s not too certain what’s that surprising about his order—is it the wrong thing to order? Perhaps it doesn’t exist on the menu and he’d hallucinated it. A double-check later and the word is still clearly imprinted underneath winter melon. “Marinette?” Adrien asks carefully. “Um, I’m not too sure about the sugar and ice—which do you usually choose?”

She finally snaps her mouth shut. “Durian?” Marinette echoes at last, ignoring his question.“Ah, are you certain about that?”

Adrien nods. “I can still add the pearls—the tapioca in, right?”

“Yeah,” she agrees absentmindedly, “but—durian?”

Adrien takes another peek at the menu. “The real fruit smoothie, right?”

“Have you… tried durian?” “When I was younger, once. Have you?”

Marinette swallows, and Adrien waits for her verdict, concerned. He’s honestly baffled why she’s so confused about his choice, but a moment later, Marinette squares her shoulders and gives the cashier a smile, this time slightly shaky. “And a durian smoothie with tapioca for him. Um, sugar and ice levels?”

Adrien has no clue what to ask for, so he tries, “The standard one for both...?”

Apparently that’s an acceptable answer because the cashier nods and jots down his order on a small notepad. Marinette pays, and they wait at the side for their order.

Marinette has gone quiet. She sorts through her bag for a little while, and Adrien waits in apprehensive silence. There’s quiet jazz music playing in the background and it makes him feel like he’s in an elevator. It’s becoming unbearably awkward.

Finally, Marinette lifts her eyes to look at him. “Sorry about that,” she apologizes. “I just… didn’t know you liked durian.”

“Oh.” He sounds equally awkward. “I liked the fruit the last time I had it which was about two years ago. Do you not like it?”

Her nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Wait, what?

“My mom really likes durian,” Marinette is explaining, and she motions with her hands again. “Apparently her hometown back in China had a dessert store that sold durian pastries and she had this brilliant idea of making them for Chinese New Year a couple months ago and the whole bakery reeked of durian and I could smell it all the way up into my room—” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I forgot you liked it.”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” he replies, flustered. Marinette has a habit of saying a lot in very little time and it doesn’t help that he gets easily distracted by her movements. “I didn’t realize durian was so… controversial. I hope it won’t make you uncomfortable or something with the smell.”

“I guess it’s not that popular here,” she replies with a shrug. “But my mom did say that people either hate or love durian. And the smell’s fine. I don’t like it, but once you spend a week with it stinking up your room, you kind of develop immunity.”

Just then, the waitress behind the counter sets down their two drinks. “For Marinette?” she calls.

Marinette takes the bag with a quick thank you, grabs two straws, and then returns to Adrien. She holds up their drinks.

Adrien takes the cup from her extended hand. The durian smoothie is a creamy white, and the black tapioca bubbles sit at the very bottom. He follows her movements as she shakes her cup then stabs a straw into it.

He can see Marinette eying him in his periphery as he raises the straw to his lips and takes a sip. The drink is cold and sweet and has a rich taste that explodes on his tongue in a plethora of flavours, and Adrien decides he likes it. He really likes it.

“So?” Marinette asks. Adrien wonders if she knows how skeptical her expression is. “Do you… like it?”

He chews on one of the pieces of tapioca. “Yes. Yeah, this is really great.”

The skepticism doesn’t disappear from her face, but she raises her boba to his. “Cheers,” Marinette says weakly.

***

On a good day, a cup of boba has two hundred fifty calories when the tapioca is replaced by grass jelly and the sugar level is brought to less than half. On a bad day, if her sweet tooth demands regular sweetness and tapioca, it can be driven up to seven hundred calories.

It’s why Marinette has begrudgingly limited herself—for the sake of her wallet and health—to only drink boba once a week.

And it’s why she and Chat Noir, decked in hoodies and track pants in an attempt to look normal, are lined up underneath the blazing sun at Thirstea.

Their disguises don’t do much, because a crowd has formed around them. First there are whispers of is that Ladybug and Chat Noir, then a girl summons up her courage to ask for a selfie, and finally, the press starts driving in. By the time that happens, they have luckily made it inside the shop, where the air-conditioning blasts out on the highest setting.

Another snap of the camera. Chat Noir is staring pensively at the menu when a thought hits Ladybug. “Have you ever had boba before?” she asks him.

He nods absentmindedly, still looking. Everyone in line is whispering or peering at them, and Ladybug sees a phone held up in the back, most likely recording.

They make it to the counter when Nadja Chamack and her team, armed with cameras and microphones, invades the shop. The girl at the register looks slightly overwhelmed and a little alarmed, but she doesn’t tell the press to leave.

“Ladybug!” Nadja calls. “You’ve been photographed once or twice coming to this shop in the past month—is this your favourite bubble tea shop?”

“Yup!” she replies.

“What’s your go-to order?”

“Depends on the day.” Ladybug turns back to the cashier, leaving Chat to deal with the press. He has the uncanny ability to drag on a brief topic for an unsolicitedly long amount of time. “I’ll have an original milk tea with tapioca,” she tells the cashier. “Regular ice and seventy percent sugar.”

The girl looks a little starstruck, but she jots down the order. With a tug on Chat’s tail, he turns around from entertaining the press to place his own order.

“One durian smoothie, please!” he chirps, chipper as always.

Ladybug chokes on air.

The girl taking their order also seems taken aback, but her recovery time is much quicker than Ladybug’s. Instead, offering him a quick, slightly strained smile, she jots his order down. “Is that all, then?”

Chat takes the chance to pay for both of their orders while she’s caught in her confusion. By the time Ladybug snaps back to her senses, it’s too late—Chat is already pulling aside to wait for their bobas to finish. Nadja and her crew take the chance to start their questions again.

“Chat Noir,” Nadja addresses when it’s clear Ladybug’s still out of commission. “If I heard you right, you chose a durian smoothie?”

He gives a nod so proud that Ladybug swears she dies a little inside.

“Could you tell us why? From what I know, durian is a well-debated fruit. Many people love it, but many also cannot stand the smell.”

Chat ponders the question thoughtfully. “The smell is rather funny,” he finally replies. “But I like the flavour! It has a very rich texture as well, and tastes pretty different from the smell, so it doesn’t actually taste bad.”

“Ladybug?” Nadja gestures for the cameras to face her. “What are your thoughts on durian?”

She’s too busy thinking about Adrien Agreste raising his cup of boba to bump against hers—a durian smoothie—and his casual enthusiasm for the fruit that Nadja’s words don’t even click in her brain. Who would’ve expected Chat Noir to have the same (terrible) taste as her crush? The coincidence leaves her feeling disjointed.

“Uh… Ladybug?” Chat waves his hand in front of her. “Are you okay?”

She finally snaps out of her reverie long enough to scramble for a response. Ladybug manages a sheepish smile in Nadja’s direction. “I’m doing fine, thank you.”

Chat frowns. “Ladybug, that wasn’t her question—”

Before either of them can say anything more, the girl making the drinks pops her head out from the counter. “Your drinks!” she says, then beams at both of them. “Here’s a buy-one-get-one free coupon! Please come by often!”

Chat’s eyes glimmer when he accepts his durian smoothie. Ladybug takes her own with much less enthusiasm. Focus is hard enough with the snap of Nadja’s cameras and the chaos all around them—the fact that an even larger crowd has gathered outside Thirstea in order to catch a glimpse of their favourite superheroes makes it worse. It’s all too much to take in, and Ladybug’s brain is still stuck on Adrien Agreste and Chat Noir and durian smoothies.

“We’re going to take off,” Chat tells Nadja, then waves at the camera. “See you guys around! Come on, LB.”

She allows him to drag her out of the store, then with a flick of his baton and a snap of her yo-yo they’re swinging off, bobas in hand and the rest of Paris watching them go.

But Ladybug isn’t thinking about them at all.

When they finally settle down somewhere secluded, Chat immediately stabs his straw through the top of his drink and takes an obnoxiously loud slurp. Ladybug can smell the scent of durian from where she’s sitting, and instinctively, she wrinkles her nose and shifts away. She pokes her straw into her own drink, still staring off at the distance.

A coincidence, yeah. Her crush and her partner both have awful taste in bubble tea flavours. It’s nothing but a coincidence.

“Are you going to drink yours?” Chat is asking, still slurping obliviously. “I wanna try your flavour.”

He makes a grab for her drink, and Ladybug ducks away. “Your breath smells like durian. You can’t drink from my straw.”

“Hey! Let me try!”

For a little while Chat wrestles for her drink, nearly spilling his own in the process. In the end he snatches out from her fingers, laughing raucously. Ladybug is giggling as well, forgetting about her predicament for the moment. This is what she’s used to; their routine of banter and playfulness that’s easy—it’s straightforward. Not confusing.

That snaps her right back to the problem. Chat sips her drink, smacking his lips in a purposefully annoying way, and makes his verdict. “Not bad. I like mine better. Wanna try?”

Ladybug shakes her head and reclaims her drink. As casually as possible, she asks, “Do you get boba often?”

“Mm, no. This is actually the second time I’ve gotten the drink.” He swirls his straw around. “Honestly, with all the percentages you give for the sugar and the ice, I’m not too sure what to say. My friend took me to get boba a little while ago, so…durian is actually the only flavour I’ve ever tried.”

A casual dump of information, information that really wouldn’t have meant anything. It’s vague enough that any other person wouldn’t have made any sort of connection; it’s the information they often share between each other.

Except for the fact that she—Ladybug, Marinette—might be the friend in question. And Chat Noir—Chat Noir is…

She stares across the building, where an ad of Adrien, the Fragrance is displayed.

No way.

“Um,” Ladybug stammers. “Your friend took you out for boba because you’ve never had it before?”

He’s painfully oblivious to her panic. “Yeah, about a week ago. You know, it’s pretty funny because she had a similar reaction to you when I ordered the durian smoothie. Apparently she hates the smell too.”

“Your friend?” Ladybug echoes.

“Yeah, my friend. Are you okay, m’lady?”

Can’t really breathe properly, so I’m not really okay, but youcan’tknowandIdon’treallyknowwhat’sgoingonrightnow—

“I, um, just realized I have something to do,” Ladybug stammers out, because it’s the only thing she can think of saying. She flails, but somehow manages to get to her feet. “Uh—uh, do you want my milk tea? I can’t swing around very well if I’m holding it because it might get on my suit and my hair—oh my God, my hair! I got ice cream once and tried to eat it while going around Paris on my yo-yo and it went so badly and honestly I feel like the bubble tea will do the same so you can drink mine too since I can just get another one by myself soon but I really gotta run—”

She all but shoves the cup into his confused hands. It’s a whole miracle Chat doesn’t drop it then and there, just like it’s a miracle Ladybug hasn’t screamed or slipped up or promptly tripped over air and simply… lay there crying.

“Ladybug–” she hears him call, but it’s interrupted by the zing of her yo-yo.

She takes off as fast as possible.

Marinette has never been so hasty in detransforming, but as she slips through the rooftop back into her room, she’s already calling Tikki out before she touches down onto her bed. She slams onto pillows and the soft mattress in her regular clothing, buries her face into the nearest cushion, and screams.

She really doesn’t deserve Tikki’s patience, but her kwami stays beside her and pats her with tiny paws until Marinette’s throat is hoarse and she has more or less yelled the remaining cinders of her panic and confusion into her pillow.

When Marinette finally raises her head to look at Tikki, her kwami has her hands on her hips. “Well?” she asks. “I didn’t want to interrupt your breakdown, but now that you’re through, can you tell me what it’s about?”

Marinette thinks about the cup of boba and the boy she’d left back on the roof. Then the one that sits in front of her in class, with the same shade of blonde hair and emerald eyes, both ordering durian boba.

“I think Chat Noir is Adrien Agreste,” she tells Tikki weakly.

Tikki has a scarily-good poker face. “Have you now,” she replies with calmness Marinette is incapable of. “And why do you think so?”

“Because—because—because they both like durian!” It comes out as a distressed wail.

Tikki ponders the question. Then replies, “I see.”

It’s such an awfully vague response that Marinette is tempted to bury her face into her pillow to scream some more. But she doesn’t, instead pulling out her notebook from the stand and a pencil. “I’m going to draw a venn diagram,” she announces with newfound determination. “I might just be jumping to a conclusion too quickly. And—and there was that one time when Chat was there but Adrien was too, right? When Gorizilla attacked?”

“Right,” Tikki agrees. “But you also did a similar trick with Multimouse and the fox Miraculous, so…”

“Chat didn’t have the fox or mouse Miraculous. Anyway… they both have blonde hair and green eyes.”

She puts that in the similar column. She thinks about it for a couple seconds more, and writes “composed” in Adrien’s column and “a mess” in Chat’s.

“Oh, come on.” Tikki flits closer. “You know very well Adrien isn’t as composed as you make him out to be. The only reason you don’t recognize it is because you’re even worse around him.”

Marinette stubbornly keeps those two where they are, even if she knows deep down that Tikki is right. For a while, she goes on making her list, with Tikki criticizing almost every decision she makes. Adrien Agreste has neat hair, a polite smile, the best grades in class and manners that would woo anyone’s parents. Chat Noir’s hair is messy and untamed, his smile is almost always accompanied with a raucous laugh and shutting up isn’t in his vocabulary. He steals food and drinks and everything he can from her whenever she brings it.

She scribbles and erases and thinks and stresses, getting a week’s worth of confusion down and then some.

“Marinette,” Tikki finally advises when Marinette has run out of ink. “Why don’t you just ask Adrien tomorrow at school subtly about it? If he didn’t mind telling Ladybug he went out for boba with Marinette, he probably wouldn't have qualms telling Marinette about getting boba with Ladybug. It’s not as if your identities need to remain a secret anymore.”

Ask Adrien.

Sure, they’re on good terms now. They’re friends. Marinette’s crush has faded into a more manageable level, and she can talk to him without her voice rising an octave higher than its usual key. She hasn’t tripped and fallen on her face in front of him for at least two weeks.

But this—with the possibility that Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir? To think she’d waxed poetic about Chat Noir to Tikki every night for months? It’s unspeakably insane to think about, and she doesn’t have the courage and probably never will but Marinette thinks she’s genuinely going to die if she doesn’t get closure—

“Okay,” she agrees at last, because it’s the only logical answer.

***

Adrien is the one who comes to find Marinette before she can go find him.

“Hey!” he calls from behind her.

In a quite frankly astonishing display of improvement, Marinette doesn’t scream or fall on her face, even if she does freeze for a good couple seconds too long.

“Uh… Marinette?” Adrien taps her shoulder. “I wanted to return the physics notes to you. You gave me your notebook from last time because I missed the class. Here.”

She takes the notes from him, movements stiff. A million words to say come piling from her throat, but they stick to the top of her mouth drily and none make it past her lips.

Adrien Agreste. Chat Noir. They’re the same person? How can they be the same person? Is it just a huge coincidence? Who is Chat Noir? Who am I, even?

Before she can work herself into more of a panic, Marinette gives him a forced smile, hugging her notebook to her chest. “Thanks!” she shrieks. “I gotta—I gotta run. See you around!”

She trips over air on her way out, face beetroot.

***

“Listen,” Tikki whispers to her, munching on her cookie as Marinette locks herself in a stall of the girls’ washroom. “You gotta do it. Just… just don’t think that he’s Adrien Agreste. I heard imagining people as potatoes helps with stage fright?”

Marinette lets out a distressed noise. “Stage fright isn’t my problem, though!”

“Adrien fright? If you ask me, it’s pretty similar. Anyway, just ask him if he’s had bubble tea recently or something! You don’t know until you try. It won’t be that bad. What’s the worst case scenario?”

“That you-know-who turns out to be you-know-who!”

“We did not decide on these codenames.”

“Yeah, but what if someone hears—”

Tikki interrupts her by giving her a little pinch. “Calm down, Marinette! It’ll be fine. Besides, is it really that big of a problem if it’s true?”

No, it isn’t. Marinette has thought long and hard about it last night, lying awake on her bed, unable to sleep because of the heat and turbulent thoughts and theories all mixing together. Would it be a bad thing, if Chat turned out to be Adrien? No—she could think of a thousand more worse people for Chat to be, and if she were to be perfectly honest, no better person than Adrien. But at the same time, it’s overwhelming in the strangest way: the sort that sends her heartbeat spiking, thoughts scattering, stomach turning in a not-quite-unpleasant way.

Marinette really doesn’t know what to think about it, and that’s the scariest part.

“Okay.” Tikki interrupts her train of thought. “We should probably get going before you’re late for class. If you hurry, you can probably ask Adrien about it before the bell goes off.”

Marinette steels her back. “Okay,” she grinds out with wavering determination. “Okay, I’m gonna do it.”

Tikki lets out a squeak of Attagirl! before diving back into her purse. Marinette marches out of the stall, down the hallway, and into the classroom.

She really hates the way her throat still closes up when she scans the room and her eyes land on Adrien. All of a sudden, she’s reverted to herself months ago, when her crush on him had reached its peak; when she’d been a jumble of frayed nerves and blabbering and hand motions violent enough to whack any bystander that wandered too close.

No, Marinette tells herself firmly. No freaking out. No stuttering. I’m past that.

“Adrien,” she calls, and he turns away from his conversation with Nino.

“Hey!” his smile is a thousand watts too bright. “We were just talking about you. Nino said he’s never tried boba as well.”

The word boba nearly has her choking on spit. “Cool,” Marinette manages out. “That’s very… cool.”

Nino’s eyebrows furrow. “You okay?”

“Fine! Th-that’s great you want to introduce Nino to boba as well! I’m glad to hear you liked the drink.”

Marinette’s well aware that she sounds like a buffering tape-recorder right now. She marches to her desk, sits down just as stiffly, and pinches herself on the arm, out of Adrien and Nino’s sight. Alya has yet to arrive—it’s now or never, Marinette knows. The longer she waits, the more nervous she’ll make herself, and the harder it’ll be. So…

“Adrien!” she blurts out again, voice too loud. Even Rose and Juleka leave their conversation briefly to glance at her.

He’s good-natured as ever when he turns to her, and Marinette is struck with another wave of trepidation. It’s all too sudden. It’s all too much. She takes a deep breath, mind turning to absolute mush, and somehow stammers out, “Have you gotten boba since that one time?”

She really can’t blame him for looking so confused at her question, but to Adrien’s credit, he regains his composure rather quickly. The bewilderment on his face quickly shifts to mild curiosity.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I actually went yesterday with a friend. Thank you for introducing me! I’ll probably go more often now if I find the time.”

Marinette’s mouth is dry. Her hands are sweaty. Her head feels like it’s going to explode. Her heart has moved to her throat and she’s positive that it’s going to stop beating any moment now.

“Oh.” It’s the only noise Marinette feels mentally capable of forming. Sentences are hard. Speaking is impossible. “Um, yesterday?”

“Yeah, it was pretty hot yesterday. I went to Thirstea, actually!” He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s the only boba shop I know at the moment so it doesn’t really mean anything, but… my friend who I went with really liked it too, so I think I’ll stick to Thirstea for now. Until I try all the flavours I want.”

Amidst her own confusion, Marinette somehow manages to think, if you wanted to try all the flavours you wanted why did you get durian again yesterday? It’s second nature: if the boy in front of her is Chat Noir—a fact that, despite the inconclusive results given by her venn diagram, is becoming more and more clear—then Marinette can’t help but want to tease him back.

Except if Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir and Chat Noir is Adrien… God. She’s just going in circles and getting nowhere closer to the final destination.

It doesn’t even hit Marinette that she hasn’t responded to Adrien and that’s why he’s staring at her so apprehensively. The shrill ringing of the bell startles all the class back into their seats, Adrien included, who shoots her a small smile before turning back around.

The rest of the period finds Marinette unable to pay the slightest bit attention. Mme. Bustier’s words travel in one ear, out the other, all muted static compared to the main problem at hand.

And a problem it is. She looks at Adrien’s golden head in front of her, imagining the flicker of black ears. If she reached down and mussed his hair up, it would look like Chat’s. They’re the same height too, to think of it. All the differences she had listed on her venn diagram seem to melt away, until Marinette is faced with one terrible, wonderful, conclusion.

***

She doesn’t confront Adrien about anything after the first period ends, nor does she at lunch, nor after. It’s too overwhelming to think of, but it hardly seems fair to keep him in the dark. When she asks Tikki to confirm at lunch, the only thing her kwami does is shrug with an indecipherable expression on her face—Marinette takes it as a verification.

But it’s a different story after school. By then, Marinette has made up her mind.

Her first stop is Thirstea. It’s not as sweltering as it were the day before, even if she has to wipe the sweat from her forehead after waiting fifteen minutes outside. The store isn’t as bustling now that Ladybug and Chat Noir aren’t there, so Marinette takes advantage of the peace to calm her thoughts. They have patrol in thirty minutes; she has thirty minutes to gather her thoughts and figure out how she’s going to come through with this. But is thirty minutes really going to help? She’s had the whole day alone to her thoughts, and, like it or not, she’s barely gotten anywhere.

When she finally gets her order—a fruit tea for herself, a durian smoothie for Chat Noir—Adrien Agreste—there’s only twenty three minutes to go.

Marinette transforms into Ladybug, hidden in an alley, and goes to wait for her partner to show up on the rooftop they agreed to. Then, once she’s reached the rooftop, she calls off her transformation.

The boba is still cold in her bag, so she wraps her hand around them to fend off the blistering heat from the sun. It’s uncomfortable, waiting like this, but physical discomfort is still better than working up a storm in her own thoughts, which Marinette is trying to distance herself from. They come in waves of stress, anxiousness, uncertainty, and fear. But she has to do this.

Her mood must’ve been evident enough for Tikki to feel, even though her kwami has slipped inside her purse to give her thoughts some space. She pokes her head out.

“Marinette,” Tikki says, a hint of concern in her tone. “You don’t have to do this now if you’re not ready, you know. Chat Noir will understand.”

Marinette, having resorted to biting her nails—she must be really nervous, because that’s a habit she’d gotten rid of years ago—shakes her head. “I can’t keep pushing it back. It’s one thing not revealing each other’s identities, but now that I know… I can’t just… not tell him. It’s not possibly fair, not when he’s waited for so long.”

“...are you happy that it’s Adrien?” This question is more tentative, quieter.

Marinette props her chin in her hands and stares at the skyline. Is she happy that it’s Adrien?

“Yeah,” she replies. “Yeah, I am.”

***

Chat Noir vaults over onto the roof, and he’s six minutes early. Marinette sees him before he sees her; she watches him look around for a couple of seconds, slightly confused.

She takes a deep breath and steps out of the shade of the door. “Chat Noir!” she calls.

He jumps around. “M’lady, you—”

His voice trails off. “M-marinette? I—uh, hi! I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I was actually going to find Ladybug but I might’ve gotten the wrong building! What—what, uh, are you doing up here?”

After a day of planning out the words to say, it’s rather funny how she can’t even form a semblance of the sentences she’s thought up.

It’s also a miracle in and of itself that she doesn’t stutter, panic, or go absolutely speechless. Even if her script lays lost and forgotten in the back of her head, Marinette says in a surprisingly steady voice, “I was actually waiting for you.”

Chat Noir doesn’t move from where he’s standing, so she heads towards him. “Did… Ladybug tell you I was going to be here?”

“Uhmh,” is the noise that makes its way out of Marinette’s mouth. She clears her throat and tries again. “I brought you boba because it’s hot today,” she explains. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

She sees it behind his eyes; questions, confusion, but most importantly, the beginning notes of a realization.

“Wait.” He doesn’t budge from his spot, eying her cautiously. “What do you want to talk about?”

“About the fact that you’re probably Adrien Agreste?”

Even the air, laden with the heat of the day, seems to still between them. Marinette looks up at him, and his reaction is the only confirmation she needs that she is indeed right.

Chat Noir’s reaction is less loud than she had expected. It’s shock, probably, the stage that Marinette has been stuck in for the good part of the day, because he still remains frozen. Then, in a shaky uncertain voice, he asks, “Ladybug?”

Her next breath escapes her in the form of a huff, a half-choked laugh. “We’re idiots.”

His lips lift into a wavering smile. “What.”

And then Marinette is laughing, because it’s so stupid. All the pent-up emotions come tumbling out uncontrollably and she’s laughing and laughing, doubling over and clutching at her stomach and nearly dropping her bag of their boba drinks.

Through her own giggles, she hears Chat mumble, “Oh my God,” and the way he says it makes everything all the more hilarious.

When Marinette finally gathers herself enough to straighten, she’s wiping tears from her eyes. Chat Noir is watching her, although his expression has softened into something that looks suspiciously close to fondness.

“Is this why you asked me about boba this morning?” he questions. “If I’d gone to get it with a friend?”

Marinette gives her eyes one last wipe. “Yeah. I just—when you ordered durian boba yesterday and all that you said—it was too suspicious for me to ignore.”

“Oh.” He tugs his hands through his hair—messy golden hair, how hadn’t she noticed how similar Chat and Adrien always were?—and lets out another groan. “Oh. I’m dumb.”

“You could’ve been any other person if I hadn’t been, well, me,” Marinette points out. “Tikki told me it’s due time, anyway. But yes, you’re dumb. So am I.”

“My identity got exposed because I ordered a durian smoothie?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Oh my God.”

She’s beginning to see why Tikki had found it endlessly amusing watching her panic. Instead of further antagonizing Chat, Marinette reaches into her bag to take out his durian smoothie. She stuffs it into his arms, and he’s too confused to do anything but accept the drink and the straw it comes with.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures him before she can stop herself. “I won’t tell anyone that number one model Adrien Agreste runs around Paris in a leather catsuit. My lips are sealed.”

The moment the words leave Marineette’s mouth, she feels her face heat up. It’s one thing to tease him before, now it feels like she’s treading on the edge of a cliff with a long, long drop. He’s still her partner, but there’s another aspect that they will figure out—with time, undoubtedly—and now is too soon to push it so much.

To her relief, Chat Noir’s face lights up, and a much wider smile slips across his face. “I’m still in shock, you know,” he tells her. If that’s his in-shock voice, then Marinette is thoroughly impressed. “But thank you. My father might have a bone to pick with this outfit if he ever found out.”

Relief is cool against the heat. “Your father won’t be the only one with the bone to pick with you,” she replies. “The bell is quite a… bold statement.”

He laughs once more. “I happen to like the bell the best, so I don’t know what your problem is.”

He has no business to smile so brightly like that, Marinette thinks to herself. In front of her is the boy she’s turned down countless times—the same one she would wax lyrical to Tikki every night before bed. God, what a coincidence. Or really, what a stroke of luck.

She’s jolted from her thoughts when Chat stabs his straw into his durian smoothie with a loud pop.

“Do you want to talk?” Marinette offers. “Somewhere shadier, that is? You probably have a lot of questions. I know I do.”

Chat nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that would work.”

She starts towards the small door on the rooftop, then stops when she realizes that Chat hasn’t been following her. Instead, his gaze is fixed thoughtfully on his drink, like he’s contemplating something important.

“Chat?” Marinette prompts. “Hey, are you okay?”

Then his face brightens. “I’m taro-bly sorry,” he says. “I just got distracted because you’re such a cu-tea.”

Marinette’s jaw drops open. It’s not that she’s particularly surprised by the pun, given his penchant for dropping them at the most terrible (taro-ble?) of moments, but she had half the mind to believe she’d permanently shocked the humour out of Chat Noir. Moreover, the fact that it’s Adrien Agreste saying these so casually is still new to her.

The grin he gives her is absolutely shit-eating, yet somehow, it works perfectly in her mind on Chat’s face as it does on Adrien’s. It also snaps her out of her reverie.

“Now my head is going to explode,” Marinette grumbles. “C’mon, cat-boy. We have a lot to discuss.”

He catches up with her with a quick jog, still slurping out of his boba. “I’m glad it’s you,” he tells her when they fall side-by-side. “In case you didn’t know.”

Marinette hides her grin behind her own drink, but she thinks Chat catches it nonetheless. “Me too,” she tells him. “Even if you have terrible taste in boba.”

“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have terrible taste,” he points out, and they both share a laugh.

Notes: Here’s my fics masterlist!

#miraculous ladybug #adrienette #ladynoir #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #ladybug #chat noir #this was ridiculously long holy crap #identity reveal #boba reveal #its been a while kids #mlb fic #my writing

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buddiebeginz · 3 years

Text

After reading this thread that does a good job giving a quick run down on Buck and Eddie’s journey up until this point like where they’ve been separately and where they are now, I got to thinking about some things especially where Ana and Taylor are concerned.

I was so frustrated earlier in the season when I felt like the show kept shoving Ana and Taylor in our faces and I kept thinking that this was the shows way of saying Buddie was doa and they were moving on but I don’t think that’s the case at all anymore. While it might have seemed on the surface that Eddie and Buck were off doing their own separate things when you look at season 4 as a whole everything with the guys as been connected especially the stuff with Ana and Taylor. They weren’t brought back so Eddie and Buck could have separate love interests they were brought back around the same time as part of Buddie’s journey toward getting together.

---

Ana and Eddie’s relationship really starts in 4x06 Jinx which is telling enough as it is. It’s also in this ep that Eddie keeps trying to prove that he doesn’t believe in supernatural forces. Meanwhile it’s Buck who tells him “it’s like the universe is screaming at you and you refuse to listen”.

Both Ana and Taylor are in Breaking Point 4x08

It’s fitting that this episode is called Breaking Point because I think the show runners knew this episode would piss some fans off but I think that was the point in a way. I think a lot of the stuff with Ana and Taylor in this episode and thought out season 4 really was meant to be a red herring.

We’re reintroduced to Taylor and we see her and Buck become friends although it’s clear we’re meant to think this could go somewhere by that kiss at the end. Ana and Eddie go on a date and at the end he brings her to see Christopher, a pretty uncharacteristic move for him given the pandemic and Chris’ health. This is another way I believe the show was trying to trick us into believing that these relationships were going somewhere.

Plus in an episode that was chocked full of Buck and Eddie off with other people we still had Buddie always on the periphery like when Eddie came home to Buck, a pretty symbolic moment. Then you had Buck and Eddie at the stand off. Buck complaining to everyone who would listen about Albert and Veronica (even though he couldn’t care less about Veronica) and Eddie admitting he didn’t know how to tell Christopher he was dating Ana. The show focusing on both of their love lives but interestingly enough not showing them talking to each other about their problems when they’re supposed to be best friends.

There was a really important scene with Buck talking to Taylor where he admitted that he felt ready to meet someone and “start a meaningful relationship” and Taylor tells him “I’ve met the people you work with your life is nothing but meaningful relationships”. Interesting choice of words there. To which Buck says, “doesn’t seem the same”. Taylor then tells him “do you ever think you need to be patient and let the universe come to you” a line that mirrors what was said in Jinx. So both Buck and Eddie were being told in season 4 that they needed to listen to the universe, ostensibly the signs around them.

Now at the time the show sort of frames this as Buck and Taylor maybe flirting like maybe the signs are pointing towards Taylor, but I think it was just another misdirect because when you put everything from this season together it’s clear that there was a deeper meaning there and it was directed towards Buddie.

Ana was in 4x10 Parenthood

This episode was all about parents and it would seem on face value that Ana’s role is about her getting closer to the Diaz family but it’s not. Her role in the episode was to highlight how Buck is Christopher’s other dad. How the only other person Christopher is terrified of losing beside Eddie is Buck. How when Christopher was upset and scared he ran to Buck’s house.

Taylor was in 4x11 First Responders

Again I think the show was trying to mislead the audience into thinking that things could be going somewhere with her and Buck when really they were just developing their friendship. Notice how they didn’t spend any real alone time together getting to know one another like how a show would typically frame a couple in the making. Their only scenes in this ep involved them trying to solve what happened to Sue. Like work partners working on a project. Taylor comes over at the end of the ep with wine but there’s no real intention on her end that she’s interested in Buck and they only talk about the case.

---

Taylor was also in 4x12 Treasure Hunt

This is where things start to get interesting and I think really where the show starts to turn things from just faking out the audience to giving more clues about Buddie.

We get a scene where a bunch of the 118 are talking about the treasure hunt after seeing Taylor talk about it on the news. They talk about how it’s going to get more people hurt and Eddie says to Buck “your girlfriend’s news story is probably not going to help out with that”. Buck says “she’s my friend not my girlfriend”. To which Eddie nods his head like he believes him but he makes a face looking pouty and jealous.

Now why would the show put that line in there and show Eddie being jealous right before the three of them end up working together? 🤔

Buck calls Taylor and asks to team up to find the treasure and at the end of the call the camera pans out to show Eddie. Almost like they would if Buck was keeping things from his so.

Eddie asks Buck to team up but Buck had already teamed up with Taylor so he brings Eddie in the on deal. We then get the kitchen scene with the three of them where it’s obvious Eddie is jealous and as was pointed out in the twitter thread I included above the framing of that scene was definitely intentional. Eddie looking jealous seated in the middle of Buck and Taylor.

Even though the three of them were supposed to be a team we see Buck and Eddie together through most of the important parts of the episode. Like at the end when they find the treasure chest.

There’s a scene with Buck and Taylor at his apartment where he thinks things are going somewhere between them they’re not and it’s not the first time it’s happened. One has to wonder why he keeps trying to put himself out there for something that just isn’t going to happen.

While eating breakfast with the 118 Buck says "at this point I don’t trust anyone” and the camera specifically focuses in and lingers on Eddie looking hurt. When Buck notices he quickly clarifies what he meant.

The episode ends letting us know that Taylor only thinks of Buck as a friend and that’s how we move into the final two episodes of the season.

Also Just like with Parenthood Ana was in that ep to highlight Buck being Chris’ other dad Taylor was in Treasure Hunt to highlight that Eddie isn’t comfortable seeing Buck with someone else.

----

Ana was in 4x13 Suspicion

So I’ve wrote about this in another post but I think that Ana’s whole purpose in this episode was solely for Eddie and Carla to have the convo they did. The show made it clear that Eddie has not been emotionally invested in his relationship with Ana.

We saw Ana looking up the stuff about that mother who was poisoning her son but Ana wasn’t really involved in that whole storyline ultimately it was Buck. Buck was there when they first went to that call and he was the one who went to the women’s house with Eddie at the end despite being in civilian clothes. There was also no acknowledgement of Ana before Eddie was shot. Usually before a scene like that you’d have a couple saying something meaningful like I’m so glad you’re in my life or Eddie deciding to tell her he loves her but instead it was all about Eddie and Buck. It was also Buck who right before the shooting said “that kid is just lucky he met you” when Eddie was feeling guilty for not getting to the call sooner.

Then of course the shooting was framed to be all about Buck and Eddie. To the point that it was like almost nothing else existed in the world for a few seconds. Even when they pulled out of the slow motion all the camera really focused on was them.

----

Now looking ahead to the last episode for season 4 both Taylor and Ana will be in the episode. We can see that Taylor is in the finale just from the promo. It’s not surprising that Ana will be given she’s been dating Eddie and he was just shot.

But I can’t help but wonder why is the show bringing Taylor in to a season finale that is already clearly over flowing with stuff for the characters to do. I mean surely they don’t have screen time to waste? And I don’t mean that as a dig on Taylor. I mean I get the impression this episode is going to be planned to the second with no filler junk. We have the sniper, saving Eddie’s life, Athena and Bobby’s marriage dramas, Maddie’s depression, Buck doing something reckless to save everyone, Buck thinking Eddie is going to die and losing his shit, Buck talking to Christopher, whatever happens in that convo between Buddie.

So again why is Taylor in the finale? We see her with Buck in the promo and it looks like it might be in front of the hospital. It’s possible she’s there to help Buck find the sniper but I think the show could get around that some other way. If you look at how the show has handled Ana and Taylor thus far and how their presence in each ep throughout season 4 was to further Buddie’s story I think there’s only one reason she’s coming back and that’s because Buck is going to confess something to her about Eddie.

---

If we look at 4x13 again it was an episode that was more about Eddie than Buck and it was about discovery and honesty. People discovering things and being honest with others and themselves. I think 4x14 will be similar but with Buck. We can tell from the promos that Buck is going to have a lot of focus in the finale and I think part of that is going to involve him being honest with himself about some things. This will hearken back to the journey he’s been on for the whole season.

In the season 3 finale we saw Buck closing the chapter on Abby finally. We saw him grow and go through so much all season 4. He’s had to face a lot of truths this year. About his parents and about the kind of relationships he’s been in and what he really wants now but I also think he’s still been running. I think given all the hurt he’s experienced he’s been afraid to be truly vulnerable. He said earlier in season 4 he wanted a more meaningful relationship and it’s been in front of him all along yet he keeps running in the opposite direction.

In Breaking Point Taylor came back to 911 to tell Buck the he needed to listen to the universe and I think when she comes back in the finale whatever she says will be an echo of that convo.

My guess is Buck will come to some kind of realization after the shooting and he’ll talk to Taylor about it. I think that Taylor will be the one who pushes him to talk to Eddie and she’ll even likely say that she knew something was there between the two of them to begin with which is a big reason why she didn’t pursue anything with Buck. She knew he was in love with someone else.

----

Which leads us to what happens next

I’ve been thinking about this scene a lot and what might happen here. I’ve seen some people say they think Eddie will ask Buck to be Chris’ legal guardian in case something happens to him or that it might be a dream sequence. I think both of those things are possible but I can’t shake this feeling that when I look at Buck’s face here he looks like he’s being being told some surprising bad news.

I think it’s possible that Buck will go to the hospital with the intention of telling Eddie how he feels only when he gets there maybe Eddie tells him Ana is moving in. Maybe Eddie says she’s going to help take care of him and Christopher. Eddie says he wants to make sure that Christopher has someone in case something happens to him.

Which leaves us on a cliffhanger for the end of season 4 and in season 5 we could get Buck trying to navigate his feelings for Eddie while figuring out his sexuality.

I don’t think the actress who plays Ana will end up coming back for season 5 but that doesn’t have to affect how they leave things at the end of season 4. If we look back on previous seasons 911 is notorious for doing cliffhangers like this. Abby left at the end of season 1 and didn’t come back and it was essentially a cliffhanger to her and Buck’s relationship. The season 2 finale didn’t give total clarity about where things with Ali and Buck were going and by the time season 3 came the actress was gone.

So this whole idea of Ana moving in with Eddie could just be an idea and we won’t actually have to see it happen in season 5. Like Eddie says Ana is moving in but by the time season 5 rolls around we hear that she got a job offer in another state and she took it.

But something else could happen too. Maybe Eddie breaks up with Ana given the clarity he got from the convo with Carla and the shooting. Then he asks Buck to move in and help him and Christopher while he’s still healing. Buck decides that now isn’t the right time to tell Eddie how he feels that he needs to just be there for his friend so he holds back. That would still bring us into season 5 with a will they or won’t they which is ultimately where I think things are headed.

I’ve seen some people speculate that Eddie might tell Buck he’s going back to Texas which I think is less likely but still possible. So Eddie breaks up with Ana and decides he’s going to spend time with his family in Texas. Buck goes to tell Eddie how he feels and before he does Eddie tells him he’s leaving. Season 4 ends where we don’t know when or if Eddie and Christopher are coming back. Though ultimately they do in season 5 but how that all plays out would make for some good storylines and it could open up room for another Lonestar crossover ep too. It would be great to have an episode where Buck and TK talk about how Buck feels about Eddie.

---

I know a lot of people are going to be pissed if anything less than Buddie getting together and living HEA in the season 4 finale happens but I think we need to be patient. If we actually even get one of them acknowledging his feelings for the other it will be a huge step in the right direction towards them becoming a canon ship. But it does feel like the show is taking them more seriously now.

I know that the show could just be queerbaiting us that’s always a possibility at this point but I think it’s okay for us to be hopeful too. I feel like if the show didn’t want to move forward with Buddie they would have put more effort into developing Buck/Taylor and Eddie/Ana and a lot less into Buddie. This would have been the best season for the show to finally cut ties with Buddie if they really wanted to move on and were tired of hearing about it from us fans. Instead they’ve only developed Buck and Eddie more and there’s no getting around all the symbolism in that final scene in the recent episode. It was shot like two lovers.

I think we just need to have some faith that the writers care enough about the characters and audience to not string us along and that this is all leading somewhere. Which for the first time since Eddie arrived I actually think it is I really do think that Buddie will become canon.

If you read this whole thing blessings upon you and your cow and I’m sorry I talk so much. 😝💗

#911 fox #buddie #buddie s4 #911 4x14 #911 meta #911 s4*#911!#long post

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jetsam-kisa · 3 years

Text

Michiko vs Jetsam

Whew! This is done! I got carried away so I am very sorry for the length :’D

Michiko’s mod and I had some fun talking about our characters and especially the gear Michi is developing!

Unfortunately they were very busy this week, but I was more than happy to write the fight results :D

CW: emetophobia // there is a brief scene describing vomit semi-graphically

The roar of the crowd echoed through the stadium as Jetsam Kisa and Michiko Watanabe entered the battle arena. Both of the students walked to their side of the arena with a sense of purpose, even if they were nervous wrecks on the inside. Once they took their proper starting positions, the two contestants smiled weakly at each other as the announcer called out their names and the people in the crowd cheered for the next fight.

‘I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out,’ Jetsam thought as he gnawed on his lips in anticipation, ‘That or throw up. Oh god I hope I don’t throw up in the middle of the match. Everyone here is watching. God, my parents are watching,’ Thick, heavy plums of smoke rolled out of his mouth the more frantic his thoughts became, until they nearly completely cloaked his figure, ‘I think I saw Best Jeanist in the stands too! He’s not going to want to associate with the kid who threw up during his first match. What am I doing here? What am I even going to do-?”

Jetsam was snapped out of his rapidly spiraling thoughts by movement in his periphery; Michiko gently waved her hands at him and gave him a broader smile, despite clearly being nervous herself (if the crease in her brow was any clue to her emotional state).

“Let’s both do our best during this fight, Kisa-kun!” Michiko called out from her side of the arena, before her gaze hardened with a resolve she often reserved for studying the most complex of quirks, “Although, I hope you know that I will not be taking it easy on you. I need to see how far I can go, and to learn about the extent of my current abilities.”

Seeing Michiko’s determination and hearing her will to succeed was like a salve to Jetsam’s shot nerves. He took a deep breath, then released the pent up smog. The smoke surrounding his body partially dissipated too. It was almost a shame how well Michiko’s words calmed him down; he would be better off easily producing the pollutants that came with high stress. Jetsam briefly wondered if her kindness was double-edged in a way; was it a strategic way to prevent him from building up his quirk before the match? He shook the thought out of his head before yelling back to her:

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Miss Michi!”

He could only hope that his grin masked the nerves that were still rolling in his stomach. He knew Michiko; knew her quirk. It could only be activated by physical contact, so as long as he kept his distance he should be okay.

‘Although,’ Jetsam thought as he gazed at the chain-like device at Michiko’s hip, ‘that capture chain she’s been developing could be difficult to beat. I’ve never seen what it actually does before.’

All too quickly, the announcer began their countdown: “3...2...1...BEGIN!”

---------

As soon as the bell rang, Michiko shot forward, arm extended, with a single-minded determination to do one thing and one thing only: get to Jetsam before he could gain control of the battlefield with his quirk. If she could grab a hold onto him before his smogs and tars and other (frankly, gross) expellents became too overwhelming, then she could nullify his quirk with her own, and use her capture device to prevent him from continuing the fight.

Jetsam must have realized her plans, and had just enough time to dodge out of her range, smog spewing out of his mouth now that his adrenaline was no doubt pumping again. Not to be deterred, Michiko quickly shifted her balance and dove after him again, careful not to let him hide behind the pillars of smoke he was creating.

‘He’s not going to make this easy for me, but I have been preparing for this occasion for too long to let this game of tag keep me from winning!’ She thought to herself, resolve growing with every inch closer she got to Jetsam, ‘He can’t avoid me forever, and I have a secret weapon I’ve been dying to beta test!’

After a few more moments of chasing after Jetsam, Michiko took a gamble and let him escape to the sanctuary of smog he created across the arena. She knew she had to be quick, but some risks had to be taken to assure victory! She knew that she had the power within her to win.

He wouldn’t be able to outrun her prototype, after all!

--------

‘Phew, I think I finally managed to shake her,’ Jetsam sighed with relief, dark smog still escaping his mouth and obscuring his figure to the crowd (and hopefully Michiko as well). ‘Now I have a moment to breathe. Hah, figuratively, at least.’

He made sure to keep his eye on the clear silhouette of Michiko he could make out through his smog, never before more grateful for his mom’s sight-related quirk partially making its way to him. She seemed to be standing still, perhaps strategizing her own plan to catch him and throw him out of the arena? He hoped the smoke wasn’t making her feel too sick. He had to be quick.

‘I can probably end the battle if I cover her in tar and stop her movement. It might be unpleasant but it’d be safer than trying to beat her in hand-to-hand or some other physical contest. I haven’t been training with Tsumi for too long, after all. Yeah okay, that’s the plan!’

Just as he was about to produce the sticky tars necessary to carry out his plan, a thin silhouette darted out from Michi’s figure, slithering across the arena at a speed too quick for Jetsam to react to.

As a cold, thin figure coiled itself tightly around him, the only thought sparking across Jetsam’s brain was:

“Michiko brought a snake?”

-----

‘Bingo!’ Michiko exclaimed to herself as Jetsam’s no-doubt unconscious shout revealed not only his location, but the fact that her capture device had worked perfectly as intended.

While it still had quite a few bugs to sort out, one of the most recently added features was a heat-seeking tracker that would allow the machine to chase after targets even under adverse visible conditions.

She cocked her head towards the direction of Jetsam’s quick yell of distress; she couldn’t get complacent. The capture device was only half the battle! She had to guarantee that Jetsam couldn’t continue the fight in order to assure her victory!

She couldn’t just blindly run through the smokescreen either; who knows what kinds of traps he could have placed while she set up her capture device. No. She had to be methodical, and safely make her way to Jetsam’s location while he was encumbered.

The smog was thick, but now she had her goal within sight: grapple Jetsam and nullify his quirk, thus ending the match.

-----

Okay, so it wasn’t a snake, but it was still bad news! Jetsam’s arms were completely pinned by the robotic device wrapped around his torso. So this was the work of the capture device that Michiko had worked so hard on? Jetsam had to admit that it was effective. He couldn’t fight with his limbs restrained like this, and that shout he gave out completely alerted Michiko to his location.

‘So this is it. The fight’s over, and I spent the whole time running away and cowering in the corner. Everyone is watching. Everyone saw. Everyone will know I’m just a big failure who doesn’t deserve to be here. Oh god what if Sato-sensei kicks me out of the hero course? What if they kick me out of the school?? What if everyone laughs and ignores me and hates me OH GOD-’

As the panicked thoughts swirled in Jetsam’s mind a pit formed in his stomach. A pit that rapidly expanded into a big, black ball of anxiety and nerves. He could almost picture it in his mind’s eye: an ugly, bloated orb dripping with heat and stress and bile. The more he envisioned it the more it grew until he could almost feel it spilling out of his mouth like a slick oil spill across his lips and---oh wait.

It wasn’t in his mind’s eye.

Jetsam groaned to himself as gushing rivets of slippery, rubbery oil spewed from his mouth all down the front of his body.

“Well this is perfect!” Jetsam exclaimed to himself, although it was muffled by the sheer volume of oil that expelled out of him as he spoke. He really did throw up. God, could this fight be any more of a disaster?

First he gets captured by Michi’s device, then he literally vomits gross oil from the stress. Fantastic. He shifted uncomfortably, as the oils soaked into his jersey under the capture device and--wait a moment. Oil. Disgusting, smelly, beautifully SLIPPERY oil! That was slicking up his torso and arms even now!

Jetsam pulled his arms upwards experimentally and YES! They were sliding out, he wasn’t restrained anymore! Maybe he could hide again and strategize-

The victorious thought was cut off by a hand shooting out from the pillars of smog, reaching for his newly freed arms.

-----

“I finally found you, Kisa-kun!” Michiko called out, jumping from out of the smokescreen with a triumphant smile.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of Jetsam freed from his restraints, but she simply chalked it up to a prototyping failure; she could ask him about the specifics of how he escaped once the match was over, anyways.

This time Jetsam couldn’t dodge her oncoming attack, and Michiko grappled him to the ground, pinning his arms above his head. Now was her chance to nullify his quirk! She had been practicing in hand-to-hand combat, she could still push herself to her limits and come out on top!

Michiko began to focus her energy on her quirk, as Jetsam struggled underneath her. As soon as her quirk began its nullification, she saw the startled look in his dark eyes, and winced slightly in sympathy. She had been told that her quirk was a bit unpleasant to the target; with the process feeling not unlike having your blood drawn through your whole body.

As her quirk took effect, the copious amount of smoke around them began to disappear, once again fully revealing them to the crowd of spectators around the stadium. As her own vision began to clear she was startled to find them lying at the edge of the arena; if they had tussled a bit further out they would have been out of bounds.

Jetsam followed her gaze to the boundary line, and his jaw tightened as his face flushed a dull purple. Was it anger at his predicament?

“I’m very sorry about this, Miss Michi,” he gurgled apologetically, as the last of his quirk bubbled from his mouth into a viscous oil that was spat out onto Michiko’s face.

With a shout of surprise, Michiko’s grip loosened enough for the slick oils still coating Jetsam’s arms to allow him to escape her grasp. Vision impared by the pollution covering her forehead and dripping into her eyes and nose, Michiko was unable to dodge the hefty push against her chest as Jetsam scrambled away from her touch, getting onto his feet. It was only for a moment, but it was enough for his quirk to return in full force.

“Again, words cannot express how sorry I am for doing that.” Jetsam called out to her, although his speech was hard to make out with the thick pollutants leaking from his mouth.

Michiko shot up from the floor, furiously wiping at her face to clear it of the oil. Once her vision returned, she turned to face Jetsam. The two ran at each other, trading blows and each trying to grapple the other into submission. The build-up of tar and oils worked as a double edged sword; Jetsam easily slipped from Michi’s grasp, but she also used that to her advantage to slide out of the way of his attacks.

Then, there it was: that single, gleaming moment where Michiko could see the exhaustion, see Jetsam’s attention waning as the fight dragged on for just a bit too long. Right there! He was right by the boundary line, and had miscalculated a move that left him off-balance and vulnerable.

‘Sorry Jetsam,’ Michiko thought as she built momentum for her final blow, ‘but I am grateful for this amazing fight!’

Just as her victorious punch was about to make contact with Jetsam’s awaiting back, she felt herself freeze, involuntarily. Her arm was stuck in position, unable to move. She tried shifting her feet, but to no avail. Her whole body was frozen in place, like some sort of statue!

After a brief moment of panic, Michiko quickly realized what was happening. The tar. The tar Jetsam had been producing. He had mixed it with all the other pollutants as they fought, and as she was coated throughout the battle, the tar was turning thicker and thicker, until it encased her whole body into a stiff, immovable statue.

She struggled, trying to thrash her way out of the viscous black coffin, but to no avail. She could no longer continue fighting. She had lost.

The crowd burst into cheers and jeers as they realized that the match had been settled, the announcer calling out “AND THE WINNER IS, JETSAM KISA!”

As soon as the decision was announced, Michiko felt the tar slide off her body, like showering off a thick coating of muck, until only black stains remained on her body and clothing.

Jetsam sheepishly looked over at her, hand anxiously scratching at the back of his neck.

“So… that was really, really gross. I’m so sorry. But you were incredible! You almost had me so many times!!” Jetsam babbled out, getting more and more flustered as he continued. “I understand if you’re upset, but we promised we wouldn’t hold back and-”

“That was a great match! I had such a good time, and you really tested out my limits!” Michiko interrupted, smiled brightly at him as she held out her hand for him to shake. “But I’m warning you, next time I’ll be the one to come out on top!”

Jetsam smiled softly as he took her hand and reciprocated the shake.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#this was the first time i have ever written a fight scene!!#i hope it turned out well... again sorry for the length lmaooo #michiko #jetsam #bnha oc comeback #sports event

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shimmershae · 3 years

Text

My thoughts on Episode 5--Out of the Ashes.

Okay, though. I’m already excited about this one because Carol and Lydia are on the little guide picture thingy, lol. My girls.

As usual, I’m going to put the rest underneath a cut to save you lovelies potentially being spoiled should you not want to be.

Wow. Look at that full moon. And the colors in the woods.

I’m telling you. These cold opening scenes have been generally pretty awesome this season.

Aaron with Gracie always gives us such sweetness but this time maybe not.

Omigosh. Now *that* is a nightmare--the Walkers, the Wolves, the Saviors, the Whisperers, Mays. Did I miss anybody? And then Gracie gone just like that? Poor Aaron. All he wants is to keep his little girl safe and happy.

So. Is Gracie sleeping right next to her daddy because she had a nightmare or because her daddy’s been having them? Because either way, oh my freaking heart. Especially at her still sleeping with her stuffed bunny. I’m really, really hoping that bunny isn’t a bad omen of sorts for our Gracie, because little girls with bunnies haven’t fared all that well--going all the way back to the first episode and as recently as the subway episode where Daryl found that picture of the two siblings after they’d already found the bunny from the picture amongst the bodies. Please not Gracie. Aaron has already been through so much.

Are they all just communing together now? Because I can see how that would harken back to Season 4.

Jerry! Not even 3 minutes in and already two of my faves are present. I can tell this is going to be a good episode.

That really sucks. Not even being able to take a peaceful piss because you can see Walkers shambling past your window, lol.

There goes my queen running straight at danger as real queens are apt to do. ;)

Were there always lights coming on in the windmill during the opening credits or is that a new thing for this episode?

That orientation video was so surreal. Had to laugh at the political touch of having “this message is approved by Pamela Milton” at the end.

Okay. So they’re getting their work assignments, huh? Orientations are the worst, lol. All that damn paperwork.

Retail clerk--Princess being excited at the prospect of working in a mall, even having a mall again, has me LMAO even as I’m like girl. No. You’ll love it ‘til you hate it.

I didn’t catch Eugene’s job. But Ezekiel doing animal control kind of cracks me up. For reasons.

So. Essentially Eugene and Princess and Ezekiel got blue collar jobs while Yumiko’s got an invitation to join the upper crust.

I love Lydia being accepted as part of the community. About damn time.

For a second I thought Rosita said what’s left of the horses plural and I was fixin’ to go OH NO.

This is where I’m at on the Maggie/Negan issue, for better or worse: Maggie absolutely, IMHO, has earned the right to stay mad at Negan for the rest of her days. Because Glenn. Because her little boy was robbed of his daddy. That said? I don’t think I have it in me to watch 5 more episodes of this beaten horse antagonistic conversation much less a whole season. It would be one thing if it hadn’t already stolen valuable and earned screen time from other characters that seem to have been pushed to the periphery to spotlight it like it was the marquee event or something. I don’t want want 2/3′s of the final season so heavily focused on the conflict between these two when there are so many characters that are already woefully underutilized. It’s only compelling if it doesn’t become commonplace.

It’s a sad business having to put down people you know, I’d expect. Funny, though. We never knew them so the impact is kind of artificial. I appreciate the intent of the scene, though.

Where the hell are all the Walkers coming from? Like, I thought most of them went skydiving off that cliff without parachutes.

Judith training the other babies. If only her parents--every damn one of them--could see her now.

Gus! How cool and awesome for him!

ASZ is just full of asshole teens isn’t it? How dare that little dipshit push our Asskicker down like that and say such hateful things? To be fair, though, the kid is probably just repeating what he’s heard from others and I’m glad they’re being realistic here even if I don’t like seeing Judith cry.

Cailey Fleming’s expressive face and eyes! This kid has my heart, ya’ll.

That perfectly pretty cake wasted! LMAO. Seriously though. How does a cardiothoracic surgeon end up assigned to work in the bakery? Yumiko’s reunion with her brother Tomi honestly was on par with what I’d expect from someone seeing the sister they’d long given up as dead.

Freaky still how the Whisperers choose to herd the dead even without Beta and Alpha.

Was that the real Stephanie in the scene with the ice cream? Right under Eugene’s nose while he’s with Fake Stephanie? They have a connection, ya’ll. Eugene felt it.

Okay, though. I wanted the kids having their first ice cream cones. If I were Eugene, though, I probably would have inhaled that thing after being deprived for so long.

The Milton Hotel? Alrighty then. Somebody feels self-important.

Aww. Eugene’s thinking of Rosita and Coco. They really have evolved into such a sweet, good friendship and I miss them together.

Literally, I love Princess more each time I see her and hear her open her hilarious mouth. LOL at her with the ice cream cone.

Is everybody in ASZ staying in the same damn house? Whoever broke the board with Carl’s and Judith’s handprints on it needs an ass kicking.

“Me, too.” Welp. Guess RJ’s already met his line quota per appearance 24 minutes in, LOL.

Aww. My heart. A Rosita/Judith scene. I’m already loving it but not gonna lie. Who do we have topay to get a Carol/Judith scene because she’s been there since Judith was an embryo?

“Now it’s broken. He’s gone. Everybody is.” The way this scene is unexpectedly gutting me right now. Because Rosita’s right. It never really gets easier. It’s just something you figure out how to carry. How many people devastated by Covid or other illness or tragedy are carrying these same feelings of loss and hurt everyday?

Give us more of those heartfelt moments, dammit. This girl at least craves them. Not the endless Maggie/Negan conflict.

Ouch. “I think I haven’t met a Whisperer who wasn’t a liar.” Damn Aaron. Lydia’s right there beside you.

Angry Jerry hurts my heart in ways I cannot explain.

On a completely shallow note, Miko’s brother is attractive too. I quite like his accent, lol. I wonder why he’s so hesitant to put his skills as a surgeon to use.

“Want some cake?”/”Hell, yes.” Yumiko=me 99% of the time. LOL. Just kidding. In reality, I have to say no.

“They clearly got a gym in this joint. Your chiseling is perfecto.” LMAO. I’m all for Princess/Mercer. She flusters him a little and I’m loving it. When she told him he had beautiful eyelashes, I howled.

Oh my sweet Aaron. I’m in the same kind of pain and disbelief as Lydia watching you interrogate that Whisperer.

Thank you, Carol. Melissa McBride? I effing LOVE you. My heart hurts.

I’m sure she’s gonna get hate from the usual crowd while they cheer Aaron further along his dark and desperate path. Yes. Ya’ll are *that* predictable.

But Maggie, though? How long you gonna wait? Because you gonna be waiting on Daryl’s ass a long time.

“Cheesy video guy.” LOL. Leave it to Princess. Somehow that Lance dude looks even cheesier in RL.

By the screaming cave? What the hell is the screaming cave?

Ohh. Next episode actually looks interesting. Thank goodness it’s not a bottle episode strictly focusing on Virgil/Connie though because no matter how much I like Connie/Lauren? I don’t think whatever story she’s stuck in with Virgil is enough to keep me riveted to the tv.

Overall impression of this episode--again, I enjoyed it. Aaron’s dream was dark AF. Hell. Aaron was dark AF in this episode. Ross Marquand did some really strong work and I’m glad he finally got a moment to shine even though I hate seeing him leaning into the darkness instead of his inherent goodness. Judith and Rosita’s scenes were touching. Carol/Melissa made me bawl in the span of two minutes. That’s why she’s the MVP of this show, lovelies. She does so very much with so little. I’m just glad we didn’t have to see Leah and her band of bitchass brothers this episode.

I’m going to miss this show when it’s gone. At least I’ll have the Carol and Daryl spinoff off to ease my heartache.

#The Walking Dead #Season 11 #TWD spoilers #things that make me smile and cry #for reasons

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angrylizardjacket · 3 years

Text

it's in the blood // this is tradition

Summary: Children inherit all sorts of traits from their parents. Not all these traits are good.

"My reputation preceded me before I was born."

[ charlotte & lola au ]

A/N: 2292 words. Halsey's new album killed me on the spot. i talk a lot about the next gen being mirrors of their parents, but i'd like to go into detail about that not necessarily being a positive. @misscharlottelee this made me feel things. i love these kids.

Warnings: overdose mention, addiction discussion, mentions of drug abuse.

Penelope Dingley-Lee

Tommy can count the amount of times he'd seen Razzle truly angry on one hand, and here and now he can see it again, written all over his neice's face. He'd thought she would look like Charlie when she's angry, and occasionally she does, the way her lip curls derisively, dismissively, that's very reminiscent of his cousin, but here and now, her blue eyes are hazy, cloudy, and her lips twist with an irate arrogance that is worryingly familiar.

Angry and high and wearing clothes that don't quite match, in this moment she's exactly her father's daughter.

She's been in the papers again. Her tits have been in magazines again. Tommy bites down on his instinctual desire to repremand her; she'd call him a hypocrite, call him an old man, tell him to keep his opinions to himself while she could still buy his sex tape out of a shady car boot down the street.

Charlie was like that too, on occasion, wit too quick for him to keep up with. When she got into a mood like this, Tommy didn't have to worry so much; usually Razzle would egg her on, but knew when to pull her back.

"It's my god given, motherfucking right to go feral -" he'd heard Charlie back in the eighties holler at three in the morning, high on amphetamines and waving a gossip rag above her head. Razzle would be on the sofa, equally fucked up, but gazing at her like she hung the stars in the sky.

"Lola gets photographed at least once a month stark naked along the strip like it's a sport, why is my Playboy shoot a national crisis?! My tits are fantastic!"

"They are, my love," Razzle nods seriously, and Tommy pulls his pillow from beneath his head, trying to either block out their voices through the thin walls, or maybe smother himself. The girl beside him, the groupie whose name he doesn't know, asks blearily why there's so much yelling. Tommy doesn't answer.

A week later, Tommy is the one to bail out Charlie and Razzle for public indecency, and they're both beaming from ear to ear.

Here in the present, Penny is draped out on the sofa, laughing low and pleased as she watches TV.

"TMZ blurred out my tits," she snorts, "cowards."

"Penny..." he can't help the faintly disappointed notes in his voice when he says her name.

"Thomas, I've read The Dirt," Penny fires back venemously. Hypocrite he hears in her tone, you have no power over me.

There's something hollow in her eyes in the photos he sees of her in the papers. She wears her father's inflluence and her heart on her crushed velvet sleeve, on the arm of a shallow, pretty, band boy who plays badly and loudly. But she laughs louder, though tthe sound is low and unconvincing if anyone bothered to listen hard enough, and Tommy wonders if he has enough dark hair dye left for when that boy breaks her heart.

Jupiter Lee

Tommy is proud to watch Jupiter on stage, but he is afraid.

Their anger is something he remembers from Lola, the way they cling to the past with vitriol echoes their mother, but on stage, they drink up the attention, get high off the love the audience gives, and he sees himself in those moments.

A child of addicts, Jupiter had drawn lines in the sand for themselves that they refused to cross; no alcohol, no drugs, and they'd stayed loyal to that. But highs come in all forms; they simply picked a different kind of poison without realising.

On stage, halfway between the gutter and a god complex, Tommy knows the smile they wear all too well.

Rebellion from Jupiter didn't shock the world like it did when it was Penny's name in the papers. Jupiter's trajectory was spot on in the eyes of the public, but rebellion wouldn't be the thing that broke them.

Once, so long ago that it's a miracle the memory survived, Tommy remembers asking Lola what she would be doing if she wasn't with the band. Lola gave him an easy, bleary smile, laughing sweetly when she told him that one way or another, she'd be here. In the moment it overwhelms him with love. In hindsight it breaks his heart.

"Come on, I think this is inevitable," Jupiter smiles on television as an interviewer asks them the same question; if they weren't making music what they'd be doing, "as if I'd do anything other than this."

'Don't you know where I come from?' is left unspoken, but Tommy still hears it.

He tries to picture himself in a life without the world at his feet the way he has now. No image comes to mind. Nothing else makes sense. Even if he wanted to do something else, wanted to grow up to be something else, he couldn't even begin to picture it for himself, tragedy and all.

They play their parts. They let history repeat itself. Jupiter makes mistakes Tommy and Lola had already learned from. Penny plays Jupiter's conciousness until the role grates on her nerves, diving head first into chaos, taking Jupiter with her with little convincing.

Tommy remembers this too.

When the world looks at Penny and Jupiter, they like to remember how Lola was seen as a bad influence on Charlotte, but forget that Tommy would have followed Charlotte in to Hell without hesitation.

Leo "Seo" Sixx

Lola has google alerts set up for her son, Seo, because he disappears for months without warning. Tommy asks how he is, and Lola looks to her phone with a tight smile, telling him that he's competeing in a skateboarding competition in Prague. She learned that from Twitter.

Seo comes and goes without warning, and talks to his siblings more than his parents. He loves them, but he hasn't allowed himself to stop for years. He doesn't know how. Then again, neither did Lola or Nikki.

"Jupiter thinks a lot about legacy, don't they?" He's in Tommy's kitchen, eating a poptart, when Tommy returns home one friday evening. He's waiting for Penny and Jupiter to finish getting ready, the three of them going out.

"Do your parents know you're in town?" Tommy asks with faint amusement, though there's a twinge of guilt in his gut when Leo considers that he should probably let them know. Says he forgot. Tommy's not sure if he believes him; like his parents before him, he tends to leave a lot unsaid. It's part of his charm, the world seems to think, but Tommy knows all to well how deliberate of an act it can be.

"Jup's got all this stuff in their head about legacy and who they should be," he continues his earlier thought, "which I guess makes sense, they tie a lot of themselves up in their identity," he shrugs, then, "I don't know Leo."

Tommy's not sure if he's talking about the grandfather he's named after, or himself.

"You've given this a lot of thought," Tommy says quietly, humouring him.

"I think a lot," Seo responds, "I've been thinking about going back on my meds, its weird being off of them." Of course this concerns Tommy, who knows objectively that Seo isn't his kid, but he's close enough that Tommy feels like he's allowed to be concerned. "I'm worried a doctor's note isn't going to be enough to let me compete at the Olympics on speed," falls too casually from Seo's lips, alarming Tommy in an instant. Though it must clearly show on his face, as Seo breaks out into an apologetic grin, "dextroamphetamine, for my ADHD. I've been trying to wean off it for the Olympics, it's been hard -" but his next words, said so blithe, so casual, have Tommy's heart stopping in his chest as he's thrown back thirty years, "I've been on them since I was like eleven years old; it was great, I could think, like the right amount, but now I... I think everything. I feel everything. Its a lot." He shrugs, like he didn't just become an echo of his father.

Seo's parents both died twice from overdoses, and now their son feels like he can't function without amphetamines.

Objectively Tommy knows that they work for Seo, that he's not abusing them he simply uses them to help him function, but the irony is not lost on him. It's a lot to unpack. He doesn't think to ask about the Olympics; it slips his mind until he sees Seo and a silver medal on his Twitter feed.

Lola calls Tommy in tears. She's proud, but she wishes she'd known, wishes she'd been able to watch it live, or go over and support him in person.

No-one in Seo's life seems to fully know or understand his intentions or actions, no-one can predict his next move. He puts up a bright facade, but like his parents before him, he does not trust the world to know him.

They don't know where he goes in the few months after the Olympics, all they know is that he doesn't come home.

Cerie "CerieThree" Sixx

Since she'd turned sixteen, Tommy has never seen Cerie Sixx without a smile. That is a very deliberate choice that she's made.

She's made a choice to rise above the percieved grime of her origins. She's halfway across the country, smiling for a camera she can control, editing her image before she lets it out into the world. Cerie Three - even the name the world knows reflects this; she's picked apart the context she was born into, disecting it, deciding which was useful to show the world, disposing of the rest.

She speaks warmly to her family, from what Tommy can gather, but the people on the peripheries of their life seem more like associates in the coldest sense of the world. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes half the time when she sees Tommy, and she shakes his hand when her brothers will hug him. The internet is closer to her than he is.

Cerie looks the most like her mother of all her siblings; she's 21, the exact same age Lola was when she met Tommy, but half the time he can barely see the resemblence. Lola had let the world see a villain at that age; Cerie had learned from that, had rejected that, rejected the cold, hard humanity of her mother's fronting. Cerie wanted to be perfect. Cerie had to be perfect, hyper aware of her own image, like her siblings seem to be, but the way she'd so effectively shaped her public identity was kind of terrifying.

Perhaps this was what it was like for people who didn't know Lola, only allowed to know the image she put out into the world, or people who only knew Nikki for his stage presence.

But the more Tommy thinks about it, the more he remembers just how effectively Lola had wrapped the band around her little finger when she set her mind to it, how she talked her way around exectives despite being dressed like she'd woken up in the gutter and fucked up on any number of drugs. Lola understood people, and it seemed Cerie did too.

Cerie Sixx, twenty one, doesn't stop creating content, doesn't stop studying, and doesn't stop smiling. Two of those three things are inhereted traits, inhereted determination, and the third is a choice.

Cyrus Sixx

Though Cyrus had inhereted much of his parent's musical talent, the same way Jupiter had, Cyrus had also inhereted a love of the high life. Even so, he's so full of love, kissing his mother on both cheeks before he goes out to get shitfaced in the bars she was decades before he was even born.

He works hard, at his job, on his music, but his partying matches it just as well. He knows exactly how far he has to fall before he meets the depths his parents' had sunk to, and though he doesn't voice this, his arrogance comes across in his actions.

There'd always be someone to pull him away from swan diving to rock bottom. He takes that for granted, and keeps getting closer and closer.

The only one of Nikki and Lola's children who still lives at home, he's the only one like them in the way they'd feared.

"He's going to have more success than he will ever be able to comprehend," Nikki had told Tommy, the day after Cyrus had been admitted to hospital after staying up for four days while high and obsessing over a song he had been working on. Nikki had found him having a fit after having fallen from his desk chair. Now, sitting on Tommy's patio in the sunset, he looks tired, he looks afraid, "if he doesn't end up killing himself first."

A month ago, the fire department and the police had to pull him, kicking and screaming and bareass naked from a tree in the middle of town. His parents had bailed him out, had felt a familiar sting of guilt as they find themselves reminded of their own youthful exploits. They repremand him, of course, but they both know the only reason they stopped climbing trees was because there had been no-one to pick them up after.

Nikki sees himself in his sons mistakes, but he'd had to learn concequences the hard way.

Tommy loves his family and all it's strange branches, as well as their raucous youth, but his closest friends were some of the most volatile people he'd known, and somehow he'd forgotten that as time as taken people and memories from him.

But these children were made in their image.

#nikki sixx #tommy lee #razzle dingley #nikki sixx x oc #tommy lee x oc #razzle dingley x oc #the dirt #motley crue #the dirt imagine #motley crue imagine #charlotte&lola #lola & charlotte #the angry lizard writes #the pack

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sorcerersofnyc · 3 years

Text

The Last Thing Left (Zemo x F!Reader) 8/9

If it wasn’t so painfully ironic (and hilarious to watch,) Helmut would find the relationship between Sam and James a little sad.

Ghosts weren’t enough to hold two people together.

While they wait for Torres to locate Donya Madani, Zemo brings Sam and Bucky to the home he once shared with you.

You reunite and he reflects upon his relationship with you (his wife's friend and his friend's wife) and your journey from being people with mutual friends to partners.

Part Eight: Zemo has to say goodbye.

Suicidal ideation, Angst, various mentions of death & mourning, Zemo's wife's name is Heike because of comics. I use Serbian Cyrillic as a stand-in for Sokovian. The reader likes waffles (this is a non-negotiable fact).

Note: Main Character is neutral in most regards, but the story was written with my own cultural background in mind. (In other words, I won't say what she looks like but I envision her as being black.)

First Chapter | Previous

***

He doesn’t know how to tell you goodbye. He doesn’t want to tell you goodbye. So lingers at the doorframe of his bedroom with a heavy heart and troubled eyes.

Your spot on the bed is empty, the blankets still unmade as steam from the shower hovers thinly in the air.

The sound of running water stops just before he passes the archway that leads into the master bath. The glass door opens and shuts on the other side. He hears you shuffle around and, after a moment, sees you peek around the wall.

You gasp.

Drops of water slide down your shoulders, vanishing beneath the fluffy towel wrapped around your breasts.

"Helmut!" You retreat behind the wall quickly. “I thought you were still downstairs!”

“My apologies,” He smirks. “I had no intention of intruding.” Helmut turns around for the sake of your modesty.

You hesitate for just a moment before approaching him, your footsteps growing closer, more confident as you near him from behind.

“You should have woke me,” you scold, entering his periphery. He twists his neck just enough to watch you bend over and take something from the drawer.

“I felt it would be wise to let you sleep.”

He watches you disappear behind the wall once more, curious to see what it was you took from his drawer. Was it an article of clothing? Did he have anything that suited you? He ponders every possibility.

So when you finally return, Helmut drinks in the sight of you, checking you out from head to toe.

“Stop staring at me like that.” There’s a slight waver in your voice as you look at him, as you take notice of the wicked smile on his face.

“My apologies again, Драга,” he places special emphasizes the word, “I was merely enjoying the view.” Your clothing is your own, except for the socks.

“We shouldn’t linger,” Helmut imagines you fighting back a blush as you ignore his words. “The last thing I want is those two running around my house. What if they find all Anežka’s guns?” You move to step around him, to walk out into the hall, but Helmut takes your hand into his own and pulls you into his arms.

“Wait,” he instructs you, his voice leveled and controlled. You look up at him, confused—perhaps a little intrigued—by the sudden force of his actions. You brace your hands against his chest.

“Yes?” You still, but gaze shifts from his eyes to his mouth, down his jaw, and back up again.

Cрањеg, he thinks, because it would be so easy to kiss you, so easy to do anything with you as Sam and James wait downstairs. (They could take notes if they heard them.)

He pulls you in a little closer, lessening the space between your chests. It would have been so easy—but Helmut won’t start something he can’t finish. He has to leave and he could never leave you wanting him, not when he knows he’ll never see you again.

“There’s something I must tell you first,” he insists, breaking your intimate gaze.

“What is it?” Your voice is a breathless whisper, so sweet he nearly falters.

“I’m sorry but I must leave you again.”

“Oh.” The simple phrase hung in the air.

“I'm truly sorry, I believed—”

“No, it’s—I mean, we both knew we wouldn’t have much time together…” The world grew quiet around him, as though all the birds and the sun in the sky shared in his agony. “When will you leave?”

“We have but a few hours left together.”

“Where are you going?”

“Riga.” He brings a hand to the curve of your cheek.

“We have a place there, right?” You take a step backward, releasing yourself from his hold, and brush past him quickly. “I’ll call someone to have it ready for you.”

He wants to call you back to him, hold you in his arms, memorize your every curve and feature—but instead, he watches you go.

***

Before enacting his ‘diabolical scheme,’ as the media so kindly put it, he arranged for Oeznik to send regular updates about you.

The first broke his heart completely.

When Oeznik tried to deliver the paperwork he had for you, you sent him back with a very colorful message detailing exactly what Helmut could do with his money. You didn’t want it. In fact, you found the idea to be insulting.

“If he wanted me to be his partner, he should have stayed instead of treating our relationship like some sort of business transaction!”

Unwilling to stay in the Italian estate for any longer than strictly necessary, you called a taxi in the middle of the night and made the arduous journey to the nearest city. Eventually, you arrived in Venice where you stayed an entire week.

You booked travel west and spent another few days in Milan.

Oeznik had an easy time monitoring you, and Helmut suspected he enjoyed the chance to visit a few quiet cities with little urgency. But it seemed two weeks was where his patience ran thin.

After another few days of meandering, Oeznik, who you had been more than a little surprised to see, managed to sit you down and convince you to overlook the paperwork.

Helmut wasn’t sure what he could have said to make you agree—likely something to do with taking the money, if only out of spite or something more sentimental, invoking your fondness for Carl and Heike—but you agreed.

When you finally returned home and Oeznik reported you intended to remain there, Helmut hired Anežka, Oeznik’s great-niece, to keep you company. She was a sweet-tempered young woman who once shot a bullet between the eyes of a rampaging boar somewhere east of Siberia—allegedly.

Nevertheless, he trusted her to watch over you and focused fully on his mission.

News of the Avengers causing havoc in Lagos broke out and you weren’t there to discuss the headline or the harsher implications of their actions. (‘Think about the demographics of the area,’ he imagined you would say. ‘Of course they think they can just waltz in and do what they want. It’s like Johannesburg all over again.’)

He found Vasily Karpov in a sleepy suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, and traveled there to find him. You weren't there to greet him upon his return.

He booked a room in Vienna. You weren't there to eat breakfast beside him.

He enacted his scheme. You weren't there to intervene.

When it was over and he was caught, the joint terrorism task force transferred Helmut to a high-security prison in Berlin, where he toiled in boredom and misery.

He deserved it, of course, but the hell of sitting with his memories and reflecting on his regrets was unbelievably tiring.

He’d been in prison for nearly a week before he received any communication from the world outside.

It was a money transfer notice.

Eigengeld, the notice said, showing that the money was transferred to a private funds account.

He received the same notification two weeks later.

Helmut used his money to purchase books, deciding to brush up on his Russian by reading classic poetry. He then obtained a small radio and other odds and ends meant to make his cell more accommodating.

Every two weeks he received the same notice, nothing more and nothing less.

Every month he received a letter from Oeznik, though they functioned more as simple reports about your welling, the status of his assets, observations on the world, and such.

Then, after about a month and a half of imprisonment, he received a parcel in the mail; a thick book sent directly from a local seller about Anger and Grief.

He recognized the title; you had the same book, albeit an earlier edition, on your desk in your bedroom. It was easy for him to imagine you there, sitting on your bed, doing the work to unpack all your feelings—you wanted him to do the work too.

You hadn’t given up on him; you didn’t think he was too far gone.

He opened up to the table of contents.

He received a second parcel three weeks later.

This time you sent him a treatise on Contemporary Arts and a book about Rococo Architecture.

He understood the intent of the first one well enough; you wanted him to develop a greater appreciation for contemporary art. But the second? You were clearly just teasing him. He hated Rococo Architecture.

A third parcel came three weeks after that and it contained a book more aligned with his tastes, Fortuna ist ein reissender Fluß, Fortune is a River. He assumed it was an apology for the two before.

And so it went on; every few weeks he received something new—but then one day you sent him a letter:

‘Dear Helmut,’

Oeznik, Anežka, and I visited the Sokovian memorial together. I laid flowers for you, Carl, Heike, and Heinrich. I laid them right beside the flowers I brought for Dominik and my father-in-law...’

You told him that the land was set to be divided by neighboring countries, cannibalized before it was even clear of rubble. You mentioned donating money to charity, visiting his other estates at Oeznik’s behest, and working on art.

You drew a sketch of the memorial on the back of the letter but never mentioned what happened between you, only that you're well and wished for him the same.

He wrote you back, thanking you for laying flowers for his family, and didn’t expect to hear from you again.

So when the next parcel you sent was accompanied by another letter.

You asked about the books and his thoughts about them.

Your tone was perfectly cordial, perfectly polite, but there was clearly a sense of distance there. You told him of a book you read by a man named Garth Risk Hallberg. You complained it was about 400 pages too long but something about it stuck out to you, a quotes:

'And why love things you were destined to lose? Why let yourself feel things if the feelings were doomed to die?'

Helmut was far too smart to trick himself into believing your words weren’t meant to stir something within his heart, that they weren’t a clever admission of your true feelings. However, he was also too cautious to remark recklessly.

So in his reply, he mentioned a book as well, Il Principe, and he quoted Machiavelli's view of love:

‘...love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage.’

You shouldn't love him, he thought, not after he broke your heart to achieve his own ends. You disagreed.

"Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom." You wrote, followed by a snippy, 'Shakespeare had a better view of love than Machiavelli.’

The quote was from Sonnet 116. (You sent him a book of sonnets shortly after that.)

The sonnet spoke of what love was, what it meant to love a partner for who they were, accepting their changes and their flaws, and welcoming all the obstacles of love.

Helmut wasn't presumptuous enough to believe you could ever come to love him so fully, but wasn't love at all a start?

Neither of you wrote 'I love you,' at least not directly. Had he said it, he knew something, that thing inside of him, that thing that always held him back from you, would finally break.

But little by little you opened up to him again, using your shared love of literature to express your true feelings.

Oeznik continued to send his reports as well—one every month—to check up and keep him informed.

Roughly two years after his sentencing, something changed. News reported some sort of invasion in New York City, then another similar incident over Wakandan Airspace. And then, suddenly, there was a panic in the prison. People turned to dust and vanish all over the world.

And he worried.

Mail delivery was in complete and utter disarray. It took about eight weeks to receive word from you. For eight weeks he was alone, trapped in a vicious cycle of fear and doubt, just like the days he spent digging for his family in the rubble of his father’s home.

He contemplated an escape, planned for every contingency, and wondered what he'd do if he found your house cold and empty. Could he handle that pain? Could he stand to lose whatever shred of hope he had left?

And what if you came looking for him? What if you came, and he wasn’t there?

He contemplated all of those things and as he did so, your letters came.

When the guard appeared before his cell, they handed him a bundle of them, each more desperate and hasty than the last.

You survived the decimation. You were alright. But Anežka and Oeznik were gone. You were so sorry, so scared.

Captain America made a speech on television that assured everyone that no one else would disappear, but you didn’t believe him. You didn’t even know if your letters would reach him; you didn’t know if he was gone too but you would keep writing until someone told you otherwise.

You attempted to call the prison; you visited the gate; you did everything in your power to see him and the moment you received news that he, too, had survived, you cried.

The emotions he felt were bittersweet.

You were alive and well; he hadn’t lost you—but Oeznik was gone.

He wasn't misguided, Helmut knew that it would come to happen eventually, but he never expected it to be so sudden, didn’t expect it to happen like this. The old man had plenty of years left in him—he should have lived to reach 100 at least.

But with him gone, he’d lost his most loyal companion and confidant. With him gone, you were truly all he had left in the world.

As his next of kin, you tried to make an appeal for him to attend a memorial, but apparently, the death of 'a butler,’ as the officials described, wasn't an adequate reason to allow for prison leave.

He was simply too dangerous a criminal.

You shared a little poem with him in one of your letters, something about being still and staying in place. You didn’t want him to escape his prison cell. With the world in such disarray, so many places descended into martial law. If anyone saw him, they’d likely shoot on sight. You didn’t want to risk that, and he wouldn’t make you worry.

You encouraged him to open up about his feelings, so in his grief, he turned to you.

Time passed.

All his time alone gave him the chance to work through his grief, come to peace with what happened to his family, and reconcile his feelings. The rage was still there. It hadn’t gone away, but it was less of a bullet and more of an ache.

He still worried for you, of course, but life moved on and you coped; You wanted to help, wanted to ease the devastation left in the decimation’s wake.

‘I feel like nothing I do is enough,’ You wrote. And you felt as though you were living through the fall of Sokovia all over again. He suggested you try a change of scenery, to go somewhere new to gain a better understanding of how the world was now shaped.

So you visited New York City. Your letters took more time to arrive when you were away, but you mentioned having met a young journalist there, a man with an interest in art. He had a friend who you claimed looked exactly like him.

'If you grew a beard,' you wrote, 'you'd be twins.' He highly doubted that.

Despite your insistence that he was simply a friendly acquaintance, Helmut assumed you developed a liking toward the man.

He tried not to let the idea bother him—you deserved to live a life of happiness, a life not shackled to him—but he loved you, and you loved him.

He may not have had a name for what you were to each other, but when you reported having returned home without incident (or new romantic prospects) he felt relieved.

Years went by.

Your bond grew stronger.

And then the world changed once again one day.

You were making tea in the kitchen when Anežka appeared right before your eyes.

'It was as though her body pieced itself back together.' You described. 'She doesn't remember what happened, neither does Oeznik. It's like time didn't pass for them at all.’

They called what happened ‘The Blip’ to describe the experience. Helmut thought it was a ridiculous name.

But the sudden reappearance of the people that vanished threw the world into chaos once again. There was so much chaos, in fact, that James Buchanan Barnes appeared before him a few much later.

(Apparently, he thought with some resentment, those affiliated with the Avengers could visit him but not his next-of-kin.)

Helmut’s last letter wasn't quite a letter at all.

He arranged for a parcel to be sent to you: waffles and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He then asked Oeznik to send you a message.

He was coming home to see you, to be with you at last.

***

When Oeznik calls to tell him that the car is ready, you’re standing in the kitchen engrossed in a lively conversation with Sam.

You decided it would be nice to send them off with snacks, which somehow lead to a deeper conversation about your love of Beignets, the connection between food and culture, and the ingredients needed for Crawfish Étouffée.

Helmut isn’t sure he likes how funny you think Sam is, but he ignores that part of himself as he stands beside you, tracing circles into the palm of your hand.

James stands behind Sam, looking as sullen as a cat in the rain, but Helmut made the conscious choice to ignore that as well.

“It seems our car has arrived,” he cuts in, gently squeezing your hand. James stands at full attention and Sam nods his head. They’re ready to return to the mission.

“Helmut,” you turn your attention to him fully, “Could you hang back a minute. I promise it won’t take long.” You look between Sam and James. “I just need to give him something.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, gesturing James toward the door. “Thanks for everything and hey—if ever you’re in the neighborhood come down to the restaurant, we’ll set you up straight.”

You wave him off with a smile, agreeing to do just that as James gives you a polite nod of acknowledgment

“Thanks.”

“Adiós,” you call to them, waiting for the two to shut the door.

“I’m almost sad to see them leave…”

“Really?” He raised a brow.

“Almost,” you repeat, taking both his hands in yours. “But I’m glad I got to see you again, Helmut — even if it was just for a while.”

“As am I.” You stare at each other, allowing the moment to settle around you. There was so much left to say and so little time to say it.

"I...I have something for you. Not...not a present but something I want you to keep." You slide your hands away from his take a folded envelope from your pocket. The paper inside is worn, but the letter is addressed to him, dating back to the spring of 2016.

"It's the first letter I was going to send to you but...I couldn’t. But I want you to have it now—just don't read it until you're gone."

"Thank you," He says after a moment. "I'll treasure it." And he would. He’d keep your words close to his heart.

"I wanted you to know I understood what you thought you had to do...that I forgave you and…" Your voice waivers but you continue, desperately trying to hold yourself together. "I just wish we had more time."

"I know." Helmut wrapped you in his arms and you remained there, your face buried in his shoulder.

“I must go now,” he tells you. You don’t let him go. You won’t.

Helmut presses a kiss to the top of your head with a chuckle. “Come now драга, it’ll be alright.” He pulls you back by the shoulders, looks into your eyes. “You’ve been so wonderful to me. I can’t envision a better friend.” Helmut leans forward, presses his forehead against your own, and enjoys one last moment of tender affection. It was a moment where words felt insufficient, where nothing else needed to be said except for maybe, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You whisper, and your words fill his heart with a strange new light.

But then someone—probably James—knocks on the door three times. A muffled argument between his companions begins outside the door, and Helmut sighs.

It’ll be a long trip to Latvia.

“Take care of yourself,” you tell him, “and don’t make any more trouble.”

“Trouble?” He asks innocently enough, as though he would never dream of doing such a thing. You roll your eyes and follow him to the door.

For a moment he considers running. Of taking your hand and leading you out through the back door. He could run away with you—but then he would never achieve his mission. And he couldn’t allow Super Soldiers to exist.

So he steeled his resolve and reached toward the door.

“Wait!” You reach for his hand.

He didn’t want to make this harder than it had to be, but he needed to listen to what you had to say.

“What is it?”

You take a breath as if to prepare yourself for something. “... Can I... Can we... Can I kiss you?” His heart aches. Helmut struggles to find an answer. But perhaps he was simply overthinking it. Perhaps there was nothing left to say.

So he nods. You take a step closer.

You move as though you’ve thought of this before; you place your hands on his chest, tilt your face upward, and press your lips against his gently.

It was a chaste kiss, a quick one that evoked the feeling of finding shelter in the rain.

You pull away, no doubt prepared to say something, but Helmut takes hold of your waist and pulls your body against him. The love between you grows into a burning flame as he kisses you, again and again, to help quench it.

Your lips part, your tongues meet, you run your fingers through his hair, but it only makes him hotter, hungrier, burning for something more. “Thank you for taking care of me, Helmut.” Your breath is heavy, and it mingles with his own when you part from him.

“I want you to be happy, драга,” Helmut confesses, voice low, accent thicker. “I am sorry to have caused you distress-”

“Stop it.” You cup his face between your hands. “You gave me everything you could.”

He kisses you again, and it’s fervent and zealous, it’s desperate in the way all final things are.

Another knock sounds unkindly at the door.

There’s no more time to be together—but you share another kiss anyway.

“Goodbye, my love.” He whispers on your lips because he knows that this is the end, that he may never see you again.

“Goodbye.” You step back, releasing your hold at last.

You open the door and he steps outside.

“Gentleman,” Helmut greets the others nonchalantly, as though he weren’t moments away from delaying the mission in favor of sharing something even more personal with you.

The sun is high in the sky, but the weather is deceptively chilly.

“What were you doing in there?” James asks, his voice full of unfounded accusations.

“Come on, Buck.” Sam shakes his head. He lets out a loud, exasperated sigh and starts toward the car.

“What?” James follows Sam toward the car, annoyed he must defend himself from some implied accusation.

“I was merely bidding farewell to my dear companion, of course,” Helmut answers truthfully, sending a mischievous little wink your way.

"Cuídate!" You call after them. Take care.

Helmut takes a last look at the home you once shared, one last look at you as you watch him from the doorway.

He loves you, which is the reason he has to leave. He would put an end to Karli and her acolytes to make the world a safer place. No one, not the Avengers or these ‘Flag Smashers’ endanger the world once again. He would put a bullet to each of them himself if it meant keeping you safe.

#Zemo #helmut zemo #baron zemo #mcu zemo #zemo x reader #these chapters just keep getting longer and longer

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serahlink · 4 years

Text

Knight in Orc Armor // F!Orc x FtM!Reader

Summary : After being harassed by some transphobic goblins, an unexpected hero swoops in to save the day.

Word Count : 2,675

TW : transphobia (including slurs and misgendering)

The weaved basket filled to the brim with fresh fruit and various vegetables weighed down in your arms. The market you were leaving behind was always a lively sight to say the least. Goblins, humans and orcs alike ran about, hashing out meats and services to one another. It was the one thing you liked about being in a close knit village. People were brought together in a way. That same gesture wasn’t given or taken by just everyone though. Being one of the only humans in the village usually warranted you relentless bullying and if that wasn’t enough, the fact that you are a trans man was a thing that some people didn’t take kindly of.

Being trans has always been a journey for you, you’ve seen and faced countless discrimination and rejection. While it never ceased being an unrelenting pain, you’ve learned to let things like that roll off of you. You built yourself out of cold stone and you were proud of that. So when you spotted two mischievous goblins in your periphery, you were ready to ignore them and be on with your day. Then their squeaky voices began to taunt you.

“Why, if it isn’t ol’ (Deadname).” One cackled out on your left, easily keeping up with your patient steps. The question was an innocent one enough if you completely disregarded respect of your gender and how menacing their intent was. “Still an errand girl for your parents, are ya?”

The other one chimed in. “That’s how girls are, y'know? Maidens who don’t stray far from home~.”

Their voices didn’t fail to make you nauseous. Their raspy strained tones felt like daggers on glass and the urge to wring out their scrawny little necks only intensified. As if their transphobic taunts weren’t enough, one suddenly jumped in front of your way. Your once unfazed gaze was now bothered and stared daggers down at the creature, who wore a look you could only describe as sadistic.

“You’re no fun at all.” The goblin opposing your side pouted, yet held the same expression as the other one.

With papery hands folded over each other mischievously, the goblin blocking your path grinned a gross smile, baring his yellowing blocky teeth. His knobby hand outstretched to the food kept relatively safe in the basket and you caught a determined glint in his bulging eye. “Now, why don’t you be a good village girl and hand over a fruit or two.”

“Like hell.” You bit back, hugging the basket protectively close. Your response only brought an inquisitive look back from him.

“Really?” The goblin feigned shock, his curling smirk on his lips. “I wouldn’t take that a hero’s daughter would get that kind of attitude.”

“Son.” You corrected firmly, biting back the harshness in that statement. “Hero’s son.”

Just then, the small creature slowly made his way to you until you nearly fell backwards on yourself. He then swiftly hopped up on the basket and dug his chipped nails under your collar, bringing you in a distance that’s too close for comfort. “You will never be a hero’s son. All you are is a pathetic excuse for a daughter, you hear?” With each venom in his statement, he inched closer to where you could feel the musk of his breath. It was nearly suffocating.

Nothing was more suffocating than the heat from your building anger. You could tolerate most things, but slandering you under your own father’s name is something you would not ignore. With one shakingingly angry hand, you slammed down the goblin to the dusty floor and didn’t hesitate to get in its face.

“Listen here, you ugly fiend. You have some nerve to put anyone’s name in your mouth, let alone bring my fathers profession into this.” You spat. “You will not tell me what I will or won’t amount to because of my father going off and making himself a hero, you got that!”

Surprisingly to you, the goblin actually had a bit of fear in his eyes and you pulled up, a smirk on your face. “I think you need to get out of here.”

The goblin under you scrambled to its feet and ran past you, back into the direction of the village market. You then looked to the goblin, who was looking in a direction that wasn’t you. It’s wide eyes fixed on something tall that towered above you both and it was merely then that you realized a heavy shadow was covering your own. Whatever scared the goblins clearly wasn’t you but something much bigger.

Behind you, a muscled arm that appeared to have the bicep the size of your face reached past to pick up the sneaky small being, who yelped as the towering being picked it up. Immediately, you knew what kind of creature this was. An orc. If it wasn’t by the animal skins and steel armor you picked up on that told you it was an orc, it’s size sure did.

Slowly, you turned around. Your expectations told you that you’d be face to face with a savage beast who would rip out the spine of the goblin right in front of you, as if to send a message. You thought this was where you had to be prepared to fight all the fear pulsing through your veins and slay this monster but all that subsided like a cool storm when you saw her.

Instead of meeting a snarling beast, you found a beauty in its place. The toned body of a female orc was plated by armor and draped with various skins, a bow resting behind her back. The strap of it hugged around her torso.. Angular features were broad and tense under dark hair that shaped her face. Her concentrated features glared down at the stammering goblin she held tensely under her strong grip.

All the goblin could spit out was excuses and frankly, the female orc wasn’t buying it. “Tell it to my bow,” She snarled, “or get out of here.”

She only gave a flick of her wrist at most yet the goblin ate dirt at the velocity he was thrown. Quickly, he was on his feet and sped back into the village without sparing a word.

In the sudden quiet, you could hear the quick beating of your heart rattling in your rib cage. It only occurred to you just then that she saved you. This random orc was literally your hero.

Suddenly, before you could even think, you were enveloped in strong arms and being swaddled by the orc bridal style. Her eyes looked everywhere, examining you as if to check for any marks or bruising. You flinched a little, hands scrambling to cling onto anything as to not fall; that very place being her chest and neck. “-! Uh, excuse me!”

Under you, the woven basket fell to the ground with some spare fruit catching dirt ground. “Dammit.” You cursed under your breath.

She looked down at you curiously, her eyes being all you could see.

“Can you, yknow, put me down?” You cleared your throat, fighting back your raging heart beat and flush in your cheeks.

“Oh. Oh! I’m sorry,” To your surprise, she was sheepishly apologetic. “It’s just, you humans are so fragile so I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

Fragile? Since when were humans treated as a baby species?

Essentially, she let you down and joined you as you began to assist you in picking up the fallen goods.

“Thank you.”

The orc peered up when you spoke and you found yourself stammering slightly. “But you really didn’t have to do that.” You sheepishly rubbed the back of your neck, picking up the basket once more.

She grinned. “What for? They were giving you trouble and I couldn’t let them do that. It’s common courtesy. Besides, I don’t really like goblins anyway. Pests are all they are.”

She had a bit of an accent, you noticed, but you couldn’t place what kind. Her own was pretty thick but it was easy to make out what she was saying.

“How long were you standing there?” You asked.

It was her turn to become all sheepish. She shrugged, a soft frown began to befall her face. “Long enough to see most of it.”

You weren’t sure why, but something about that frown sort of made you feel guilty. After all, it was enough to be discriminated against. You didn’t want to be pitied.

Then, you cleared your throat. “Right, well, I guess I’ll be going now.”

She stopped you before you could go, practically snabbed the basket out of your reach by its handle. Just as you went to curse her, her cheeky smile stopped you. “Let me carry this for you. You’ve gone through enough trouble today, besides, I’m heading this way anyhow.”

In a way you did curse her. In your head, your voice mumbled curse after curse of her smile and how persuasive it was. Even worse, she acted all innocent, as if she had no clue that a dumb grin like that could make you fall to your knees. Either way, you couldn��t refuse her and against all odds you were walking home with an orc by your side.

“So, tell me about yourself.” The orc suddenly said and she was smiling when you looked up at her.

“Why don’t you tell me about you instead?” You offered. “I mean, you’re the one who swooped in and all. I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh, that’s right. I never introduced myself, did I?” She laughed. “I’m Snatha.”

When she looked at you expectantly, you reluctantly introduced yourself. Snatha looked surprised, yet immensely intrigued. “That’s a nice name.” Her eyes lingered you for a minute longer. “You look a lot like him, your father, I mean.”

Her compliment nearly caused you to stop in your tracks to take it in. You’ve never heard something so heartfelt directed to you before. All your life you shaped yourself to be just like your father and it all usually fell on the hushed ears of people who ridiculed you constantly. Yet this one orc who barely knew you spoke of you as if she believed in you. It meant more to you than any transphobic comments ever did.

By the time you two made it back to your quaint village home, it was getting to be the peak of the afternoon and before you knew it, it was time to part with Snatha. You peered over at the orc herself who gently brought the basket from her shoulder to the ground. “Your house looks empty.” She commented.

“Yeah,” You mumbled. “It’s been just me for a while.”

The orc gave a sympathetic frown, realizing what your silence meant. Before she could give a word of comfort, you walked over and gestured to her to come near, close to your height. She obliged and when she was close enough, you granted her a soft kiss on the cheek. You pulled back and she looked back at you, face flushed and eyes wide; baffled.

“Thank you, for everything.” You smile. You would’ve gone and left straight for your house but instead, you took Snatha by the hand gently. “Actually..would you want to join me for dinner? It’d be nice to have someone to share a meal with.”

Her eyes drifted to your hand that softly squeezed hers and back to your hopeful face, a face she couldn’t have resisted even if she really wanted to. Snatha chuckled, “Of course.”

Instead of bringing the tall orc inside like you would’ve done any other sudden visitor, the two of you took to the back of your village hut where steamed meat was the main course tonight. The fire was blazing, crackling with each lick of flame. It was beautiful, you noticed, the way the light of the fire incandescently lit her features. Even if she was practically shoveling the food down her throat, you found it very endearing.

She only left a cleanly picked bone on her plate, leaning back with a hand over her stomach which was without a doubt full. “I haven’t had a meal like that in ages.” Snatha let out a full groan, smiling contently.

Just as you suspected, she must’ve been off either adventuring or maybe in the war before hand, perhaps both but you didn’t think to ask. Instead, you chuckled. “Really? Well, if you’d like, you can always come by here and get one. I’ll just have to remember to get more meat this time around.”

Snatha looked like she really liked the sound of that. Red glowed under her cheeks and while you told yourself it was because of the fire, some part of you suspected that it was more than that. “I’ll just have to take you up on your offer then, but don’t complain once I get stuck to you.” She teased.

You quirked a grin, then chuckled. “What makes you think I will?”

You could only smirk more and laugh as that red color you saw grew brighter and brighter and all she could do is sputter, struggling with what to say to you unexpectedly teasing her back.

After that, the conversation headed in the next direction. Next thing you knew, you were hearing Snatha’s war stories, stories she claimed to be from her own father which you learned died in a war years ago when she was merely a child. Across from you, she was animated on that log of hers as she practically reenacted the stories like it were theater. She was basking in the bravery and bravado of her warrior father, and it only immersed you in. It was easy to imagine the tall brooding orc dawned in warrior clothing atop a stone ledge, blood hungry eyes narrowed before leaping into battle, throwing no caution into the wind.

It was just like how you saw your father.

Slowly the warm hues of the afternoon were replaced by the cool blues and purples of sunset. It surprised you to realize you’ve spent the whole day with this orc and that’s when it disappointed you to realize it was now ending so soon. The two of you stood at the end of the trail where Snatha would depart from you. Before she did, she paused to say something.

Her eyes averted your gaze and she smiled, arm sheepishly rubbing her neck. “Before we say our farewells, I wanted to thank you for a great dinner. It’s one of the best ones I’ve had.”

“Same here.” You agree, also smiling.

Before she could turn to fully walk away, she paused and turned back to you. She looked a little reluctant and sounded a bit nervous. “By the way..I was wondering that, if you aren’t busy, if we could..I don’t know, go out somewhere sometime?” Although nervous, she indeed looked hopeful.

Her proposal surprised you a little. You knew the two of you took to each other well but to have her also feel the same way was surprising but also, you were relieved. Of course you’d love to spend more time with her. With a soft smile, you nodded. “Of course.”

Snatha lit up from her nervous demeanor, also relieved. “Oh! Oh– that, that’s great!” Her tone told you that she was surprised you’d even take up that offer even when you thought you made it clear you liked her. After a silent shared moment, she cleared her throat. “I suppose I will see you in the ‘morrow then, Sir (L/N).” Snatha forced a formal warrior voice that made you laugh.

“See you too, Warrior Snatha.” You gave your best impression of her back, failing at the orc accent you tried to maintain. Afterwards, you again took her by the hand and stood on your tippy toes to jump up and kiss her cheek.

“Safe travels.” You said, leaving Snatha to place a hand to the kissed spot on her cheek and smile.

“You too.”

#monster x reader #monster x human #monster lover #exophilia #writing #reader insert #orc #orc x reader #orc x human

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trudy-shams · 3 years

Text

What we become -Part 11

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Steve had decided to drag you along to see Sharon after you two had your "reunion" of sorts. You had dozed off and on for a few hours after you two had spent considerable time exploring each other, thoroughly.

But honestly, you were still tired and slightly sore and just wanted sleep.A few more hours in Steve's arms would have been nice and you told him as much but he was clearly a man on a mission, insisting he wanted to formally break the news to Sharon after which you two were "not supposed to get out of bed, ever". Steve's words, not yours.

You were not comfortable with the idea of being a part of this confrontation, or "discussion" as Steve said but he insisted that he wanted you to be there, saying there was nothing better than Sharon's corroboration of Steve's side of the story, to clear your head of any lingering doubts. He appeared confident that Sharon won't mind one bit since there was nothing romantic between them and they were just friends, in fact she might be happy as the burden of breaking this alliance off would fall on Steve in front of both families.

He playfully rolled his eyes and dragged you along " for the 4th time sweetheart, there is nothing to worry about, trust me" He gave you a boyish grin and opened the door. Steve had asked Sharon to come to Asgard,the one nearer to his place, Even though it wasn't the same outlet, visiting this place brought back so many memories, most of them happy and quite a few involving Steve.

As if reading your mind, Steve turned around and pecked you on the lips, eyes shining with so much love that you couldn't stop a smile from spreading on your lips. You eyes caught movement behind Steve, spotting Sharon standing up from her sitting position with a frown on her face. Following your lead, Steve turned around and smiled at Sharon, which she hesitantly mirrored.

"What is going on?" Sharon blurted as soon as you two neared her table. She eyed your intertwined fingers and then looked back at up Steve, not making eye contact with you at all.

You just knew this was not going to go as Steve expected.

Steve, oblivious to all this, beamed at you and squeezed your hand before addressing Sharon "Remember Shar, I told you I fell in love long ago but there was no hope for me" Sharon gave no outward response but a twitch in her eye told you she had heard him.

Steve looked back towards you and continued " Well, looks like there is hope after all"

There was a pause where Steve continued beaming at you, Sharon stood there like a statue and you were torn between smiling back at Steve, eyeing Sharon for a reaction and exploring imaginary dirt on your shoes.

You should have asked Steve to do this alone, it was weird accompanying your boyfriend while he was breaking up with his fiance.

God! This sounded so bad with no context.

"What is the meaning of this Steve?" Sharon had tears in her eyes and that is what broke Steve out of his lovesick stupor "you said that to me when I left for fashion school".

You immediately looked between Steve and Sharon while Steve looked like a fish out of water. Opening his mouth several times to say something and then closing.

After a tense few seconds, Steve, finally, spoke "Sharon, I know I never said that to you. Cmon, stop goofing around, my girl here is gonna leave me again" The easygoing air Steve was aiming for did not hit its mark.

There were tears streaming down Sharon's eye "Why do you keep doing this Steve.We are getting married in a few months, please stop this nonsense now. I am not putting up with this anymore, I won't pretend to break up with you just so you could fuck some random gir, again!"

If that wasn't a bucket of cold water, you didn't know what was.

You tried snatching your hand back from Steve but he held on, if anything, his grip tightened

"No, you are not running away from me again" he spoke to you before turning to Sharon " I don't know what game you are playing but you need to stop now. We are not getting married, no date has been announced and it never will and I never asked for your approval to fuck any girl"

You hissed and tried yanking your arm back.

Steve realised what he said "I don't sleep around with random girls sweetheart, that's what I meant"

Sharon interrupted and spoke directly to you now "I don't know what lies he has told you but he has done this exact thing multiple times before. At that time, I let it go because I love him too much and didn't want him to feel tied down but now so close to our wedding, this is unacceptable"

"Sharon,I am warning you. I will call your mother and tell her the truth about the baby if you don't stop fucking lying" Steve was pissed now.

"What baby, waa..Steve what complicated story have you weaved this time. Honestly, I don't care. Come back to me when you are ready to apologise and then we will talk" Sharon grabbed her things and stood upto Steve "..and No, you don't have my permission to fuck her"

Now,that pissed you off. Who the hell did she think she was?

"Too late for that now" You spit at her and she turned to look at you horrified but recovered quickly.

"Great, just great. Another conquest added to the list. Did she ask you to break up with me so you could fuck her the second time. Is she that good a lay? Fine, have it your way. Come to me when you are bored of her" Sharon glared at you and tried rounding Steve to leave but Steve grabbed her arm and pulled out his phone.

"I am calling Mrs. Barned right now if you don't tell y/n the truth"

Sharon scoffed "Sure, go ahead"

Steve sighed " I am sorry Sharon but you have left me with no choice"

Steve dialed her number and put the phone on speaker "If you confess, I will hang up"

Sharon stood expressionless, crossing her arms in front of her.

Mrs. Barnes picked up the phone and she had the same annoying tilt in her voice that Sharon had "Hi Steve, how are you honey"

Steve looked at Sharon for a beat who just raised an eyebrow at him.

"I am good Mrs. Barnes, I have called you to confess something to you"

You realised that everyone in Asgard had gone quiet. Jesus! Every single person in the sparsely crowded bar was looking at you three.

"Oh go ahead honey. What is it?"

"The baby Sharon miscarried wasn't mine. She was in love with some guy named Stephen and he was the father of her child. I agreed to take the blame just to keep her out of trouble" Steve spoke softly on the phone and you were so thankful that he kept his temper in check given the delicate nature of this declaration. He truly was a gentleman.You squeezed his hand softly and tried giving him a small smile, which fell the moment the next words were out of Mrs. Barnes' mouth.

"What baby are you talking about Steve?"

You stopped breathing.

Steve blanched and started saying something on the phone, which you couldn't hear over the ringing in your ears.

Sharon had a smirk on her lips when your eyes met.

There was pindrop silence in Asgard apart from Steve's vehement conversation on the phone.

You wanted the earth to swallow you.

Your cheeks heated up from embarrassment and you started looking at possible exits.

But then a lightbulb went on in your head.

You put your hand over Steve's cheek and saw Sharon tense in the periphery while Steve stopped speaking on the phone and looked at you with pleading eyes.

"Please believe me. I don't know why she..."

"Shh, it's okay baby. Whatever happened in the past doesn't really matter to me. What matters is today and our future, I know you love me and I love you. You can break up with Sharon and we will be on our way"

If Steve was shocked by your words, he didn't show it. He just stayed rooted on the spot, his eyes asking you a million questions at once.

But before he could say something and ruin your plan, exactly what you hoped for, happened.

"What do you mean it doesn't matter, of course it matters. I was pregnant with his baby and it doesn't matter to you. What if the baby was around, would you still say the same thing" Sharon was seething now.

You heard an audible gasp on the other side of the phone and Steve let out a puff of air through his mouth.

Sharon was still looking at you with anger, clearly missing what she had just confessed.

I mean, everyone in the bar collectively gasped but she was still oblivious.

You decided to help her catch up "But Sharon, your mother just said there was no baby" Sharon physically recoiled from you both and started blabbering " I mean, there was no baby. My mom meant there was no baby from Stephan. Of course, there was a baby from Steve..."

"Enough! Just stop. You and your mother are more vicious than I thought"Steve disconnected the phone and turned to Sharon with venom in his eyes "I will tell my family the truth because it looks like your treacherous family knew everything all along. Keep the ring if you want, it means just as much as it meant before,nothing"

He then grabbed your hand and walked out of the bar.

As soon as you two were out of the door, he swung you to face him and hugged you tight "Thank you. Thank you so much for trusting me. Thank you"

You leaned back and cupped his face "It wasn't hard to, I beleived in you" you hugged him again and spoke with your face tucked in his chest "but I am also not stupid, no one would be dumb enought to call someone's parents with such a huge claim if they didn't beleive it to be true, specailly on speaker phone"

You could feel Steve's laugh rumble in his chest while you continued with a grimace" I just wish you would have done this somewhere private. I am 77% sure someone recorded the whole thing"

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

Nat's Wedding

"C'mon Steve, just one more dance" you were pleading with Steve for another dance while he was shaking his head.

Nat's wedding was a dream. Outdoor with the most lavish decor you had ever seen, even on TV.

But now at the reception, everyone was drunk and dancing like crazy.

"I think I have stepped on your toes enough for today" Steve grabbed your arm to pull you into his lap "and I think you need to rest too. I can't wait to get you all alone and help you out of this beautiful dress, can't have you tiring yourself out entirely on the dance floor"

"I am too tired to get the dress off by myself handsome" you said sleepily and grabbed his hair to attack his mouth.

After a few heated moments, Steve pulled away while you chased his mouth with yours " Okaay..no more drinks for you honey. Here, have a glass of water and you are not leaving my sight now" He bopped your nose and passed you a glass of water.

"But I want that fruity tall glass that Wanda has. Wanda, gimmie" you slurred a Wanda made her appearance followed by Vision.

Wanda had surprisingly become one of your good friends. She had filed for divorce from James a few weeks ago, stating that yours & Steve's and Nat & Pietro's love had given her the push she needed to follow her own heart.

"This is orange juice babe, you hate orange juice" She said while sipping on her drink.

"Orange juice sucks. I only like one kinda juice..Steve's" you smiled dopely at him while he shut his eyes and subtly shook his head over Wanda and Vision's loud bark of laughter.

"TMI baby and I think that is our cue to retire for the night" Steve made to get the both of you out of the chair.

"I can't goooo.. it's my sister's wedding, There are things that need to be done. What if she needs me to help her pee" you pouted at Steve.

Why was he looking at your face like that "I love it when he looks at me like that, it's usually wohooo night after this" you whisper yelled at Wanda and gave her an exaggerated wink.

Wanda put her drink down while trying and failing to keep a straight face "Honey, you know Nat has Pietro to help her now and then I am here. You can go off to bed"

"With Steve" you added "I go to bed with Steve, every night, mostly" you then turned to Steve "baby, wohoo night?"

"Honey, with how drunk you are, it will really be a boohoo morning for you" . With that, Steve picked you up bridal style and bid Wanda and Vision good night.

"I can't wait" you said sleepily before grabbing onto Steve's shoulders and hugging him from your position in his arms "I love you"

You felt a pair of lips in your hair and a deep " I love you too baby, so much" from Steve before slowly entering dreamland.

#steve x reader #captain america x reader #Au!steve #pining steve rogers #steve x you

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Teen Tracys

Muse is on a roll today, it seems (and I even managed to get some uni work done!). From a conversation with @janetm74 that started over a discussion about punk!teen Virgil with a green mohawk and Eco-Warrior!teen Gordon and snowballed into, well, something a bit like this.

Random, has not been particularly polished, and I threw in a time skip rather than deal with the serious conversation. Might write that later.

For ages, we’ve got Scott at 21, John’s 19, Virgil’s 17, Gordon’s 13 and Alan’s 9. Three teenagers in the house; uh oh.

Scott loved his brothers. Really, he did. But sometimes, they were just too much. Big brother just didn’t hold the same weight as parent, no matter that he’d helped to raise all of them, and every so often his little brothers remembered that.

“Gordon, no.”

The thirteen-year-old, decked out in nothing but recycled greens, glared up at him with all the self-proclaimed righteousness a teenager could summon. It was a lot.

“Do you know how much pollution is still being pumped into the oceans?” he demanded, not at all cowed by the fact he barely reached Scott’s chest. “They finally stopped all the fossil fuel in the 2020s, and plastic was entirely phased out by 2030, and then the world gave itself a nice pat on the back as though that fixed everything!”

Scott had heard this tirade before. Many, many, times before.

“Yes, Gordon, I know. Preservation of the oceans is important and that’s why this family – and Tracy Industries – does its bit to make sure nothing goes in there that shouldn’t, and is why you take part in charity events to continue to spread awareness. I know.” He didn’t have a problem with any of that, either. No, what he had a problem with were the rallies.

Charity work? Fine. More than fine.

The rallies? Not for an unaccompanied thirteen-year-old boy, and Scott knew they often involved illegally sabotaging places that still produced pollution. No matter how well-meaning Gordon was, it was Scott’s duty as big brother and guardian not to let him get tangled up in that.

“Clearly you don’t know if you think that’s enough!” Gordon retorted, and Scott sighed.

“Gordon, I know more needs to be done, but it needs to be done legally, and not result in you getting thrown in a lockup, okay? You’ve got that charity dinner with Lady Penelope next weekend, remember?”

“I can do both!” Gordon protested. “Scott, I have to go! It’s important for the planet!”

“Well it’s important to me that you don’t end up-”

Bright green in his periphery killed the rest of the sentence as he turned his head to see his normally sensible, reliable brother looking anything but.

“Virgil, you are not going out looking like that.”

“I can go out looking however I want, Scott.” Seventeen years old and the teenage attitude Gordon was showing seemed to have infected his next oldest brother at last. Virgil had been such a quiet, low-effort teenager – even more so than John, whose rebellion had been entirely digital and Scott was quite frankly afraid of what he might have done – until now.

Now, the punk phase had hit, and apparently the colour of the day was green. Vibrant, radioactive touch-me-and-die green. In a mohawk.

Scott tried to be the supportive big brother, he really did, but there were lines and the all-leather ensemble complete with mohawk and numerous piercings were pushing it. Worst of all was the noise-maker he called a trike that he’d gone and bought last week despite being explicitly told not to. That had crossed the line. There had been much shouting. Virgil refused to return it, and spent more time in the garage tinkering with it than with his family now.

Gordon considered it an affront, and Scott wasn’t entirely certain it wasn’t going to be a target for the so-called rally if Gordon managed to join it.

“Virgil, please.”

“I want green hair!”

They’d caught Alan’s attention. Great.

“No, Alan. You are not dyeing your hair green.”

Realising both green-themed brothers – if for two very different reasons – were both trying to slip out while Alan played distraction, Scott backed up to the front door and blocked it with his body.

“Virgil did!”

“And if his hair dye ends up in your hair, his entire new ensemble is heading straight for the recycler,” Scott growled. Three little brothers, all at once. It was enough to give him a headache. Gordon shifted, a shift that meant trouble, and he remembered the current household feud. “Gordon, if Virgil’s hair dye ends up in Alan’s hair, no more charity events until you’re eighteen.”

“But Scott!”

He didn’t even care which of the three said it. It could have been all of them. Why couldn’t they go through teenage rebellion from the sanctity of their bedrooms, like John did?

“I wouldn’t say green’s your colour anyway, Allie.” As though summoned by Scott’s thoughts, the fourth little brother materialised. Finally, some sanity- “how about we try black, or a dark blue, to match space? Maybe Virgil can help make it a galaxy?”

“John!”

Betrayal. Betrayal of the highest order, but Scott refused to get dramatic about it because he had three drama queens in the house already and that would only encourage them. Even if the smirk John sent his way made him want to throw something. Or scream.

Or both.

With four brothers ganging up on him – two because they’d hit the rebellion phase, one because his brothers were, and one just because he could – Scott knew he wasn’t going to win this with his sanity intact.

“Alan, no, you are not dyeing your hair any colour. Gordon, you are not going to that rally. Virgil, you are not going out like that. John, if you’re not going to be helpful, scat.”

“But Scott!”

That was all four of them. In chorus. If half of them weren’t feuding he’d think the whole thing was choreographed. Looking at John, he still wasn’t convinced the ginger genius hadn’t managed to orchestrate it. He was still smirking.

Scott needed to pull out the big guns.

“If you four won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to Grandma.”

The woman was in the garden, taking a well-deserved nap away from five grandsons. Scott didn’t want to disturb her, but he knew when he was beaten. Two brothers, he could handle. Three, tough but doable. Four, when one was deliberately stirring the pot? Even Scott had limits.

Any hopes he might have had that the mere threat would be enough died when three defiant – and one amused, damn you, John – faces stared at him.

He pulled out his phone, gave them one more moment to change their minds of their own accord, before making the call.

“Scott?”

“Sorry to interrupt you, Grandma, but can you come back inside?”

“On my way. What have the trouble-makers done this time?”

Scott gave her a brief rundown, interspersed with varying levels of protest from each brother as it reached their turn. By the time he was done, the woman was inside the house, regarding all five of them.

Three faces were starting to quail. Alan in particular looked on the verge of tears, but no teenage rebellion was stopping Virgil being a Grandma’s boy and even Gordon had a healthy respect for her tongue. John continued to look far too smug, and Scott’s internal alarm bells were ringing.

Still, Grandma was here now. Grandma would sort his brothers out and Scott could get a blissful half hour – maybe even an hour, if he was lucky – without some sort of sibling drama.

“Well, I’m not seeing any problems here.”

What.

Grandma walked straight up to Virgil and started plucking at his jacket, deftly dodging the metallic spikes as she adjusted it on his shoulders. “When I was your age, it was all pink. Pink leather, pink hotpants.” She winked in Scott’s direction and the urge to scream bubbled up in his chest. “I dyed my hair to match.”

At least his brothers seemed to be as dumbstruck as him about that, even if Scott was watching his last bastion of support crumble before his eyes.

“Your Grandpa had the most amazing Harley,” she continued. “Ooh, what a beauty. Such a smooth ride. He really knew how to treat a girl, your Grandpa.”

Nope. Absolutely nope. Scott needed brain bleach, and an escape from the madhouse, preferably before he screamed.

With a hoarse yell that was only a yell, and not a scream at all, he yanked the front door open, all but ran through it, and slammed it so hard a shingle slid from the roof.

He stared at it for a moment before surging into a run, past the garage and that damn trike, over the front gate, and headed straight for… who cared, as long as it was away. Right then, the house could collapse or burn to the ground for all he really cared.

Scott tried to be tolerant, he tried to be fair to all of his brothers, but sometimes it was just too much to handle.

***

“Scott?”

He’d ended up sitting in a tree after running all through the woodland until his legs burned. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to stop his grandmother finding him when she wanted to.

“Are you ready to come home, dear?” she called up. He sighed and let his head thud against the trunk.

“Am I going to be ganged up on by my brothers over stupid things if I do?” he asked. “Because I think I’ve had enough of that.”

“Your brothers and I had a nice long chat, and we’ve put some new house rules in place,” she told him. “Gordon has agreed no more rallies and Alan no longer wants his hair dyed.”

“And Virgil and John?” he asked warily.

“Virgil has agreed not to provoke Gordon any more, but you two need to talk about policing each other’s clothes, young man.” Scott winced. “As for John, he knows he went too far, but just like with Virgil, you are going to have to talk to each other like the reasonable young men you are.” There was no reproach in her tone, but Scott felt scolded all the same.

He didn’t want to go home, but if Grandma was promising no more carnage… Scott could never bring himself to leave his brothers for too long. Reluctantly, he eased himself out of the tree, swinging from the last branch to the ground below.

“I know you don’t like what Virgil’s done to his hair,” Grandma said, looping her arm through his. “But remember it’s his hair, not yours.”

“It’s not that,” Scott admitted. “He can do what he wants with it; it’s that trike. He can’t wear a helmet with his hair all spiked up like that!”

“Then you should tell him that’s why you disapprove.” Grandma was, as always, full of logic. “None of you boys can read minds, you know. You have to talk to each other.”

“I know,” Scott sighed. “Sorry, Grandma, I messed up.”

“You’re just worried about them.” She squeezed his arm fondly. “They’ll appreciate it when they’re older.”

“Will they?”

“They’re not the first teenage boys I’ve raised,” she reminded him. “There’s nothing you and your brothers have done that your father and uncle Lee didn’t do already.”

“…Even the punk mohawk?”

“I still have the photos.”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #alan tracy #john tracy #grandma tracy #teen tracys #thunderfluff

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angelinasway · 3 years

Text

Regaining Hope

Pairing: Clark Kent/Buffy Summers

Warnings/Triggers:Torture, Violence, Mention's of Major Character Death, Bad Language, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut

Summary: Takes place during Man of Steel. When Buffy discovers the U.S Military trying to keep quiet about an object buried in a twenty thousand year old glacier, she immediately thinks the worst. However, when a surprise visit to the Canadian Arctic puts her in the path of a mysterious stranger her whole world is changed forever.

[TTH] [AO3] [FFN]

Authors Notes: Thank you all for your amazing reviews. You guys have been inspiring. I'm gonna add one more warning to this story because I got a review on FFN that makes me feel I need too. Even though It's a warning that I never knew I would need to put considering who we're talking about here. So here it is, there is Angelus bashing in this. I'm trying to keep my biased about Angel to a minimum, but I wasn't aware that Angelus needed a disclaimer too, so there it is. As for this chapter, there will be a lot to unpack here. I'm also going with the idea that one of Clark's weaknesses is magic, so keep that in mind as you read this. Thank you guys again so much, your kind words have really helped me keep focused on the story, I truly do appreciate each and everyone who took the time to review. Thanks for giving this a chance I hope you all enjoy reading. Also thank you to my wonderful beta Hipkarma for giving this chapter a look for me. Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter Two

It took Buffy less than a minute to find the recently constructed tunnel. It wasn’t snowing and she easily found a set of large footprints heading along a rocky ledge. The glacial ice was still steaming from whatever had been used to cut through it when she found the opening. The edges were smoothed as if a giant heated drill had ground and melted the ice into nothing. There were hardly any puddles to speak of, and it was quite clear that whatever did this, wasn't done by any machine that she knew of on Earth. In fact, if she had been dealing with anything else she would have immediately thought this was some sort of magic. Though to be fair, she still wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t.

"Why do I have a feeling I'm going to regret this?" She grumbled quietly, as she stepped inside and slowly made her way through the frozen tunnel.

Her breath came out in large puffs of fog, adrenaline masking the cold she should be feeling. Luckily, there was just enough light to make out where she was going with her enhanced vision. It was a slow journey, but when she finally reached the opening, she gasped in awe. ‘Oh yeah, this thing is definitely out of this world. It’s absolutely massive, still partially covered in thousands of years of hard ice.’

She noticed a ramp leading onto the ship dripping with recently melted ice and cautiously followed it up. She stepped onto the glass-like metal flooring of the hull and noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned in time to see a strange looking floating creature moving into her periphery.

She froze. It looked way too much like a facesucker for her comfort zone. She took a step back, tossed her pack and dropped into a defensive stance before reaching behind her to unsheathe her scythe. The mouth, or body, or whatever the hell it was, started to open and she stepped back even further.

"Dammit, I hate it when I'm right." She muttered.

So focused on its head, she wasn’t paying attention when the next second its spike like tail whipped out slicing deeply into the side of her abdomen. Buffy cried out in surprised pain, feeling the unmistakable sensation of hot and sticky blood soaking through her shirt and down the leg of her jeans. She stumbled backward, but was able to keep her footing even as the thing tried to swipe at her again.

Her eyes narrowed at the thing. “All right, now you’ve really pissed me off,” she growled. The pain of her injury taking a back seat to her need to survive.

It screeched at her, attempting to swipe at her again. She dodged its attack, rolling right underneath of it and coming up with a full powered swing of her scythe, only with the wrong side. The flat end made contact, the thing slamming hard into the inner wall of the ship. It screeched again, as sparks flew from it and her eyes widened in realization.

“It’s a robot,” she murmured in surprise.

It came at her again, this time shooting some sort of blue ball of energy at her. She dodged, flipping away from it to create enough distance so she could charge the thing. Maybe take it by surprise. She never got the chance however, because by the time she had turned back around, her mystery man was already there and had the droid between his large hands. He struggled with it for a minute and Buffy stepped forward ready to help him when the metal suddenly gave under his assault. His hands crushed the droid like a soda can and he threw what was left aside, it crashing into the wall of the ship with a loud bang.

They stared at each other a long time. Man, she really hoped he wasn’t evil because right now with the injury she was sporting there was absolutely no way she could fight him. Especially, with the show of strength he just performed. The reminder of said injury brought back the pain in full and she shakily slid to her knees, scythe falling from her hand.

"Thanks," she breathed gratefully, her eyes falling shut as she used her hand to stem off the blood flow as best she could.

"You're welcome." He said, the deep baritone of his voice making her shiver. She felt him move closer, before he added, "You're hemorrhaging, the droid nicked your abdominal artery."

Buffy nodded, wincing as she used one hand to undo her belt and slide it through the loops in her jeans. "I know." She said shakily. "Not exactly my first rodeo."

She felt him move closer still, crouching down in front of her. Her trembling hands trying to clumsily wrap her belt around her torso so she could stop the bleeding.

"I could cauterize the wound for you, if you'd like." He said quietly, worry lacing his voice.

Buffy finally managed to put the end through the loop in that moment, and yanked the belt tight. She fell backwards, her back hitting the cold metal wall. She whimpered as tears of pain filled her eyes, breathing slowly through her nose until the pain began to ebb away. When she finally could speak again, she met his eyes, a small smile gracing her lips at the concern she saw in them. "Thank you,” she said sincerely, “but it’s not necessary, I heal fast." She must have lost more blood than she thought however, because her next words surprised even herself. "Just need to slowdown the bleeding so my Slayer healing kicks in. Don't want to end up a corpse on your floor for the next nine hours."

He immediately frowned in confusion, "I don't understand?"

Buffy chuckled humorlessly, "Yeah..." She coughed, grimacing at the taste of blood in her mouth. “Neither do I.” She sighed, and changed the subject, not really wanting to go there at the moment. “Gotta name, or do I just need to keep referring to you as handsome stranger in my head.” ‘Okay, yep, I definitely lost too much blood.’

He looked away at her words, partially because he seemed to be genuinely shy and partially because he seemed torn on answering her. She could relate to that. She understood what it was like to need to hide who you were from people. She was never very good at it, but she remembered very clearly the fear of what people would think of her if they knew she was a superhuman freak.

“Hey,” She said, reaching a hand out to place on his arm. Thinking better of it when she noticed the blood coating it. “It’s okay, I get it.” He looked up, meeting her eyes and she shrugged. “I was never very good at the secret identity gig, but I certainly remember what it was like to need to hide who I was.” She chuckled, “Believe it or not, the U.S Government thought the Slayer was a myth until I caught them playing in my backyard.”

“I still don’t know what that is.” He said quietly, “A Slayer, I mean. I tried finding out from Jed, but all he said was that you work for an organization that hunts and kills monsters.” He paused, taking a deep breath, before asking. “Am I the type of…Do you kill people like me?”

He was being serious. She knew. But she couldn’t help messing with him a little. The truth of the matter was, she had no intention of going head-to-head with him even if she was at her best. If he was truly evil he would have acted already, especially with her weakened state. She also doubted he would have offered to help her heal or look quite as worried for her safety as he did.

She put her most serious face on and pretended to contemplate it for a minute. “Hmm, well you’ll probably need to pass my required oral exam to be sure.” Her eyes suddenly widened at what that must have sounded like, especially after the handsome comment. ‘Okay, this is the last time I’m losing this much blood in front of a hot guy and not just letting myself bleed out. Apparently, I really don’t know how to shut up when I’m this anemic.

She noticed his cheeks reddening and the look of shock on his face, so she blurted out the first question that came to mind. “Do you eat babies?”

A horrified look of disgust quickly replaced the shocked look, “What? No!”

“Do you like to bathe in the blood of the innocent?” She could tell by the suddenly offended look on his face that he still hadn’t caught on that she was messing with him.

“No!” he said, an irritated frown marring his face.

“Do you worship any deities that require you to make a human sacrifice yearly, biyearly, monthly, bimonthly, weekly, or biweekly?” Now he just looked annoyed, and it was getting harder for Buffy to keep a straight face.

“Are these questions actually necessary?” He asked, the annoyance clear in his voice.

An amused smile broke across her face, “Are you asking if these things actually exist, or if I actually think you do any of them?”

His look of annoyance quickly melted into one of amusement, the corner of his mouth turning up and a soft look coming into his blue eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before,” He admitted. His eyes roaming over her face. He seemed to come to a decision in that moment, because his next words were, “My name…my real one, it’s Clark.”

“Clark,” Buffy repeated, testing the name on her tongue. A small smile playing at her lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Clark before.” Her eyes studied his face. “It suits you. I would tell you my name, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you already know it." She gestured with her chin. "And judging by the way your eyes keep seemingly monitoring my injury and heart rate, I'm guessing you have some kind of enhanced vision." She grinned at his stunned look, and shrugged. "So, let's see," she held up her hand counting off what his superpowers were, "Enhanced vision," she held up a finger. "Super strength," she held up another. "Those are two of the five senses." A third finger came up, "Enhanced hearing is probably the third." She frowned in thought for a moment, before saying, "Though you don’t strike me as someone who needs to stalk his prey, I’m betting you have that annoying ability to smell everything even if you don’t need to use it. So that’s four.”

Clark slipped down to where he was fully seated, blinking in surprise. "How…?” He swallowed, shaking his head an impressed look coming over his face. “Did anyone ever tell you, you're incredibly observant?"

"Kinda have to be in my line of work.” She shrugged, adding, “Though you did set off my spidey senses like a roman candle. A girl can’t really help but take notice when you register in the beyond-godlike-powerful status.” At his confused and worried look, she elaborated. “It’s part of the whole Slayer package, basically a long time ago a bunch of shamans used the essence of a demon to create a warrior. They chained a young girl to the earth and imbued her with it so she would have the strength and skill to fight all the wonderful things that go bump in the night.” She sighed, “For a long time there was only one girl at a time. One dies, another is called. That’s how it worked.” She gave him a small smile and nodded, “Until about ten years ago that is, me and some friends changed the rules.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. “So, there you have it, Clark. I’m the longest living One girl in all the world with the gift and skill to fight the vampires, the demons, and forces of darkness. Except, I’m not the only one anymore.”

He blinked in surprise, studying her face more closely. “How old are you?”

Buffy bit her lip, not quite sure how to answer that without bringing up her resurrection. She sighed meeting his eyes, there wasn’t much she could do about it now, “Thirty-two.”

Clark sucked in a breath of surprise, “How is it that you—”

“Haven’t aged since I was twenty-one,” Buffy finished for him. When he nodded, she avoided his eyes while saying, “That’s kinda what happens when your friends resurrect you with a powerful spell and screw up the balance between good and evil.” She shrugged looking anywhere but at his face, that old familiar longing for heaven playing at her soul. She loved Willow. She really did, and after the whole Angelus incident they had grown much closer than they’d been in years. The resurrection and the price that Buffy was still paying however, was far too great to ever fully forgive. “Long story short, I can’t age anymore and if I die, I can’t stay dead.”

She coughed, the pain of the act making her vision narrow a bit. She could feel that her body was well on its way to mending itself but she had lost way too much blood. The familiar fogginess of a healing sleep was prickling her eyes and she widened them shaking her head to try and clear it. Cold dread filling her at the very thought of falling into a coma like sleep and having to relive all the crap she’s been through. It was one of the most horrifying feelings ever, to be trapped in her worst nightmares with no means of escape until her body fully healed. In a desperate attempt to keep herself awake she reached out and grasped Clark’s hand.

****<S>**<S>****

Clark watched her eyes widen in fear, before she reached out with a bloody hand to grasp his. “Please,” She pleaded. “Please don’t let me fall asleep.” He could see the beginning of tears of desperation prickling her eyes, “I know I need to, but…but sometimes it’s worse than dying.” She sighed and leaned her head back against the ship hull. "It’s...it’s okay if you can't. Just...just try."

He squeezed her hand, his heart filling with so much sympathy for this brave young woman. She hadn’t shown any true fear until this moment. Not when she had fought the drone, not when she watched him destroy it, not even when she was binding her own wound and already figured out a few of his abilities. She had even made a few jokes at his expense, but she had done them in such a way that he couldn't really take offense. She was an enigma to him; out of all the humans he'd ever met—besides his own parents, she had to be the least judgmental of them all. The only thing that seemed to truly scare her was her own memories, and that truly did break his heart. No one should be that afraid of their own past.

“How do you want me to help?” He whispered, as he watched her eyes begin to droop before flying open again.

“Tell me about yourself.” She whispered, her words coming out a bit slurred. “W-where are you from? How long have you been on Earth?”

He shifted, getting more comfortable before saying. “I grew up in Kansas, in a little town called Smallville. Beyond that, I don’t actually know. My ship landed on my parent’s farm when I was just a baby. They took me in and raised me as their own.” He told her a little bit more, about the farm, about some of the life lessons his dad tried to instill in him, why he was afraid of anyone finding out what he was, why he was on this ship in the first place.

Buffy smiled dreamily and hummed, “Sometimes I forget there’s still good people in the world. Sounds to me like you got really lucky with who found you.” She yawned, her words becoming more slurred. “Once I’m healed, I can help you look for answers.”

He blinked in surprise, a grateful smile coming on his lips “Thank you.” He said sincerely, adding, “And I did, my dad could be pretty hard on me at times, but—”

“He was scared of anyone finding out what you are.” She finished, her voice growing softer and more distant. He squeezed her hand lightly and her eyes flew open as she shook her head again trying to force the sleep away. She continued, as if she hadn’t almost just lost consciousness. “Must have been pretty lonely, not having anyone to confide in.”

“It was.” He agreed quietly, his eyes scanned her brain activity and seeing she was quickly losing her battle against sleep, he added, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep you awake much longer.”

She smiled sadly, her eyes drooping to mere slits. “I know, worth a try though.” She sighed through her teeth. “Just do me a favor, don’t…don’t let me wake up alone. It’s worse w-when I–”

She never finished, as her body and mind finally succumbed to a much-needed rest. Her heartrate dropped to what would be considered dangerous for a normal human. The blood slowing in her veins and allowing for the natural healing process that came with her abilities.

He watched her for a long time. Too afraid to move for fear that if he left her side her heart would suddenly stop. Oh, he knew what she told him was the truth. It was just difficult for someone like him to believe. Spending most of your life being different and watching people die. Knowing you could do something but unable to for fear of the world finding out what you really are. It made him feel helpless more times than not.

Clark had spent a long time picking his battles. Deciding who to save based off of his ability to get away with it. He hated not being able to help everyone, and he hated even more that humans as a whole were so easily guided by their fears of the unknown. It was more than that though, there was so much pain and suffering. He could hear it even now if he focused. Screams, cries for help that nobody heeded, laughing cruelty and hysterical sobbing. It was all there, the sounds of the world were filled with so much hate, anger, and sadness it was deafening.

Maybe that’s why he was so taken with this beautiful girl in front of him. She didn't seem to possess the fears that so many of the people of this world did. The fact that she knew what he was and hadn't so much as blinked in surprise completely threw him. He knew it most likely was due to the life she lived and what she was, but it was such a refreshing moment. He reached out with his free hand and brushed a loose blonde strand away from her cheek. She was also incredibly sad and lonely. It was as plain as day in her eyes and on her face. She was worn down by whatever she had been through to the point that he imagined she tried not to sleep. The dark circles he could see under her eyes attested to that much.

He scanned her injury again, relieved to see the artery had healed almost completely. He sighed and let his eyes wander for the first time since he noticed she was hurt, spotting a discarded backpack near the entrance of the ship. He frowned, scanning its contents before rolling his eyes in annoyance. There was a first aid kit inside. ‘Why didn’t she tell him?’

Clark retrieved the pack and proceeded to dress her wound as best he could, disinfecting then using gauze and medical tape to secure a makeshift bandage. He undid the belt across her torso, no longer worried about her bleeding out.

He noticed her discarded weapon next. The strange looking axe he had seen in her travel bags. A child like curiosity he didn’t even know he still possessed came over him and he picked it up. It was surprisingly light and well balanced, the end of the handle itself was cleverly carved into a stake. He swung it a few times, smiling to himself at the way it easily sliced through air. He ran his finger gently along the blade and hissed in surprise, dropping the axe and taking several steps back, staring at the blade in a mixture of horrified disbelief. Blood welled up in the cut in his finger and he couldn’t help but study the red substance in fascination. He looked from the small cut to the axe several times, not quite processing what just happened.

“There is an energy source unknown to the Kryptonian Archives imbedded into the elements of the weapon.” A new voice spoke from behind Clark.

He quickly turned, coming face to face with an older man wearing robes. “Who…who are you?”

“There will be time for that later Kal El. First, we must get you and your friend away from human meddling. We’ve much to discuss.”

The man disappeared the next instant and Clark heard the engines fire on. He reached for the pack, throwing it over his shoulder. He picked Buffy up next hoisting her into his arms and grabbing her weapon at the same time. He didn’t really like the idea of it being near him considering what it was capable of, but he didn’t think she would like to wake without it nearby.

****<S>**<S>****

She was on the tower again.

"Dawnie listen, listen to me. I love you. I will always love you, but this is the work that I have to do. Tell Giles... tell him I figured it out and...and that I'm okay. Give my love to my friends. You have to take care of them now. You have to take care of each other. You have to be strong." Buffy reached out her hand cupping her sister cheek, tears welling in her eyes. "Dawn the hardest thing in this world...is to live in it. Be brave. Live...for me"

She turned running, not giving her sister another chance to object, and as she dove off the platform another voice penetrates her mind.

"I am your father Kal. Or at least a shadow of him. His consciousness."

Another voice, this one more familiar to her. "And Kal? That's my name?"

*FLASH*

She couldn’t breathe, everything smelt of decay and earth. She cried out in fear, paper thin skin breaking on hands as they assaulted her tomb. Satin tore as ragged nails snagged, wood splintered as her hands scrabbled for an escape, any escape. Dirt and soil rained down on her and she cried out again, choking and gagging as her mouth filled with the substance. She had to get out, had to push through. If she didn’t, she would never get out. She climbed, pushing through packed earth with strength. Strength, she remembered, she had strength. Always meant to be strong. Not allowed to break, because breaking means death.

The voice was back, the one from before, or was it after. She didn't know. She listened; it was easier to listen than to think of where she was. To remember the truth. She broke the surface, vomiting on the ground and squeezed her eyes shut forcing herself to listen to the voices, both of them soothing and quiet.

“You came from Krypton. A world with a much harsher environment than Earth’s. Long ago, in an era of expansion, our race spread out through the stars, seeking new worlds to settle upon. This scout ship was one of thousands launched into the void. We built outposts on other planets, using great machines to reshape environments to our needs. For one hundred thousand years our civilization flourished, accomplishing wonders”.

“What happened?

“Artificial population control was established. The outposts and space exploration were abandoned. We exhausted our natural resources, as a result our planet’s core became unstable. Eventually our military leader, General Zod, attempted a coup. But by then it was too late. Your mother and I foresaw the coming calamity, and we took certain steps to ensure your survival.”

Mommy, she had a mommy once. Her eyes opened focusing on her headstone and she screamed.

*FLASH*

She walked into the living room and froze. Her mom was on the couch unmoving, eyes opened. She remembered this. Her legs carried her over to the couch, but she didn’t panic, not like before. She fell to her knees grasping her mother’s cold hand. Tears welled in her eyes as she studied the lifeless face. “I’m so sorry mommy.” She whispered. “I should have been here. I’m so sorry.”

“Why don’t you put her in one of the resting chambers.” A voice said, causing Buffy to turn away from her mother’s body. Her eyes searching for the source.

“She asked me not to leave her alone.” A familiar voice replied. Why did she know that voice?

“Very well.”

*FLASH*

There was a leaky pipe somewhere in the factory. She could hear the drip…drip…drip as she stared in shock at what her own hands had done. The mutilated vampire on the table was barely alive. She had made sure that she had taken everything from him but his heart. She wanted to save that for last.

Her hands began to tremble in fear of herself, the blade she’d been using to carve him up slipping from her grasp. She stumbled over to the table on weak legs, reaching behind her and pulling out her stake.

“I guess you won after all.” She whispered, before driving it deep into his heart.

When the dust settled, she fell to her knees and vomited, unable to move. The voices were back and she closed her eyes trying to focus on the words.

“This is a Genesis Chamber. All Kryptonians were conceived in chambers such as this. Every child was designed to fulfill a predetermined role in our society; as a worker, a warrior, a leader and so on. Your mother and I believed Krypton lost something precious, the element of choice, of chance. What if a child dreamed of becoming something other than what society had intended for him or her? What if a child aspired to something greater? You were the embodiment of that belief, Kal, Krypton’s first natural birth in centuries. That’s why we risked so much to save you.”

“Why didn’t you come with me?”

“We couldn’t, Kal. No matter how much we wanted to, no matter how much we loved you. Your mother Lara and I were a product of the failures of our world as much as Zod was. We were tied to its fate.”

“So, I’m alone.”

Alone, just like her.

*FLASH*

She couldn’t move. All she could do was stare. Her Watcher was dead, his neck bent at an odd angle. Her legs went out on her and she fell to the ground as the sounds of battle played out around her.

“Buffy!” A familiar voice called; one she hadn’t heard in a long time. “Buffy, love, we gotta go.”

“But…but Giles?” She whispered weakly.

“I know Slayer, I know.” He sighed sadly, as he reached down and hauled her to her feet. “But he’s already gone. We can’t help him anymore. We need to get out of here, Red set the whole place ablaze.”

She looked up meeting bright blue eyes, “Spike?” She asked in confusion, before an arrow pierced her back.

*FLASH*

They were trapped. The wards broken enough to smoke them out, but not enough for them to leave.

“I’m not leaving you!” She argued.

“Bloody hell, why do you have to be the most difficult chit in the bloody universe! We don’t know if you can even survive fire and I’m sure as hell not risking it!” Spike yelled.

“Well, I know you can’t survive fire so I sure as hell am not leaving you to die alone!” She snarled. “We did this already, remember!”

He roared in frustration, kicking a nearby chair into the wall and it shattered into kindling. “I won’t let you die!”

“You don’t have a choice!” She fired back.

He stared at her in disbelief, before his expression melted into passionate rage. “The hell I don’t!” And then he grabbed her by the shoulders and smashed his lips against hers.

It only took a few seconds for her to respond and she melted into him. Her mouth opening, tongues caressing. She moaned, bringing him closer to her, remembering their dance, missing it.

He pulled away with a gasp, both of them panting for breath. “Now you listen to me! I love you; do you hear. I never stopped and never will. I will not watch you die. So, if today is my day to die, I’ll be damned if he gets to choose how.” And then he was kissing her again.

Unbeknownst to her he activated her emergency portal. The one that only allowed Slayers to travel through. He walked her backwards, without breaking contact and before she realized it, they were both inside. She pulled back in shock as she realized where they were. The familiar feeling of being sucked into nothing filling her. She screamed as she felt him dust.

*FLASH*

The abandoned home smelt like old urine and vomit, but she was much too tired and weak to care. She didn’t remember the last time she ate or drink anything, not that it really mattered. She was starting to become convinced she couldn’t die this way. It didn’t matter though, nothing did. She was a monster, just like her prey. Make a monster to fight a monster, that’s what the shaman did.

She was filthy, her hair greasy and limp, her eyes dull and lost, dirt coated her face and hands. What was the point of life if all it ever caused you was pain? She just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up, or maybe just melt into the disgusting mattress she was laying on and forget that life existed. She had lost all hope, in fact she didn’t remember the last time she felt it. Had she ever? She heard the voices again, focusing in, trying to pull herself out of this pit of despair.

“No. You are as much a child of earth now as you are of Krypton. You can embody the best of both worlds. A dream your mother and I dedicated our lives to preserve. The people of earth are different than us, it’s true. But ultimately, I believe that’s a good thing. They won’t necessarily make the same mistakes we did. Not if you guide them, Kal. Not if you give them hope. That’s what this symbol means. The symbol of the house of El means hope. Embodied within that hope is the fundamental belief in the potential of every person to be a force for good. That’s what you can bring them. You will give the people of earth an ideal to strive towards. They will race behind you, they will stumble, they will fall. But in time, they will join you in the sun, Kal. In time, you will help them accomplish wonders.”

Buffy clung on to the words, trying to pull herself free from the dream. A man of hope, a symbol of goodness. She needed that, she desperately needed goodness and hope. She was close to breaking through the surface.

She heard Clark–now she remembered his voice, “Why am I so different from them?”

“Earth’s sun is younger and brighter than Krypton’s was. Your cells have drunk in its radiation, strengthening your muscles, your skin, your senses. Earth’s gravity is weaker, yet its atmosphere is more nourishing. You’ve grown stronger here than I ever could imagine. The only way to know how strong is to keep testing your limits.”

****<S>**<S>****

Buffy awoke with a gasp, her hands scrambling against the chest she was nestled against. The memories of her past still playing out in technicolor and surround sound.

"Hey, hey," A soothing voice said, gently lowering her to her feet. "It's okay, you're okay."

She stumbled away. Her eyes still not able to focus. The trembling in her limbs causing her to fall on all fours. She dry-heaved as a broken sob tore from her lips. She felt a warm hand gently rub her back, and she closed her eyes enjoying the comforting feeling.

"Will she be alright?” A new voice asked, the one from her dream.

“I don’t know.” She heard Clark answer, panic clear in his voice. “Buffy are you okay?”

"No," She answered, swallowing back another sob, breathing slowly through her nose. "But I will be, just…just give me a minute."

Just then a swirling portal opened up and an incredibly pissed off Witch in straight up Eskimo attire stepped out. She took one look at the blood covering Buffy and the distressed look on her face and came to a completely wrong conclusion. Her eyes went black and she snarled, “What the hell did you do to my friend, you son of a bitch!”

“No!” Buffy shouted as purple tendrils of magic shot from her friend’s fingers, hitting Clark square in the chest and knocking him on his back. He groaned in pain rolling onto his side in a fetal position. Buffy was up the next instant, charging Willow and breaking the spell.

“No Wills,” She panted grabbing ahold of her friend. “He’s a friendly.”

Her friend’s angry eyes faded back to green and she turned on Buffy, breaking her hold. “A friendly,” She said lowly, her eyes narrowing. “A friendly! So, what, you meet tall dark and powerful over there and think, ‘Oh, wouldn’t it be a great idea to fly away with him in a spaceship to the North Pole?’ Do you have any idea how worried we were?”

Buffy frowned in confusion, “The North Pole? Fly?” She turned and looked at Clark in bewilderment. “You flew the ship?”

He shook his head, slowly getting back to his feet. “No,” He said, his voice coming out strained.

“I’m afraid, that was my idea.” A fatherly gentleman in robes said. “I didn’t want the people of Earth to commandeer the ship. I did not realize you had other methods of finding us.”

“Most humans don’t.” Buffy agreed, moving to check and see how hurt Clark was. “Willow’s special.”

She ran her hands down Clark’s chest looking for any serious damage. Thankful when she could find none. “You okay?” She asked him quietly, at his nod, she sighed. “Sorry about that. I have over protective friends.”

His lips quirked, “I noticed.” His eyes sparkled a bit. “It’s kind of funny actually. I’ve gone my whole life thinking nothing could hurt me physically and after just a few hours of meeting you, I find two things. That crazy looking axe of yours and as it turns out, your friend.”

Buffy’s eyes widened in disbelief at his words. “Wait, go back. Like nothing?”

He shrugged, “I had an oil rig fall on me once while I was rescuing some people. It managed to knock me out.”

Okay, so not just superstrength, more like godlike strength. She suspected as much with the vibes she got off of him, but it was still almost too much to believe. “Define what an oil rig falling on you means?” She said a bit light headed from the thought of just how strong that could be.

He cleared his throat, looking at the ground bashfully. “Well, it was on fire and the workers were trapped. Fire doesn’t hurt me, so I was able to get to them and get through the steel door they had locked themselves behind. I got them out and onto the helicopter, when the tower started to collapse. I was able to hold it up long enough for them to get away before the steel melted and the whole thing came down on top of me.”

Buffy looked at him in absolute wonder. “That’s…Holy shit!”

“Wait,” Willow swallowed, her face losing color. “Did this happen last year?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, eyeing Willow suspiciously.

“Oh Gods, I think I may have just attacked the Power’s new Champion.” Willow breathed, looking like she might actually faint.

Buffy frowned in confusion, “Wills, what are you talking about?”

Willow swallowed, looking suspiciously guilty. “About a year and a half ago me and Wes were digging through the old archives. We…we stumbled on a prophecy, a…a prophecy about a Champion. It said he will have the powers of a god with the soul of a man, but he will be neither.” Her eyes met Clark’s. “We came looking for you after we heard about the oil rig, we umm…Well, we were going to offer you a job, see if you were the real deal.” She shook her head, “But you had already disappeared.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Buffy asked, her eyes moving between Clark’s stunned expression and Willow’s nervous one. ‘How could they keep something like that from me?’

If anything, Willow looked even more guilty now. A sure sign that Buffy was not going to be pleased with her next words. “We umm,” Willow fidgeted with the sleeves of her coat, not meeting Buffy’s eyes. “We decided not to tell you because you…well, umm…you’re kinda in it too.”

“What the hell, Willow!” Buffy reeled as if slapped. “And you didn’t think telling me was a good idea?”

“W-we wanted to be sure. A-and there’s some other stuff in there. Stuff we thought might seriously wig you.” Willow said nervously.

Buffy raised an eyebrow, not at all impressed with the explanation. “Such as?”

At that moment a look of relief crossed Willow’s face, and she clicked on her headset. “Wesley, yeah, no she’s fine. Look–” But she never finished what she was going to say because Buffy marched over and ripped the earpiece out of her ear none to gently. “What are you…ow!”

Buffy turned and stared at Clark. The poor guy looked all sorts of confused. “Wesley,” She began sweetly. “Mind telling me what this lovely prophecy is about, and why you felt the need to keep it from me?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, before an irritated sigh reached her ears. “I’m not sure this the appropriate time–”

“The hell it’s not!” She barked. “That guy you and Willow were secretly looking for last year is standing right in front of me.”

There was another long silence, before he sighed again. “So, it’s happened then.”

“What’s happened? What the hell is going on?” She ground out, getting really fed up with the cryptic.

“Look Buffy, I promise to explain when you get here.” He paused, “But in the meantime I have both the U.S Government and Canadian Parliament threatening to go to war with us if they don’t find out what the hell happened to you and that spaceship.”

She groaned in frustration, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Shit!”

“My sentiments exactly.” He replied sarcastically.

“Okay,” She started pacing back and forth. “Okay, this is what were gonna do. Get Willow some coords in between here and the camp, preferably closer to the camp. Make it rural enough that any search and rescue they sent out could have easily missed it. Willow will port me there and we’ll leave evidence that I was dumped there.” She looked at Willow, who nodded in agreement. “I’m covered in enough DNA to make it plausible anyway–”

“Are you alright?” Wesley cut in; the brotherly worry strong in his voice.

“I’m fine Wes,” She sighed. “There was a security droid on the ship that wasn’t too happy with me boarding armed. Besides losing a lot of blood and a bout of crappy memories, I’m peachy with a side of keen.” She immediately noticed Willow’s kicked puppy look and rolled her eyes. Oh, that ever present black mark on their friendship. Always there but never talked about.

Wesley cleared his throat changing the subject, because that’s how the modern day Scoobies dealt with her immortality. Not that she blamed him. He’d been an outsider when she had been brought back. He hadn’t understood the extent of the damage Willow had caused until much later and even then, he didn’t understand. None of them could know what she’d lost. “It’s a sound plan, Buffy.” He paused, before asking, “And this mystery man of yours, do you think you can get him to come with you?”

Buffy met Clark’s wary eyes and shook her head. “I’ll talk to him, but I’m not forcing him into anything.”

“Of course,” Wesley agreed.

Buffy handed the earpiece back to Willow and approached Clark. “So, umm…I guess this is goodbye.” She looked at her feet fidgeting nervously, before adding, “I wanted to tell you…well…that I heard what your dad said while I was asleep, about why you were sent here.” She swallowed, meeting his curious gaze. “I don’t know if you’re this Prophesized Champion or not, but even if you’re not I…I think you could make a difference. I know humans are, well we’re stupid really. We’re selfish and prejudiced. We make mistakes and screw up. We hurt each other, even the ones we love, but we’re capable of much more than that. We love, we laugh, we learn and we grow. We are capable of change and acceptance; it just takes some of us time.”

She swallowed looking down, “But I also think this world desperately needs hope.” She felt the prickling of tears as she remembered how the thought of hope had been what finally pulled her out of the nightmare.

“I know I do.” She whispered, voice cracking as a tear slipped down her cheek. She felt a finger hook under her chin, gently lifting it so she was suddenly staring into warm blue eyes.

“Okay,” He said simply.

She blinked in surprise. “Okay?”

His lips quirked into a half smile. “Okay,” He repeated, before his eyes became serious again. “But I need you to promise me something. I need you to promise me that I’ll never be used to hurt people. I don’t think I could handle that,” He shook his head.

Buffy agreed immediately, “Of course, we’re not in the habit of killing humans. Demons and vamps sure, but humans we try to keep off the table.”

Clark nodded, “I assumed as much when you refused to give Hardy the program you guys use to monitor military chatter. You said you were here to protect humanity and not get involved with petty wars.” He rubbed the back of his neck, “I feel the same, I just want to help people.”

Buffy nodded in understanding, reaching in her back pocket for her wallet and hoping not all her business cards were ruined. “It’s hard to refuse the call, when you know you can help, isn’t it?”

“Very,” He agreed as she found a card that hadn’t been soaked through with blood and handed it to him. Clark took it and put it in his pocket. “There’s one more thing,” He added. “I would like to keep my anonymity for the time being. I don’t think I’m ready for the world to know who I am yet.”

She smiled softly. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

He smiled then, a real genuine smile that seemed to light up his whole face. “Okay,” He agreed again.

“Buffy,” Willow interrupted. “Wes has a place.”

She sighed, part of her reluctant to leave. “That’s my cue. Call me when you get back to civilization okay?”

“I will.” He said with a nod as he watched her grab her axe, before she and her friend stepped through the portal and disappeared.

[Chapter One]

#man of steel fanfiction #man of steel #superman #superman fanfiction #superman crossover #clark kent #kal el #buffy x clark #buffy x superman #man of steel crossover #btvs #btvs fanfiction #btvs crossover #sarah michelle gellar #henry cavill #buffy summers #buffy summers x clark kent #this is totally self indulgent

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