#side note: you know what’s also hard? when you’re like expending all this energy focusing on one idea that you’re writing just to have

[puthyflapps]

dude im stoked i can't wait to read the response those asks. make it 5k i don't mind. just put the majority of it under a cut ✂️ if you don't wanna post it on ao3

Let’s temper our expectations because I feel like it’s not as good as what you think it is 💀💀

To me, it feels long because my brain had to like think of every detail and also I’m a slow reader rip😭😭😭😭 but I just feel like everyone else is gonna read it in 5 seconds. Also I haven’t written like a drabble/one shot in a hot minute so prayers up for your big dog

[watermelonlipstick]

Stabbed

This was written following an anon request that read as follows:

Hello sweetie, can I please request a dean x reader one shot in which she gets stabbed during a rough hunt and it's a race against time to save her (maybe Sam is the one driving and dean gets in the backseat with her?) And dean is scared of losing her and he has a panic attack after she wakes up but she manages to calm him down?

Obviously everyone’s experiences with panic attacks are different, but I tend to think if Dean had one it might manifest more externally as a violent outburst; I think he would subconsciously feel like it’s a more acceptable way to express ~freaking the fuck out~. This fic is sort of loosely set during early season 3, partly because that contextualization made sense to me with what you were describing and partly because I feel like that tenderhearted, slightly-less-jaded Dean would be more likely to allow himself to be perceived as vulnerable in such a fraught moment. 

I’ve also taken a couple liberties with the medical situation described for literary purposes. 😋 Don’t @ me, I know this isn’t exactly how hypovolemic shock plays out.

Title: Stabbed

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4206

Summary: Dean’s anxiety gets the best of him when the reader appears fatally injured on a hunt, and is soothed only after the danger is gone. 

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence, description of panic attack, swearing

           Sam slammed the door once Dean had hauled you into the backseat, propping you up like a mannequin next to him on the bench. Your vision was starting to fade in and out, but the sense memory of the muscles in Dean’s side and the leather seat underneath you were comforting anyway. It seemed like the car started flying before Sam had even closed the driver’s side door and you tried hard to focus on Dean’s babbling.

           “You’ll be able to give me shit about this one forever, right, kid? Should’ve listened to you, you said they would’ve left the barn by the time we got there. Always so smart, when am I going to learn?” He was trying to chuckle but it came out breathy and wrong, Dean never quite able to actually hit the casual affect he wanted in moments like this. Honestly, it made you more nervous, knowing that for injuries he wasn’t worried about he wanted to look over you with clinical precision, chastise you for being careless. He only did this pretend calm when he was trying to keep it together—you used to think it was only for you or Sam but after a few years and more than a few bad scares you started to understand it for the defense mechanism it truly was. Not that you needed extra evidence that this was bad; you could feel the life leeching out of you like a water balloon with a pinprick leak.

           “Hey, come on—open your eyes for me, lemme see those stunners,” he said, guiding your chin up where you had begun to slump onto his shoulder. “Perfect, yeah, just like that. Hey, stay with me—”

           You mustered up everything you had to swim to the surface of the sleep-darkness your body so desperately wanted and straightened your spine to take a deep breath. Bad idea, the wounds in your side feeling like they were splitting you clean in half even through the haze. At least it woke you up for a moment to catch Dean’s eyes, fiery with panic even as he tried to smile.

           “Dean, I—” you started, feeling like your throat was full of broken glass.

           “Babe, don’t try to talk, it’s okay, you can tell me whatever it is when we get to a hospital.”

           Sam turned his head away from the rural highway the Impala was absolutely sailing down to look back at his older brother. “We’re hours away from a hospital, we’ve gotta go back to the motel,” he said, low and serious.

           “If we’re hours away from a hospital then I guess we’re driving for a couple hours, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean was getting worse and worse at covering the hard edge of fear-driven anger in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

           “Dean, we—she’s—we don’t have a couple hours.”

           Dean closed his eyes tight and set his jaw firm. “We’re going to a fucking hospital.”

           His brother swerved deftly around a giant pothole, somehow able to turn the wheel so slightly that the car’s path barely changed. “Listen to me. She can’t bleed like that for long enough to get to a hospital. We have to try to handle this one ourselves or there’s no chance—”

           The whole conversation felt like it was happening to someone else, your senses starting to detach from your body, and you couldn’t hold onto those trains of thought for long enough to process them. You were forced to expend all the energy you had on what you needed to say, and reached for Dean’s hand with a weak grip.

           “Dean, look at me.”

           He sounded like a hurt puppy when he said, “please,” and you knew he was asking you not to make him listen but you were worried you were out of options, out of time. That frantic smile looked almost crazed as it started to quiver on his face, eyelashes clumping with moisture.

           “Sam, can you hear me too?” you asked, frustrated in an abstract way at how frail your voice sounded.

           He gave one tight nod in the rearview mirror with a jaw set firm as iron, and when he said “Yes—yeah,” it was choked.

           “I love you idiots so much. These last—ow, Jesus—however many years have been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Sam, I—you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I—fuck,” you winced, something about the breath you took to keep from crying sending an electric jolt of pain through you and doubling you over.

           “It’s okay, I know,” Sam said up into the rearview mirror, and you couldn’t tell if the way the headlights were falling on the trees impossibly fast was something about your sight being distorted, because if it wasn’t then you were surprised the Impala hadn’t broken some kind of land speed record. You made a mental note to tell Dean to start drag racing before remembering you might not tell him anything ever again. What you were nearly positive you weren’t imagining were the break in Sam’s voice or the reflection of tears on his cheek as he locked eyes with you in the mirror.

           By the grace of whatever higher power the Winchesters were on the good side of at the time, you connected with him in the reflection, were able to absorb some fraction of the bone-crushing, pick-you-up-off-your-feet hug you wanted so badly from Sam in that moment. You tried to be thankful for what you got and drifted back to Dean’s gaze.

           “And Dean, baby,” you continued, some bizarre flutter of second wind giving you enough force to clench your hand tightly around his and remember to keep your breaths shallow, keep talking even if your eyes couldn’t quite focus. “This was not your fault, you gotta—promise—me you know it wasn’t.”

           “I, ah—” he faltered, throat vibrating as he tried to keep the inevitable tears down.

           You gripped his hand tighter, felt your fingers going numb, and tried to smile hoping it didn’t look too grotesque on a face almost certainly drained of lifelike color. “C’mon, gotta obey a last wish, right?” The grief-stricken chuckle of surprise that dark joke punched out of Dean opened the floodgates, and tears burst forward to stream down his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

           You’d thought of some goofy punchline to try to give, some ‘no sleeping with random girls for at least a year, want you guys to pour one out for me every day’ bullshit but seeing the love and pain in Dean’s eyes as your vision came in and out zapped it away. “I love you baby. I just—thank you for—everything—and—”

           It was getting too hard to take even those shallow breaths, your hearing gone fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing you remembered was seeing a streetlight on the edge of town as Dean took your face in his hands, “I know, kid, I know, come on—please,” fading out like he was being zipped away through a long tunnel.

           You were completely motionless in Dean’s arms, pulse gone thready enough that Dean was having a hard time finding it through the rumble of the car.

           “Fuck, Sam, FUCK!” Dean screamed, one hand wrapped up in the hair at the back of your neck as he fought desperately to keep you upright.

           Sam muscled through the lump in his throat and tried to stay focused. “When we get there you need to be ready to go, okay, Dean? HEY, listen to me. Don’t quit on me like this,” he barked, trying to catch his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror without taking his focus off the road, terrified at the speed of the Impala and the potential of repeating what had happened the last time he’d had someone he loved bleeding out in the backseat.

           The car skittered around two corners and Sam prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything that there weren’t any Keystone cops looking to meet their month’s ticket quota by hanging around dark parking lots with radar guns, willed Dean to stop punching the window of the car with the hand that wasn’t clutching your head to his chest. He couldn’t decide if he thought it would’ve been better to have Dean drive, if he would’ve been able to hold it together any better than Dean was right now, if Dean could’ve focused if he was driving and not feeling you drift in his arms. There wasn’t time to figure it out and it ultimately didn’t matter, his brother turning into a bomb in the backseat and Sam needed to figure out a way to funnel Dean’s sheer panic back into the denial that would fuel him to keep moving, do anything to keep you alive, regardless of whether there was any hope left.

           “It’s not over, you’ve gotta keep it together. She needs you. See, we’re right around—"

           But he didn’t get to finish through the flurry of action as he pulled into the motel. He careened the Impala straight up to the door of the room, more than half of the car parked over a strip of grass intended to make the nondescript building feel more homey. By the time he’d torn the keys from the ignition Dean was practically leaping out of the backseat, carrying you into the room a quarter step after Sam half-busted the door open, laying you on a bed and tearing your t-shirt off with his bare hands like a cheap wrestling gimmick.

           Sam didn’t bother closing the motel door, moving too fast to care as he ripped a cork out of whiskey bottle with his teeth and poured it all over your now-exposed side, grimacing with nausea at the way it didn’t make you draw back in pain even a little. Dean tried his best to thread a needle with floss and remember whether it was better or worse that the blood was still flowing fast and bright red out of those stab wounds rather than slowing or oxidizing—this is bush league shit Dad pounded in years ago why can’t I remember fucking any of it? His hands shook with too much adrenaline to get the floss through the needle but Sam was already working on patching the biggest wound, tying knots with the rapid precision of a surgeon.

           It was only when he started getting in Sam’s way that the younger Winchester said anything more, encouraged that Dean was at least trying to pull himself together. He began talking through the stitches, muttering when he had to pull one tight with his teeth.

           “We—Dean, look at me.” Sam drilled into him with those brackish eyes, struggling to maintain the appearance of being in control that his brother needed of him when he could feel you going cold underneath his fingertips. “We’re going to need to give her a lot of fluids when she wakes up; all we have is beer. Go get some stuff for her to drink—electrolytes, she’ll need electrolytes.”

           “I’m not going to fucking leave, asshole!” Dean was strung out and not even pretending to hide it anymore, voice taking on that juvenile squeak Sam had only heard a handful of times since Dean was a teenager.

           He took a deep breath in an effort to soothe himself before speaking as clearly and firmly to Dean as possible, no room for negotiation. “Dean. This is not helping. The best thing you can do for her is to go get some fluids. Gatorade, OJ, bananas too, if they have them. She’ll need iron but we can deal with other food once she wakes up.”

           “What if she doesn’t—” Dean half-moaned, sounding like he’d been struck by something that was sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, looking like he was on the last ten feet of a hundred-mile race.

           “She’s going to wake up.”

           And Sam’s stubbornness actually did help Dean a bit in that moment, knowing that even if his life was about to change radically, that never would. “Go get some fucking Gatorade.”

           By the time Dean came back—arms filled with so many bags of sports drinks that it would be comical in any other context—his brother had stitched up every wound, cleaned off most of the blood, and put all your limbs atop high stacks of pillows in an attempt to get as much blood to your vital organs as possible. Dean was near catatonic with the singular focus of a task, which was Sam’s intention. One thing at a time.

           After about five minutes of sitting alongside Sam watching you, thick, viscous panic bubbled back up to the surface.

           At first, he was muttering like he was talking to himself. “She told me, she fucking told me they wouldn’t be in the barn anymore, I didn’t listen. I should’ve been right behind her, Sam, what the fuck was I thinking—she was—she—she was alone, they wouldn���t have—” and then the way his voice built to a fever pitch matched his body, Dean perched on the mattress like a sailboat in a tempest, slammed against invisible waves of panic.

           “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You couldn’t have known—”

           “She was alone against five of them, Sam, do you get that? I left her fucking ALONE!” Dean wailed, springing forward from the bed with eruptive energy and bashing the nightstand lamp hard enough that its base shattered against the opposite wall, coming clean out of the socket as easily as if it hadn’t been plugged in. Sam flinched but didn’t get up, instead taking a quick visual inspection that no shards of ceramic somehow bounced back to cut your still body. By the time he glanced up again he only had a millisecond to react as Dean threw a chair from the kitchenette against the wall, exploding the mirror there into shimmering beads of glass and ricocheting back, forcing Sam block it with a forearm lest it hit him or you.

           “DEAN, enough!” he yelled, crossing over to his brother with a few powerful strides and grappling with him, battling to keep Dean still as the older of the Winchester brothers fought to destroy the room to match the chaos in his mind. Sam knew exactly what was going on, the way Dean’s brain converted fear to rage, but hated when his brother got like this, not only because it cut so deep to see him in pain but because the explosiveness was so similar to the knock-down drag-outs they’d grown up with, made it impossible to try to fix the root of the problem.

           Sam tackling Dean to the ground was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.

           “Do I pull this shit when you guys are sleeping?” you croaked from the mattress, trying to sit up and immediately abandoning that plan, stilling yourself and holding your breath until the pain settled a fraction.

           Sam and Dean scrambled to get to their feet and ran over to you, hovering over the bed looking like their backs had a light dusting of glitter rather than a million tiny shards of glass.

           “What’re—are you okay? What do you remember?” Sam blurted out, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade out of a plastic bag and cracking it open for you. He snatched a pillow and helped you sit up slowly, jamming it under your head so you could drink.

           “Well, I’ve definitely felt better,” you tried to chuckle, but the tension it caused in your abdominal muscles made you wince. “I’m really sorry, you guys, I shouldn’t have—” you began, immediately stopped by the way Sam and Dean shook their heads, sucked on their teeth.

           “I’m—ah,” Sam started, smiling self-deprecatingly through the shake in his voice and looking down at the ground for a beat with his tongue in his cheek. It was like his body knew that the worst of the crisis had passed and refused to let him hide his emotions for one second further. After a second he met your eyes again, faintest hint of tears in his eyes. “I’m really glad you’re up.”

           Behind him, Dean collapsed into himself, his expression simultaneously complete relief and like he’d seen a ghost. You peered around Sam to meet his gaze. “Hey, dork,” you breathed, unable to come up with anything to match the weight of the moment.

           He opened his mouth a few times and couldn’t find anything either, wincing and biting his lip hard as he rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

           As always, Sam knew what Dean needed and snatched the car keys off the table as his brother tried in vain to keep his restless limbs still. He gazed at you with such naked thankfulness it made you smile involuntarily. “I’m going to see how much red meat I can find you, I’ll be right back, okay? Drink as many of these as you can and don’t stand up alone.” You nodded gratefully to him as he backed out the door.

           When Sam left, Dean still shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands until he ultimately jammed them deep into the pockets of his coat with enough force that it shook loose almost all of the glass, sending it floating to the ground around him as if he was a mirage. You could see, even as he stood a few paces away from the bed, that his breathing was quickened from the rapid, shallow movements of his chest and neck. “I’m—ah, I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—” he stammered against a jaw locked shut tensely enough to make the muscles bulge out of his cheeks, and the lack of the self-assuredness that was normally so Dean to you made him seem unbelievably young, made you want to leap across the room and wrap him up in your arms. As it was, you beckoned him over with a shaky hand.

           He walked over to you hesitantly, only sitting down on the side opposite your injuries when you patted the sheets next to you. Awkwardly trying to move your torso as little as possible, you tossed the pillows on that side to the floor and motioned for him to lay down.

           “I don’t want to hurt—”

           “I’ll be fine. Please?”

           Reluctantly taking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, he gingerly tucked himself under your arm and laid his head on your chest. You faintly dragged your fingertips down his back, waiting for his heartbeat and uneven, shallow breathing to slow down. When they didn’t and all you felt was a spreading wetness on the remaining upper half of t-shirt you still had, you twisted laboriously to see Dean’s face.

           Tears streamed down onto you, Dean biting his lip so hard to keep quiet you were shocked you couldn’t see blood, the whites of his teeth almost matching the pressure-blanched skin.

           “Oh, Dean,” you hummed, pulling him close to you with your one arm. “Babe, I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay; I’m okay, you get to treat me like a princess for a few days and I’ll learn for the hundredth time that I shouldn’t go off by myself.”

           “I—I thought you were gone,” Dean whispered between stunted sobs breaking the words off in short staccato, still fighting to speak as though he wasn’t crying even as his tears soaked you.

           You craned your neck slowly to kiss the top of his head. “Not gone, right here. Always going to be right here.”

           “You were bleeding so mu—just like Sam, it was just like when Sam—” he faltered, speaking slowly to try to grab the reins of his voice as it shook.

           “Not just like Sam, baby, I’m still here. Everyone’s okay. And Sam’s okay too, right?” You waited for him to confirm what you knew was true and emphasize your point, drawing back to meet his gaze when he didn’t. “Right?”

           Reluctantly, Dean nodded. The redness around his eyes made his irises seem almost unreal in electric green contrast and you couldn’t believe you were so close to never seeing them again. His lashes were even darker than normal, spiky black frames formed with salty tears like cartoonish mascara. You waited a beat then let him settle back into your chest before continuing, feeling the choke-hiccupping of his breath stop even if it stayed rapid. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay,” you hummed into his hair. “You’re okay, baby.”

           The two of you stayed like that until Dean’s breathing finally steadied, waiting past the clearly forced long held breaths and through to the point that he genuinely seemed like he’d hit the smooth rhythm you knew so well. “How are you feeling?” you murmured.

           “Like a bitch,” he grumbled softly against your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, thankful beyond anything for the glint of humor back in Dean, that shimmer of normalcy returning.

           “Sorry for scaring you.”

           “I’m never fucking letting you out of my sight again,” he said, words still sticky with swirling emotion and muffled by his cheek pressed against you. You knew he was only partly joking but also that now was not the time to push back, just kissing his hair in response.

           There was no way it took Sam an hour to get you a diner burger but you were thankful for his intuition nonetheless, because by the time he got back Dean was calm enough to get up and had even helped you to put on a new t-shirt—one of his black ones; he said it was because it was looser but you suspected it was some kind of metaphor, covering you with part of himself—and shimmy into a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Standing up for a shower was still too ambitious, but the fresh clothes made you feel a little less gross. He was trying his best to clean up as much broken glass as possible when his brother opened the door and tossed him a paper bag with a bubbly illustrated hamburger on it.

           Walking into the room without taking his jacket off, Sam set your food on the nightstand and grabbed a motel binder of local attractions (minimal) as a makeshift tray for you to eat off of before carefully helping you to sit up a little more. “Double cheeseburger—eat it before the fries, you need the iron. Oh, and I almost forgot—couple of these too.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two bottles in one big hand that appeared to be acetaminophen and an iron supplement.

           “You’re the best, Sam.” It was nice to hear your voice sound more normal, lubricated with two bottles of Gatorade already, and you tried not to imagine how awkward or painful it was going to be to try to get up and go to the bathroom later.

           The Winchesters sat on the other bed, still in their boots because of the rug of broken glass no one wanted to acknowledge, and Sam turned on whatever dumb comedy he could find first. For a fleeting moment it felt like any normal night on the road, nursing an injury and eating greasy food in a room you’d never see again past tomorrow morning, and you almost forgot that (minutes? hours? you still didn’t know how long you’d been out) earlier you thought you were saying goodbye to the two people you loved most, who’d moved heaven and earth and miles of rural highway to bring you back, whose superhero resilience you’d seen start to crack at the thought of losing you. A searing jolt of pain when you reached for another Gatorade reminded you all too much, and when you hissed both Sam and Dean leapt off the bed with faces contorted in concern.

           “Just stretched too far, I’m okay.”

           Watching them take twin deep breaths could’ve been funny and you hoped it would be in a few days—hoped in a few days laughing wouldn’t feel like being impaled. For now, you tried to drink in this little moment of peace and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t take another one for granted ever again.

-

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[purplehairedwonder]

Bent But Not Broken

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Trafalgar Law/Monkey D. Luffy (pre-relationship) Words: 2,127 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Monkey D. Luffy, Basil Hawkins, Bepo Note: This was written for the “I’m Fine” square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo @badthingshappenbingo​ card.

Feel free to send prompts for additional fills!

This could be read as a loose sequel to “A Rope That Wears Thin,” but it stands on its own.

Summary: In the aftermath of his torture at Hawkins's hands, Law prefers to lick his wounds in private. Luffy, newly returned from Udon, has other ideas.

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

Sitting with his back against the wall of the ramshackle shack he’d taken up residence in in Ebisu Town, Law took a heavy breath before turning to the task at hand. With the sounds of his crew puttering about outside his shack grounding him in the moment, Law slowly removed the bandages Bepo had carefully wrapped around his wrists upon his return from the prison. He examined the chafed, bruised skin with a grimace, noting the various shades of purple and yellow and green encircling his wrists where the Seastone shackles suspended from the prison ceiling had held him upright while Hawkins and his lackeys whipped and beat and…

Law shook his head, pulling himself from the memory. He’d made his choice to trade places with Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin knowing full well what it meant, and he would do it again in an instant. He’d been Hawkins’s target in the first place, and he’d never let his nakama take blows meant for him—not from Doflamingo and not from another member of the Worst Generation.

That didn’t mean the damage hadn’t lingered, however.

In the days since he’d returned to his crew, he’d let his wounds heal naturally. He knew some of his nakama had looked at him askance for not using his Fruit to accelerate the healing process, but the more he let his body recover naturally, the less energy he’d need to expend to deal with the wounds later—and he knew he’d need his stamina for the upcoming raid. He’d heal whatever was left just before they took on Kaido.

After disinfecting the broken skin, he pulled a salve from his medical kit and spread it over his mottled skin, sighing at the cool relief it provided, before wrapping clean bandages around his wrists once more. He then shrugged out of the sleeves of his yukata to examine the wounds on his chest and arms.

Law coughed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, then tensed as he felt Hawkins’ fingers tracing over his right bicep. They’d pulled his yukata down to bare his skin, giving them a good look at all the fresh marks Doflamingo had left on his skin just weeks earlier.

“What happened here, Trafalgar?” Hawkins murmured, fingers moving around the scar with an eerily light touch.

Law shut his eyes, his skin crawling at the touch. His arm no longer hurt constantly, but his full strength still hadn’t returned, despite the rehab he’d done in the preceding weeks. There were, however, times he woke up grasping at his arm after dreaming of Doflamingo tearing it off then choking Law with his own hand as he demanded Law make him immortal.

“It almost looks like…” Hawkins trailed off.

Law jerked suddenly, eyes opening, as a hand slapped his face. Hawkins stood in front of him, an amused look on his face. “Did you lose your arm?” He tilted his head, considering. “That Fruit of yours could certainly put it back together.”

When Law remained silent, Hawkins apparently took it as confirmation. “Did Doflamingo take it?”

“Fuck off,” Law growled, fingers twitching in the shackles above his head.

Hawkins hummed in response, returning his attention to the scar. “Doflamingo took his time with you, didn’t he, Trafalgar? But why?”

Law hissed, body tensing again, as yet another whiplash stung his bare back.

“You’d have to ask him,” Law gritted out through his teeth. Still, he couldn’t help his lips twitching upward in a pained smirk. “A little hard now that he’s in Impel Down, though.”

Hawkins’ touch paused, and a moment later, he stood in front of Law again with a thoughtful expression. “It was personal, wasn’t it? Was that why you became a Warlord? To get at Doflamingo?”

“I fail to see why it matters.”

“Lord Kaido wants to know who he’s dealing with,” Hawkins replied, nodding at the lackey standing behind Law. “And how he can make best use of you.”

Law grunted as his back erupted in pain once more, tears stinging the corners of his eyes, and he slumped further in his shackles, the Seastone biting into his wrists and draining his strength. Still, his expression sharpened.

“Kaido can fuck right off. No one controls me.” Not ever again.

“We’ll see about that, Trafalgar,” Hawkins replied, grip tightening around Law’s arm once more. “Everyone has their breaking point. We just need to find yours.”

As he looked down, Law noted that a few of the whip marks had rounded his side to his chest, though he’d have to grab Bepo to help put more salve on the remaining marks on his back. But first, he could deal with the cuts and bruises on his chest and stomach himself. Disinfecting and redressing injuries were tasks he’d done more times than he could count, so the automatic motions—the knowledge that his hands could still heal despite the blood they had spilled—had become comforting, and he allowed his thoughts to drift as he worked.

He was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t hear the chaos outside approaching his shack until it was too late.

“Torao!”

Law’s eyes snapped up from the wound he was tending as the door to his shack slammed open and rattled on its weakened hinges, and he cursed to himself as Luffy stood in the doorway. Law hadn’t seen the other captain in weeks while he’d been in Udon, though he’d heard the reports from Raizo about how he was doing. His first reaction at seeing Luffy—a swooping of his stomach that he’d been steadily ignoring since they’d left Dressrosa—was quickly drowned out by rising irritation. Couldn’t Law lick his wounds in peace? Yet another inconvenience caused by Straw Hat Luffy.

“Straw Hat, wait!” someone—Penguin?—yelled from outside.

“Torao,” Luffy repeated cheerfully, “there you are! I just got back, but you weren’t there, and no one had seen you in a whi—” He cut himself off as he caught sight of Law’s very obvious injuries.

“Straw Hat, you can’t just…” Bepo called as he followed Luffy into the hut, trailing off as he realized he was too late. He ducked his head in silent apology.

Law shook his head minutely at Bepo. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t stop Luffy; Luffy was a force of nature once he got an idea—and apparently he’d gotten it into his head that he needed to see Law. For whatever reason. The mink glanced between the two captains then backed out of the shack with hunched shoulders.

“Straw Hat-ya. So, you finally got out of Udon?” Law drawled, ignoring Luffy’s expression. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, using the wall to help with his balance.

“What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Law said, making to pull his sleeves back on. He was stopped though when Luffy’s hand suddenly shot out and grabbed his wrist. Law hissed as the rubbery grip tamped down on his bandaged wounds. Luffy let go like he’d been burned, his hand snapping back in an instant.

“That’s not what I asked, Torao,” Luffy said, looking Law up and down as though cataloging every bruise and scratch he could see. Law wasn’t quite sure how to read his tone. For all that Luffy seemed superficial, carrying his heart on his sleeve with no ulterior motives, Law had learned that the other captain had surprising depths that left him off-balance at the most unexpected times.  

“It doesn’t matter,” Law replied coolly. “It’s been taken care of.”

Luffy closed the distance between them and reached up hesitantly, fingers grazing over a yellowed bruise on Law’s cheek, and Law couldn’t help but flinch back. He lightly slapped Luffy’s hand down, and hurt crossed the younger man’s face.

“No one told me,” Luffy said quietly.

“Your nakama didn’t know,” Law replied, pulling his sleeves up and adjusting his sash. He’d have to finish treating his wounds later, it seemed. “Don’t be angry with them.”

Luffy frowned. “You’re nakama too, Torao.”

“It was Heart business.” It was Law’s crew that had been captured, and it had been Law’s responsibility to get them back. It didn’t help that the Straw Hats were staying with Shinobu, who had the gall to not only accuse Law’s nakama of being traitors, but also suggest killing them. He’d never forgive her for that, and he couldn’t be around her right now.

“But we’re allies.”

“And it was an ally who suggested—” Law started angrily before cutting himself off. Shit.

Luffy’s eyes widened. “Suggested what? What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Law growled. “I’m fine. Leave it alone, Straw Hat-ya.” Law made to move past Luffy and leave the shack, but Luffy grabbed his arm; his grip wasn’t tight, as if he was worried about other injuries, but it was enough to pull Law up short.

“You’re not fine, Torao. I don’t know what happened—”

Law whirled on Luffy, his simmering irritation boiling over. “That’s right! You don’t know what happened because you weren’t here! The moment you got to Wano, you started stomping on Kin’emon’s plans then got yourself locked up in Kaido’s prison because you were reckless,” he snarled. “You were selfish, and the rest of us had to deal with the fallout.”

Luffy recoiled, dropping his hand from his Law’s arm. “Torao, I—”

“Never mind. Don’t worry about it, Straw Hat-ya.” Law pushed past Luffy and outside into the square.

The Hearts in the area took one look at Law’s expression and beat a hasty retreat. Luffy, moments later, followed Law outside.

“You’re limping,” Luffy said simply.

“I am,” Law agreed, not turning to look at his allied captain. “I’ll be fine for the raid, don’t worry.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Law blinked at that and then did turn to look at Luffy. The other man was wringing his hands in front of him, and something about that sight caused the anger to leech out of Law completely. He sagged at the whiplash in his emotions, and Luffy jumped forward to put a steadying hand under Law’s elbow.

Fuck. What was it about this boy that made Law like this?

“I’m worried about you, Torao,” Luffy said gently, guiding him back to a bench alongside the shack’s wall. The two sat, but Luffy didn’t let Law’s arm go. Law thought about saying something but then… didn’t.

Law sighed. “Hawkins-ya.”

Luffy cocked his head curiously. “Huh?”

“Hawkins-ya took Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin captive,” Law said. “They were bait for me.”

“You gave yourself up for your nakama,” Luffy said in understanding.

“Yes.”

“But you got out.”

“Eventually, yes.”

They fell into silence, and Luffy’s hand slid from Law’s elbow to his hand. He entwined their fingers and Law… Law let him. Gods, why did he let Luffy stomp all over his boundaries like they didn’t even exist?

“I’m sorry,” Luffy said after a moment.

Law looked up from their hands in surprise. The other captain was staring at the ground in front of him, legs kicking underneath the bench.

“Straw Hat-ya?”

“I’m sorry,” Luffy repeated. “I know I don’t always listen when Torao makes plans.”

“Ever,” Law muttered. “You don’t ever listen when I make plans,” he clarified at Luffy’s confused expression.

Luffy grinned sheepishly and scratched the back of his head. “Shishishi,” he laughed. “Torao is one of the smartest people I know,” he added. “We wouldn’t be here to help Kin’emon and the samurai without you.” He shrugged, sobering. “I just… I thought our nakama were dead. And I lost it.”

Law sighed and leaned against the shack, careful of the whip marks on his back, and looked over the square his crew had emptied. He had thought much the same as Luffy in the moment Kaido had destroyed the mountain; he’d felt his world crumble beneath him at the prospect of losing his three oldest friends. For an instant, he’d been thirteen and hidden in a treasure chest as Doflamingo shot Cora-san, taking everything from him, all over again.

“I know,” Law replied quietly. He could feel Luffy’s eyes on him, though he kept his gaze forward. “And you’re right,” he added after a moment, feeling more than seeing Luffy’s comically surprised expression. “I’m not okay.” He still had a ways to go physically to fully recover from his injuries. Emotionally… between Doflamingo’s fall, reuniting with his nakama, his capture, and the impending raid, well, Law didn’t want to touch his emotional state with a ten-foot pole, but somehow, sitting here with his allied captain, it felt like he might be okay eventually.

The realization startled something in his chest.

“But you will be,” Luffy said, unknowingly echoing Law’s own thoughts.

Law squeezed Luffy’s fingers in his own. “I will be,” he agreed.

[ladyfantasy98]

Flyers and Favors Part 3!!

Hello everyone! I hope you all are staying safe and sane in these difficult times.

So a few days ago I published another chapter to my Danny Phantom fanfic “Flyers and Favors” to fanfiction.net. You can read it there, or right here under the cut!

Thank-you all for your amazing support for this story and me!

You can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

Danny Phantom flew through the air at a breakneck speed, arms clasped to his sides. He strained himself forward, ever further, relishing the cool air blasting him in the face for a moment. He wanted to look behind him to see how close his opponent was, but he knew he couldn't afford to turn around now; it would cause him to slow down too much.

So he focused on his end goal: the tallest oak tree in Amity Park's...well...park. At 70 feet tall, with an ever-expanding canopy of branches and a thick, wide outer bark, Danny would recognize it anywhere. If he could just get there he'd be in the clear.

A buzzing sound on his left, closer than ever before. The enemy was catching up. With a last burst of speed and a strangled cry, Danny lurched forward, arm outstretched, reaching for the tree. His hands closed around one of the branches, and he swung himself around it a few times, expending his built-up momentum. After a couple more cycles around the branch, he turned to face his adversary. Breathing hard, he grinned and exclaimed,

"I win again, Valerie! Take that!"

Valerie Gray, also known as the Red Huntress, hovered on a black hoverboard a few feet away from the oak tree. She had slowed her own dash to the tree once she saw that Danny had beaten her. She was dressed in her signature red and black battlesuit, composed of ecto-charged nanobots (rewired by Tucker to prevent Vlad Plasmius or Technus from overpowering it). She touched her helmet and it melted away, revealing the scowl on her face and her curly brown hair, pulled back in a high ponytail. She crossed her arms and glared at the Ghost Boy.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Danny. But like it or not, I'm getting closer all the time," Valerie answered, her glare transforming into a smirk. Danny shrugged, unconcerned, and floated down to the ground. Valerie followed, dismissing her hoverboard with a couple taps of her heels, landing softly on the grass.

"Sure, sure, just keep telling yourself that," said Danny. Dusk was setting in, the last of the sunlight fading behind the horizon. That, coupled with the shade of the oak tree, made Danny's glowing green eyes stand out even more.

The night was quiet, aside from the occasional bird call or squirrel scampering up a tree. Snatches of conversation and laughter floated along the air as people headed home for the night. It might have been June, but the longest day of the year was still a week or so away, as was the end of school. Thankfully for Danny, Valerie, and their friends, they had officially graduated high school last week and were no longer slave to the school schedule.

They did, however, still adhere to a town patrol schedule. Ghost attacks in Amity had lessened in the last year or so, but they were still a problem. Danny and his cousin Danielle could usually contain the ones that slipped out of the Fenton portal, but that still left their stronger enemies, and occasionally natural portals in nearby towns or wild areas would open up, allowing random ne'er-do-well ghosts access to the town.

Tonight was Danny and Valerie's turn on patrol. Once high school classes became tougher and the class/patrol workload became harder to manage, Tucker had created an automated shuffler that determined who went on patrol each night, whether they had a partner, and who that partner was. Last night Sam and Tucker kept a lookout; the night before it had been Danielle. Sometimes, when Jazz was home from Columbia University, she would take a shift to alleviate her brother's and his friends' burden.

After making a few loops around town and finding no disturbances, Danny and Valerie had decided to take a break and race each other towards the park. Danny hoped they could be done for the night, since there hadn't been any whiff of ghostly activity.

But then - almost as if the universe had read Danny's mind and wanted to prove him wrong - a shiver rippled down the Ghost Boy's spine and he gasped, emitting a blue wisp of air.

"Ah, man," Danny groaned, before adopting a fighting stance, eyes darting around for the source of his Ghost Sense. Valerie copied him, sliding into a battle-ready pose, body tense.

A familiar female laughter echoed around them, and then Ember McClain faded into view before them. She hovered about five feet off the ground, clutching her purple and electric blue guitar to her chest.

"Wassup, punks," she greeted, grinning wickedly.

Valerie growled in response. "What do you want, ghost?"

Ember's grin faded. Nose turned up, she glanced away from Valerie and looked at Danny instead. "How can you stand to hang out with her, Phantom?" the ghost asked icily. "Three years in and she can't even remember anyone's name."

"I know better than to say your name, you wannabe American Idol," Valerie retorted.

Ember's eyes blazed with anger. "Wannabe!?" She raised her guitar and aimed its neck at Valerie, who raised a red ecto-shield in response.

Before they could engage, however, Danny hovered between them, arms spread wide. "Woah, woah, ladies! Let's calm down a bit, alright? It's such a beautiful summer evening, do we really have to spoil it with fighting?"

"She started it," both Valerie and Ember exclaimed in unison, followed by glaring at each other.

Eventually, though, Ember turned away from the huntress. "But don't worry, Dipstick, I don't plan on fighting you tonight."

Danny brightened at that. Maybe they could actually come to a peaceful resolution for once, and he and Valerie could be done for the night. "Really? So you're just gonna head back to the Ghost Zone now? Awesome."

Ember threw her back and laughed. "Ah, you wish, Baby-pop. But I've got free reign tonight 'cause you're not allowed to stop me, remember. You said we could do whatever we wanted as long as we did it after your graduation, right?"

"I...did not say that, actually," Danny responded. Then he frowned. "Well, I mean, I didn't say that exactly. I guess the "wreak havoc" part could have been misconstrued..."

Valerie rolled her eyes. "I knew sending that flyer was a bad idea," she muttered.

Danny sighed. He rose up into the air, green ecto-energy surrounding his hands. "Alright, Ember, I'm sorry, but I can't quite let that happen. But I'm sure we can work something out. I guess I do sorta owe you for letting me finish high school first."

"Yeah, Dipstick, you do. And don't worry, I got something special for you right here," the popstar replied, reaching into her pocket. Danny raised his still-glowing hands, while Valerie flipped open a wrist-blaster. They waited, breaths held, watching for Ember to make the first move. Ember pulled her hand out of her pocket and -

- thrust a piece of paper into Danny's face.

Danny reared back, surprised, his ecto-blasts sputtering into nothingness. He grabbed the paper from Ember and examined it. Printed onto a cream-colored paper, blue and black lettering exclaimed:

You're Invited!

To: Danny Phantom's Graduation Party

Where: Ember McLain's lair, the Ghost Zone

When: Saturday, 2pm

Requirements: You're capable of NOT trying kill the Ghost Boy for a few hours

RSVP: Immediately. Note - Party crashers welcome, but you will be forced to clean up afterwards

The ghost boy looked between the paper and Ember. Ember was looking to the side, arms crossed.

"Well?" she asked, still not looking at him. "Are you going to be there or not?"

"I - I don't understand. You're...throwing me a party?" Danny asked, bewildered. Valerie frowned and snatched the paper from him, eyes widening as she read its contents.

"Well...yeah. I mean. It's a big deal. Graduating high school...not...not everyone does it, you know," Ember said. She glanced at him, a strange bluish-green blush on her face. "And...you've had a rough time with it. Because of all the ghost fighting you do. So, I...yeah. We're throwing you a party."

"Wow. Um. Thanks, Ember," Danny told her. He floated downwards, putting his feet on the ground. He had attended a few graduation parties this summer already - Valerie's, for one, as well as Star's (again, because of Valerie). And he, Sam, and Tucker had had a combined graduation party at Sam's house for all their families - Mr. and Mrs. Manson hadn't been thrilled with the idea, but since Sam had not only graduated high school (something they'd feared their rebellious daughter would have abandoned during one of her moods), but with good grades and plans to go to college as well, they'd indulged her her specific celebratory requests.

Danny had enjoyed those festivities, even if they'd been a little embarrassing, too. But he'd never in a million years thought anyone in the Ghost Zone would throw him a party, especially Ember - and for a human milestone celebration at that. He hadn't even thought the flyer would keep so many of his frenemies away, and yet, he'd had an almost ghost-free last couple weeks of school.

"Hey, Phantom! I asked you a question! The response says immediately, so respond immediately!" Ember snapped, breaking Danny from his reverie. He shook his head to clear it, and saw that she was glaring at him.

With a sheepish smile, Danny answered, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be there. Thanks again, Ember."

The popstar returned his smile. Tension left her body, and she sounded satisfied as she said, "Good. I'll see you there, then."

"Oh, actually," Danny started, looking over at Valerie, "is it alright if some others come, my friends I mean? Since -"

"No!" Ember snarled, her hair lighting up in fury. After a moment it died down, and the bluish-green blush returned. "I - I mean, no. This is - this is a ghost party, that we're throwing for you, halfa. So - ghosts only." A pause, then, "You can bring Danielle, then. But no one else. Got it?"

"Got it," Danny replied, sweat-dropping a little.

"Good. So you're coming. Remember, Saturday at 2 o'clock." Ember leaned in, getting up in Danny's face. Her eyes narrowed as she growled, "Don't. Be late."

Danny nodded dumbly. Ember pulled back, nodded approvingly, and then jettisoned off, riding on her guitar. Danny watched her go, wondering how he could have offended her this time.

Valerie also watched the ghostly musician leave, a frown on her face. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Danny?" she asked. "Accepting her invitation?"

Danny turned towards her, tilting his head. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, you know...it's Ember. She's caused you and the town so much trouble over the years."

Danny waved his hand dismissively. "Ah, yeah. But so has practically half the Ghost Zone. It's no biggie. Even if this is some kind of prank or trap or something, it's nothing I can't handle." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Right?"

Valerie's lips quirked up, but she still sighed. "I know you can handle the ghosts, Danny. When you're fighting them, that is. It's just...lately you've settled into this...kinda friendly stalemate, and I'm just worried...I don't want you to get hurt, if they take advantage of your forgiving nature."

She reached out a hand and placed it on Danny's arm, leaning in slightly. Her gaze softened as she looked at him, pale green eyes crinkled in the corners. "I care about you, Danny. You know that."

Danny smiled back at her, warmth spreading through him. He covered her hand with his for a moment, relishing the touch, but then - slowly, hesitantly - he moved it off his arm. He and Sam were officially on - another - break, but whatever he may or may not be rekindling with Valerie, he wanted to make sure it was something they were both ready for, that it wasn't a rebound or a pre-college summer fling. He wanted to take things slow.

"I know you do, Val. And I appreciate that. And...I hear what you mean. About the ghosts." Danny rubbed the back of his head. Valerie had gotten a lot less fanatical about eliminating ghosts once she'd learned that Vlad Masters was really Vlad Plasmius, and that Danny Phantom was really Danny Fenton. She trusted Danny to make judgement calls on whether or not a ghost needed destroying or simply to be sent back into the Ghost Zone (98% of the time, he decided it was the latter).

But there were times when a more forceful hand was needed. Ghosts could be destructive, whether they meant to be or not. That was why Danny became a superhero in the first place. Why he and Team Phantom did patrols every night. Why Valerie and Danielle had spent last summer on a ghost-hunting road trip, sending ghosts that slipped through natural portals around the country back home.

And maybe Danny had gotten a little cozier with his enemies than ever before, but that wasn't bad, was it? He never let them run wild, never let them hurt anyone. If he turned a blind eye so Kitty and Johnny could have a date, or let Klemper sleep over a few times, what was the harm?

And if this party really was an excuse to ambush him or something - well, then he would just have to remind the Ghost Zone who was the boss.

Danny smiled at Valerie, who still looked concerned. "It's fine, Val. Don't worry about it." He rose up into the air, merging his legs into a wispy tail. "Let's head in for tonight, alright? Sam said we could watch a movie at her house after we finish."

Valerie stared at him for a few more seconds, before she nodded, a reluctant smile on her face. "Yeah. Sounds good."

She put her helmet back on and activated her hoverboard. Danny waited until she was in the air, and then the two of them sped off towards their friend's house.

...

Saturday rolled around quickly enough, and at 1:45pm, Danny and Dani stood in front of the Fenton portal.

Dani rocked back and forth on her purple sneakers. She was wearing a dark purple tank top and black shorts, her black hair pulled into a loose ponytail. "I'm so excited! Going to Ember's for a party? This is gonna be so fun!"

Danny chuckled. "Yeah, well, don't get too carried away, alright? Honestly, this could still be a trap."

Dani rolled her eyes. "Please. Faking a graduation party and ambushing you is so not Ember's style. Walker's, maybe, but no one else's."

"Yeah, that's what I said." Danny had reassured his friends of the same thing countless times over the last few days.

From one of the workbenches came an angry rattling sound. Both halfas turned to see a white and green Fenton thermos shaking in a glass container. It currently contained Skulker, and probably would for the rest of the summer. Dani had insisted on it, since he'd so blatantly ignored Danny's request to not bother him during finals.

Danielle stuck her tongue out at the thermos, then turned to her cousin. "Come on, let's go already!"

"Alright, alright." Danny chuckled once more. Then, gathering his energy, he exclaimed, "Going Ghost!"

Danielle grinned as two white rings appeared around her cousin, transforming him into Danny Phantom. A second later, she let the transformation wash over her, and then there were two Phantoms standing in the lab - black and white jumpsuits replacing their regular clothes, black hair dyed white and blue eyes now a glowing green.

Danny floated over to the portal opener and pressed his thumb into the DNA scan. A mechanical grating sound was heard, and then the portal opened, revealing the swirling green vortex that led to the Ghost Zone.

Danielle joined Danny in the air, and then both Phantoms flew from one end of the portal to the other, leaving the human world behind.

[alyssa-ward]

Two Twisted Hearts

Alyssa’s perspective on [ Ak iiqaath yahf zz magg qov ]

Isolation shouldn’t be as hard as it is.  Alyssa spent so long alone in Hillsbrad after Remy left, got used to the isolation.  Then though, she spent most of the time drugged nearly out of her mind, waited on by the demons she had summoned, or fighting in the woods and ruins.

This is different, now she’s fully aware, if exhausted, sitting in her empty charred grove, and waiting for anything at all to happen.  The lack of contact with Kat after the events in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms haunting her, replaying over and over again.

Time is difficult to follow, it feels like it’s been days since she woke, but maybe it was hours, or minutes.  Then the trees part, the grove where the soul of the person holding the dagger appears drawing open again.  The familiar wash of black and white, light and void, fills the space and Kat’s voice comes through in a mix of relief, grief, and panic.  “Alyssa?!”

Aly finds herself not prepared for just how emotional hearing that voice again is.  A flood of her own relief washes over her. "Kat," Alyssa's reply comes tired, but clear enough.

"I'm so sorry..."  Kat’s voice comes through, and with it an overwhelming wave of emotions that crash through the grove.  A mix of joy and guilt.  It’s also not what Alyssa expected at all.  An apology, when she feels guilty herself.  "I thought you were dead. I— There was no sign of you, everything was engulfed in an inferno— It's been days and—" Kat's speech is rapid, as though she’s trying to say too much at once, the thoughts complicated and coming in a rush. "I thought I lost you..."

Much of this is new information, and Alyssa doesn't immediately reply as she takes it all in, though a wash of her own mixed emotions crash back against their shared link. Relief, guilt, joy, all muddled together.  “Days? I had no idea, where are we?  I thought you might've died in the Vale." She tries to keep her words calm and organized.  It would be so easy to let the emotions she’s feeling in the moment to run roughshod over her.  Instead, focused statements, handle what is before her. "I fucked up, I channeled the Light, I was trying to protect your soul and it all went bad. I'm sorry.

"Nearly a week. We're at home." Hearing Kat say that so casually sends another pang through the Warlock.  Home.  Their home.  Kat doesn’t even seem to realize she’d said it. "Nearly died, but..."  A short delay, and Alyssa waits for her partner to finish sorting her thoughts. "That nearly killed me, what you did, but in the end it saved me from making a terrible mistake. I was the one who fucked up, I should have listened to you but I didn't. I didn't think about what could happen when I forced all that energy back over the dagger, I just did it to survive and— I thought I killed you. The dagger was dormant and the guilt—" A crack of Kat’s voice, and another pause, before she says what seems to really be foremost on her mind. "I missed you."

Those words.  Just the simple acknowledgement, and how difficult a time Kat seems to have had.  ‘I missed you’.  It says more than many other things might’ve.  And Kat admitting fault, accepting her role in things.  Aly feels like she’s seeing a different side of the woman she has spent the last year with.  "It's alright, we both fucked up. Never been great at listening to each other," a dry laugh. "I don't think what happened was your fault, you're right, I'm too far gone. Trying to call the Light nearly killed me, it destroyed everything." A pause and she adds after a moment herself, "I thought you were gone. Waking up alone was terrifying. I'm glad you're still here.”

Alyssa finishes her own admissions, hard as they are.  While she speaks, she finally rises from the deadened grasses, crossing the grove.  She threads between the trees into the clearing with Kat’s soul to properly inspect it finally.  Most immediately alarming is the deeper darkness in the Void side of her soul.  A darker black without the violet streaks she’s used to.  A faintly red afterimage surrounds it, lining the edges.  It looks wrong.  For a moment, Aly weighs on asking about it, but then Kat’s words come again, her voice still cracked, it almost sounds like the woman might be crying.

"It's not alright!  You don't understand what it was like to see the dagger just go dark like that, I can't— You're not just some expendable force, I don't think my heart could take that again. I can't—"  Whatever else Kat seemed about to say pulls up short.  Aly lets her have the moment before she’s ready to reply to that.

"I'm here," when Aly does finally reply, it’s with a tone of reassurance, some worry as well.  She finds her thoughts a bit split between the conversation, and the darkness she’s seeing in the soul before her.  "Whatever happened, I'm here. We are in this together, we're still a team. You won't lose me. We take these risks together." A shaky breath across the link, trying to steady herself and the things she is feeling. "I don't want to wake up alone again. I hate not being able to tell what's happening outside. I don't know if you're dead, or you just set me down."

There was a long silence which Kat never broke. Emotions still shifting erratically between moments of calm.  It’s enough for Alyssa.  She doesn’t need Kat to respond to that, it’s enough to know she’s there.  Still, as she slowly circles the soul in the grove, another thought crosses her mind.

She breaks the silence in the end, for a moment she almost asks about her release from this prison, but she shifts at the last moment to a different request instead. "We need a better link. A way to contact each other when you aren't touching the dagger."

"I... I don't know if that's even possible."  Kat’s reply feels halted, Aly chocks it up to surprise.

"I don't either, think on it," Alyssa replies. There are a few long moments, and again a riot of different emotions as the woman in the dagger wrestles with her thoughts. "Hey...Kat?" Some hesitance in her tone now as she realizes there’s something else she needs to say.

"Yeah?"

"Bad at saying what I mean sometimes...this scare was a lot.”  Alyssa starts, steeling herself, forcing the words through against her better judgement.  “Maybe it's the wrong time but I can't leave stuff unsaid again. I love you." She lets those words hang a few moments, and then tries to lighten the heavy moment, "so don't go dying on me. I need you."

It’s stupid.  Kat killed her.  The woman is clearly toxic to her.  She can’t ignore what she’s feeling though, and this was a good reminder that there may never be a chance to say it again.  Kat doesn’t reply right away, but her emotions are still tangible across their link.  They still and quiet for a moment, and then a warm flush of returned emotions from the Director.  Alyssa knows in that moment that her partner feels the same.  It’s a relief.  Not that Kat says it, “Of course you need me, you can’t get around any other way.”

Alyssa’s laugh comes brightly across the link, so much tension gone in that moment as Kat gives such a very Kat like response. "You know that's not what I meant dumbass. Even without the dagger, it'd be the same."

"Yeah, well. I— I need you too. So don't go burning yourself out on me. Again."  More of a verbal acknowledgement of feelings than Alyssa would’ve expected.  It puts her heart at ease.  The last bit though…

"I don't think it will happen again." Alyssa flexes fingers, and tests drawing on Felfire, attempting to conjure flame across her palm, and finds nothing.  Be it weakness or the brush with the Light, her magic doesn’t come.  Can’t reach the Twisting Nether from her prison, can’t even call on her felfire.  Hard to burn yourself out when you can’t reach your magic.

"Good."  Kat’s reply.  Alyssa lets her have it, no reason to worry her more.  Besides, with that moment of shared emotion passed, it’s time to discuss what happened.

"What happened? You're darker." Aly braces for an unpleasant response.

"Well I had to carry on myself. Needed more power."  It’s not an answer, not one that she can use.

'For what?' she doesn't ask it but the question hangs like a weight. Instead she asks the other thing, something that has nagged at her since the start of all this. "Does the silver thread know what risks you are putting their soul at?"  She comes to a stop at one side of Kat’s soul, examining the thin thread of silver that runs through it.  Alyssa has long since come to understand that it’s not part of Kat’s soul, it’s a piece of someone elses, though she couldn’t say who it might belong to.

"There is always collateral to risks."  Another non answer.  It seems Aly has gotten as much heart to heart and emotional honesty out of Kat as she was going to get.

"There is." There are more questions to ask.  About the feral rage she felt during the vale fight.  About the owner of the thread.  About what Kat is seeking power for.  Alyssa realizes though that she has no interest in an argument, or pushing to open closed doors right now.  What she wants, more than anything, is to be happy with the fact that Kat is here, that they are still together, in their own odd way.

"It's something I'll deal with." She sounded final on that note, not a topic she appeared willing to broach. She didn't say anything else, slipping into silence as she often did.

“Mm,” the sound across the link is non-commital.  Aly decides she’s comfortable enough with that. The simple emotional connection of presence.  She reaches a hand out, brushing it tentatively across the glowing surface of the other woman’s soul, and a small smile settles on her lips.  “Welcome back Kat.  I missed you.  I needed you.”  It’s not sent across the link, just a quiet moment for herself, before she eases down to lay on her back in the grass once more, looking up into the swirling riot that is Kat Hawke’s soul.

[ @kat-hawke​ ]

[ Vague mention to @shewolf-jacqueline​ ]

[waltzofthewifi]

Kota Chapter 16: Bringing The Light

Beginning | Table of Contents | Next

Lacy was hunched over her homework, a billion small light sources aimed at her desk, when Ladybug arrived.

"Two heroes in one day," Lacy said nervously, as she let Ladybug in. "I'm honored."

"You were a big help today during Wailer's attack," Ladybug said. "Now we need your help again."

Lady's eyes widened. "My help?" Sure, she was strong swimmer, but how was that supposed to help against an akuma like this?

Ladybug grinned and held out a box. "Lacy Hatzi, this is the miraculous of the rooster, which gives its wielder the power of light. You will use this power for the greater good. When we are finished, you will return your miraculous to me and tell nobody - not even Chat Noir - your identity. Can I trust you?"

Lacy hesitated, looking at the miraculous with caution. She approached it warily.

A miraculous? How had Ladybug - why did Ladybug want her help? Was she even fit to use one? How was she supposed to help?

"You want me to use a miraculous?" Lacy questioned.

Ladybug looked completely confident in her. "You are a great fit, both to be a hero and for this particular miraculous."

Lacy nodded. If Ladybug, the person more familiar with the miraculous thought so, then maybe she was right.

Maybe.

Lacy nodded again. "Okay. I'll do my best."

She slowly grabbed the box, opening it carefully.

With a burst of light, something burst out of the box. Lacy recoiled at the blinding light, eyeing the creature.

"Are you some kind of Nymph?"

The creature flew up to Lacy's face. "Ooh, a Greek one. I haven't had one of those in a long time." He turned to Ladybug. "By the way, it's the power of dawn, not light."

Ladybug rolled her eyes. "I know. But we need your light today."

But the creature was already gone, zooming around the small room.

"Everything's a mess in here," he noted. "Ooh, did you take these pictures?"

"Um, yes?"

Lacy turned to Ladybug in bewilderment.

"Orikko is your kwami," Ladybug explained. "He's what powers your miraculous."

"That's right!" Orikko confirmed, flying back towards Lacy. "All you have to do is say 'sun beam' and you'll start to glow. Five minute timer, but you probably figured that out already. Your glow is extensive, you'll be able to provide light for your entire team for the battle."

"Okay," Lacy said. "But this darkness seems magical?"

"Oh, nothing can dull the rooster's light!" Orikko said. "Okay, well, technically the turtle can. And the fox. And the black cat, of course - but not the butterfly! Or peacock. Or bee, for that matter - though I don't know how one would try-"

"Orikko, focus," Ladybug said.

"Right! I'm focusing! To transform, all you have to do is say, 'sun up'!"

"Okay," Lacy said. "Anything else I should know?"

"You'll figure the rest out as you go," Orikko replied. "Oh! Your kite - that's your weapon - is expendable. You can use it as a glider, or a shield, or a kind of a push dagger. It also reflects light. And you can use the string to wrap it around stuff like a yo-yo, but it's not really supposed to do that, so don't. And I hope you've come up with a cool name! Like Harpy!"

"No," Lacy decided. "Anything else?"

"You're very patient," Orikko noted. "But I think that's everything."

"Go ahead and transform," Ladybug said.

It didn't seem like enough information, but Lacy still nodded. She slipped on the thumb ring, and took a deep breath.

"Orikko, sun up!"

The transformation felt warm, and Lacy felt a burst of energy come from the ring. She could feel the texture of her clothes change around her, and something on her back.

"Woah," Lacy said.

Ladybug looked her over, impressed by the outfit.

Most of it was brown. Lacy had a brown shirt with a loose red infinity scarf over her chest and shoulders. The shirt trailed down in the back, bordered by a red and gold hem. She had red leather gloves that came up to her elbows, and her ring now had a feather imprint with five main sections. She had brown pants, and gold combat boots that came up to mid-calf. Her hair was now brown, with a red stripe that stuck up like the crown on a rooster, and while it was still braided, the braid was much neater. Her mask was brown with gold edges, and she had gold lipstick. On her back was a large, gold kite.

Lacy slipped the kite off of her back and held it up like a shield. One edge of it was covered in a hard, gold-like edge. There were four small buttons on the inside handle, and she experienced with each of the buttons. It shrunk to the size of Carapace's shield, though it kept its diamond shape. Then it shrunk smaller, until it only came half a foot from Lacy's hand. Lacy mimed striking someone with the kite.

It felt strangely natural.

"It's really easy to maneuver," Lacy noted.

"Good," Ladybug replied. "Let's go. I'll tell you when to activate your powers."

Lacy nodded, and the two superheroes headed out.

Ladybug moved fast, but Lacy found it easy to keep up as they ran across the rooftops. Lacy held her shield up to provide light as the two of them delved more and more into the darkness.

Chat Noir was waiting on the rooftop that Ladybug said he'd be. He perked up when he saw Lacy.

"Another superhero?" He asked.

Ladybug nodded. "The rooster miraculous will give us the boost we need to win this."

Chat Noir nodded and turned towards Lacy. "Nice to meet you. Have you chosen a name yet?"

"Oh, um, no, not yet," Lacy replied. "But I'm working on it."

"Alright, feathers," Chat Noir said. "Thank you for not actually having feathers, by the way. I'm seriously allergic."

"Of course," Lacy replied. "Not that I chose this outfit or anything. Combat boots aren't really my thing."

"You look great," Ladybug said. "Okay, so here is the plan-"

.

Lacy and Chat Noir fell into their positions across the street from Ladybug.

Ladybug raised her yo-yo as high as she could, and the meager light spread across the street below.

"I'm here to negotiate," She yelled. "I come in peace."

"I doubt that." The akuma stepped into the light. "But fine, we'll talk. As long as you stay up there."

"Who are you?" Ladybug asked.

"Call me Nightroach."

Nightroach was dressed in dark blue. She had a skin-tight suit with sneakers, and her hair was now a dark blue and pulled up in a bun. Her face was covered in dark blue makeup.

"What do you want, Nightroach?" Ladybug asked.

"Your Miraculous, for one," Nightroach said. "And to be stop being treated like an idiot for being left in the dark. Dona Rossi was a busy woman - I didn't have time always check on Lila!"

Ladybug flinched. "That's horrible! You are her mother!"

"Do you know how hard it is to be a single mother?" Nightroach argued. "Especially with a job as demanding as mine!"

Chat Noir gave Lacy the signal, and they started to creep up on Nightroach.

"No wonder Lila was so desperate for people to like her," Ladybug replied. "If she didn't feel like you loved her."

Nightroach recoiled. "I love her. She's my daughter."

"Then you should have acted like a mother!" Ladybug shot back.

Nightroach snarled, and in her hands, two blue nunchucks formed.

"Come down here and let me squash you like the bug you are!"

Chat Noir gave Lacy the second signal.

Lacy politely tapped Nightroach on her shoulder, and he akuma whirled at her.

"Sun beam!"

Warmth spread throughout Lacy's body as she began to glow. The whole street lit up from the light. Nightroach screamed, shielding her eyes, and Chat Noir pounced. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into a lock.

Ladybug landed on the street below and walked up to her.

"I never thought someone could make me feel sorry for Lila," Ladybug admitted.

Nightroach screamed and threw Chat Noir over her, sending him crashing into Ladybug.

They both bounced back into their feet immediately.

Lacy moved in and whacked Nightroach across the face with her kite. Nightroach stumbled back, and Lacy pressed her advantage. As Nightroach reacted, Lacy found herself naturally blocking and parrying the blows.

"On her chest, there's a locket," Ladybug called out. "I think that's where the akuma is!"

Chat Noir nodded. "Let's finish this."

Nightroach swung with her nunchucks and Lacy blocked with her kite. She shrunk it down to its smallest size, and struck right under Nightroach's chin. Nightroach grabbed Lacy by the arm and flipped her into the pavement.

Ow.

Lacy recovered just in time to dodge a strike from Nightroach.

Ladybug took advantage of her forward momentum and used her yo-yo to swipe Nightroach's feet from under her. Nightroach collapsed on the ground, and Chat Noir moved to block her from getting up.

Lacy's ring beeped.

Nightroach flipped, knocking Chat Noir backwards, and struck with her nunchucks. Chat Noir blocked with his baton. Chat Noir pushed Nightroach back towards Lacy, who swept her feet from under her. Nightroach rolled back onto her feet, readying herself for another bout.

"Lucky charm!"

A giant bottle of fast-drying glue fell into Ladybug's hands.

Nightroach and Chat Noir exchanged blows. Chat Noir got close to hitting the locket several times, each time Nightroach barely dodging at the last moment. Nightroach swiped at his legs, forcing him to back up.

Lacy slammed her body into Nightroach's side, knocking her off balance. She smacked Nightroach with the side of her kite in the face, and Nightroach stumbled backwards.

Chat Noir pressed the advantage, striking with his baton and nearly hitting the locket. Nightroach doves at the last second, and raised her nunchucks to strike again.

Ladybug fired the glue bottle.

The glue hit the chains of the nunchucks, drying instantly. Nightroach scowled and tried to break the glue off by herself, but they wouldn't budge.

With another scowl, Nightroach swung at Chat Noir with her nunchucks, not caring that they were now ineffective.

"Cataclysm!"

Chat Noir grabbed both nunchucks at once, and they both disintegrated.

Nightroach yelled and tried to tackle Chat Noir, but Lacy interfered, throwing her full body weight at Nightroach and trapping her on the ground under her kite.

Ladybug approached Nightroach, and smashed the locket under her finger. A butterfly flew out.

Ladybug captured the akuma, successfully sending the purified butterfly off.

"Miraculous Ladybug!"

The ladybugs rushed by, and the natural light returned.

Lacy willed her light off, now that the streetlights and sunset were providing enough light.

Ladybug gestured for Lacy to join the two superheroes.

"Pound it!"

Lacy couldn't help be grin.

"Good job, you two," Ladybug said. She looked at Lacy. "You really adapted to your powers quickly. You were a big help."

Lacy felt herself blush.

For once, she had been able to help. Not just stand on the sidelines while an older sister, or a more combat-trained demigod did the fighting. And even with her heart still pounding, and the fatigue she was beginning to feel, it felt nice.

"Thanks," Lacy replied. "I'm glad I could help."

Ladybug gave her a big smile before turning to her partner. She gave Chat Noir a playful punch on the shoulder.

"Did you cataclysm two objects at once?"

Chat Noir shrugged it off. "It's no different than Hawkmoth akumatizing multiple people who are touching the same object. I was touching them both, so they both were cataclysmed."

"Still, good job," Ladybug replied.

Lacy's ring beeped again.

"Alright, I've got to collect her miraculous. See you later."

Chat Noir bowed dramatically. "Until next time, my lady."

Ladybug watched as he bounded off before taking Lacy back towards her place.

The two landed in Lacy's room just as Lacy detransformed. She plopped down on her bed, watching her kwami spin out of the ring.

"Now that was cool!" Orikko said. "You're an impressive chick." He turned to Ladybug. "You sure we can't keep her?"

Ladybug shook her head. "You know the rules." She turned to Lacy. "Are you okay?"

Lacy smiled a little crazily. "That was fun. I mean, I know it was serious and everything- oh! You've had a busy day - can I get you something to eat? I have emergency granola bars or I could grab something from downstairs."

Ladybug began to decline. "Thanks, but I'm-"

"Yes! Granola please!" Orikko interrupted eagerly.

Lacy gave the kwami a warm smile and moved to where she had stored her emergency snacks.

"She even feeds me!" Orikko said. He flew up to Ladybug. "I like her."

"I noticed."

Lacy came back with a granola bar for Orikko and one for herself, and Orikko downed his instantly. With her kwami fed, Lacy handed the miraculous back to Ladybug.

"Is there anything else I should know?" Lacy asked. "I mean, I know you reuse the temporary heroes, so if there's anything I can do to help out..."

"I'll let you know if I need you," Ladybug replied. "But sometimes the most heroic we can be is in everyday moments. The best way to help us is to help others around you."

Lacy nodded.

Ladybug made to leave, but hesitated at the window.

"Tomorrow the news will be all over the appearance of a new hero," she stated. "They'll probably be asking Chat and me about you. What can we call you?"

Lacy frowned in thought. "Umm... Kota. Call me Kota."

[margridarnauds]

I don't know if you're still doing the musicals thing but I HAVE to send you death note the musical (both japanese and korean) (did you know the korean one is finally fully subbed)

I DID NOT KNOW. THIS IS LIKE CHRISTMAS FOR ME.

Probably, dead serious, the best, or at least one of the best musicals Frank Wildhorn’s ever created. And I put a lot of it on him having the source material basically holding his leash there. It’s hard to really SELL to people because it’s such an inherently ODD concept, but then you see it on stage and you’re like “Oh. Okay. This works. This works REALLY well.” Personally, I think it’s a HELL of a lot better than the source material, given that it condenses a lot of the filler into two hours, focusing purely on the L/Light conflict. (SORRY NEAR, MATT, AND MELLO FANS. And RIP Takada. I love you, but you were never going to be adapted fairly anyway.)

And it also does a really, really good job of expanding the characterization of the characters that it DOES choose to focus on. Rem in particular is a STANDOUT, since they really go all in when it comes to her conflict with mortality and her feelings with Misa. While a part of me is obviously going to wish that the first piece of explicit queer rep that Wildhorn did wouldn’t be one where one of them DIES, it’s still fantastic to see and HEARTWRENCHING, and Rem gets what I personally consider to be the best number in the show. It also really goes in DEEP as far as showing that, just because L is opposing Light, he is not A Good Guy. He is someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes to achieve his goals, even if that involves people getting hurt, even if that involves people dying or being tortured. “The Game Begins.”

I DEEPLY appreciate that they kept the ending of Light begging and crying as he dies, because on top of being a personal moment of catharsis for the audience, it’s also a BIG moment as far as showing that there IS no glory in Light. All his pretensions, all his plans and his intelligence (even if his intelligence always was “That one dude in the philosophy class who interrupts the teacher and quotes Dawkins every five seconds”), “[He] still kicked it like any other mortal,” begging and screaming for a life that had already run out. I REALLY like that this production allowed for Soichiro Yagami to live and to have that one moment of HORROR in the end, as his own words from earlier must be ringing in his head. There’s really NO closure, even though Light’s dead, and I appreciate that it showed that, as well as the fact that the victims of what he did extended WAY past just the names he inked onto the page.

So, now on for the individual productions. I’m not as well versed in the Korean as I am with the Japanese, so bear with me.

Personally, as far as the L’s are concerned, I am VERY pro-Teppei Koike. I wasn’t particularly fond of his take at first, but seeing how he puts on the mannerisms, the crouches, the little tics that make L **L**, I really grew to appreciate him, especially after seeing his Ronan in 1789 and realizing “HEY. HE’S GOT *RANGE*” He might not have Junsu’s vocals, but his voice has a certain coolness to it that lends itself really well to the role, and he doesn’t take a lot of the lazy shortcuts that Junsu does (See: His Der Tod, where he apparently thought that growling = menace.)

Obviously, for the Lights, it’s gotta be Hong Kwang Ho. The man is PHENOMENAL and tbh is probably one of my favorite male vocalists. He does a FANTASTIC job showing Light’s descent in Hurricane, capable of going from scared, a little tentative, to taking a FIRM slide into darkness, with his voice completely overpowering the audience by the end. I actually LIKE the other Korean Light, but the poor guy REALLY had big shoes to fill.

On one hand, I LIKE how strong the Korean Misa’s voice is; I’m always here for voices with substance, but on the other hand, I REALLY like how YOUNG the Japanese Misa is, and she has a lot of energy in her performance. Misa, at least to me, isn’t a character that NEEDS to be overpowering, she’s YOUNG, she makes questionable decisions, and there’s a sense of deadly innocence about her that masks the dark side that I feel like the Japanese Misa does better with.

No opinion on the Rems. All Rems are Good and Valid and I love them. Though I did nearly do a flip when Korean!Rem turned out to be Elsa. I thought that it was hilarious, personally.

I’m constantly torn on the Ryuuk designs. On one hand, I LIKE the whole “drunken uncle” look of the original cast, but I also like the Korean for the relative attempt at accuracy. I REALLY like the 2017 take on Ryuuk, though, because it really shows him as kind of drawing the line at Rem’s death. Like, it’s all fun and games, and then she dies, and he’s like “Yeah, the kid’s stopped being fun.” Which adds even MORE to the sense that Light managed to dig his own grave. He got cocky, he thought that he could cause a shinigami to turn to dust and he wouldn’t face any consequences, because he’s The God of the New World, but he forgot that Ryuuk wasn’t loyal to HIM. And, as ODD as the relationship between him and Rem was (I personally lean towards “Weird siblings”), he knew her for a LOT longer than he knew Light. Mortals are expendable, but I think it becomes Real after that.

That, and Ryuuk is genuinely getting bored.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WHAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ABOUT YEARS

Err on the side. I may try in the future is David Heinemeier Hansson gave a talk in which he suggested that startup founders should do things the old fashioned way. 40% used to be common. Here, again, language designers are somewhat out of touch with their users. I accumulated all this useless stuff, but that it's very large, and the cost of failure to increase the number of nonspam and spam messages respectively. We take it for granted most of the calories.1 No one wants to begin a program with a bunch of strangers and probably be rejected by most of them grew organically.2 Think about where credentialism first appeared: in selecting candidates for large organizations.3 But if you skip running for a couple years for another company before starting their own companies than by working for existing ones, the existing companies are forced to pay more to keep them.

As I've written before, one of our habits of mind than others? Two have already turned down lowball acquisition offers. She arrived looking astonished. Ironically, part of the reason engineering is traditionally averse to handholding is that its traditions date from a time when engineers were less powerful—when they were Robin Hood, their stock price rose like Google's. It seems pretentious, or frivolous, or even make sounds that tell what's happening.4 I can to some extent avoid thinking about nasty things people have done to me by telling myself: this doesn't deserve space in my head. When I was a kid I was firmly in the camp of bad. For it to surprise me, it must be very hard—and so they don't try do to it. Now the same work might be done by one or two sentences.

And by Parkinson's Law, software has expanded to use the shift key much. No idea for a company; we did. Any strategy that omits the effort—whether it's expecting a big launch to get you users, or data ownership at the level of type tags.5 In our school it was eighth grade, which was still then a quasi-government entity. The good news is, if you're ahead now, and you've made something other users want too. Then you could, in effect, is leaks in a seal. Fortunately the way to do this when they can.6 But Yahoo treated programming as a commodity.7 And if you have such problems you want to get rich by building a valuable company and then selling stock in a liquidity event, founders should start companies that make money and live off the revenues of your company, don't look for them in the news. But still the case for guilt is stronger.8 Don't try to guess where your code is slow, because you'll guess wrong. Certainly it can be at every stage.9

It's common in technology for an innovation that decreases the cost of typing it. 99%. Here's a sketch of how I do statistical filtering. For most people, would be if he were thrust back into middle school. The official story is that legacy status doesn't carry much weight, because all it does is break ties: applicants are bucketed by ability, and legacy status is only used to decide between the applicants in the bucket that straddles the cutoff.10 Some VCs will say this is unthinkable—that they want all their money to be put to work growing the company. It's like importing something from Wisconsin to Michigan.11 Each is, by itself, enough to kill you. There are times in most of the 1970s. This can't be how the big, famous startups got started, they think.

That is the big win in the end, no matter what.12 Our instincts tell us something so valuable would not be surprised if it is called Lisp. And pow, more stuff. 7 billion, and the big bang method, is exemplified by the VC-backed, heavily marketed startup.13 Perhaps the most important of which was Fortran. If everyone else is cowering in a corner, you may not finish your training till 30. But measured in total market cap, the build-stuff-for-yourself model might be more fruitful.14 I can imagine two reasons: if they were functions on indexes, we could have monotonically increasing confidence in their opinions are implicitly concluding the world is static. It's not enough just to be pleasing.15 All the search engines were doing it. You don't need to know the type of every argument in every call in the program.16

Notes

The other extreme—becoming demoralized when investors reject you. The other cause is the most difficult part for startup founders and investors are also startlingly popular on Delicious, but when companies reach a given audience by a sense of the company is like starting out in the next time you raise as you get to profitability on a desert island, hunting and gathering fruit. Even though we made a million dollars. A significant component of piracy, which shows how unimportant the Arpanet which became the twin centers from which Renaissance civilization radiated.

Naive founders think Wow, a few stellar exceptions the textbooks are similarly misleading. But there are lots of options, because they actually do, and it introduced us to see how much he liked his work. Though they are so intellectually dishonest in that category. This is why hackers give you fifty times as much income.

No Logo, Naomi Klein says that clothing brands favored by urban youth do not do this with prices too, of course. If you have an investor pushes you hard to tell them about.

The ironic thing is, because it doesn't cost anything.

We tell them to get them to get good enough to invest in so many trade publications nominally have a notebook to write an essay about it as if the selection process looked for different things from different, simpler organisms over unimaginably long periods of time, is that when you use this thing yourself, because even being deliberately misleading by focusing on people who will go away is investors requiring them.

There are two simplifying assumptions: that the elegance of proofs is quantifiable, in which multiple independent buildings are gutted or demolished to be a good idea to make money. To be fair, the higher the walls become. In 1995, when the company.

Simpler just to load a problem later.

The root of the incompetence of newspapers is that they don't know of this essay, I mean by evolution. So if we wanted to invest more, are not in the bouillon cube s, cover, and so don't deserve to keep their wings folded, as they get for free. Living on instant ramen, which I deliberately pander to readers, because outsourcing it will seem more powerful version written in Lisp.

I don't want to measure that turns out to do it now.

The ironic thing is, obviously, only for startups, who've already made it possible to transmute lead into gold though not economically at current energy prices, but one by one they die and their houses are transformed by developers into McMansions and sold to VPs of Bus Dev. Your mileage may vary. They want to either. Instead of no one else involved knows French.

I may try to go the bathroom, and although convertible notes often have you heard a retailer claim that they'll be able to formalize a small business that isn't the last round of funding rounds are bad news; it is probably no accident that the site was about the cheapest food available. Hypothesis: A company will either be a predictor of success.

There were a property of the junk bond business by Michael Milken; a new, much more fun than he'd had an opportunity to invest in your startup with credit cards. Scribes in ancient Egypt took exams, but it might make them want you. An investor who says he's interested in graphic design.

If doctors did the same trick of enriching himself at the end of World War II was in principle is that you'll expend a lot, or want tenure, avoid casual conversations with potential earnings. There was no great risk in doing a small proportion of spam. Note to nerds: or possibly a winner, they will fund you one day be able to respond with extreme countermeasures.

So if all bugs are found quickly.

A lot of legal business. Jessica. Alfred Lin points out that this filter runs on.

When Harvard kicks undergrads out for doing it with such tricks, you'd get ten times as much what other people in any other company has ever been.

[travelingtarot]

TAROT THE WEEK!!!

Weekly Psychic Forecasts Every Monday Morning To Help Guide You Through Your Week!

Week Of July 30th – Aug 5th 2018

Card: Ace of Wands (R)

Quick Analysis: When the Ace of Wands is in the reversed position it usually means something is holding us back from starting fresh, starting anew.  We have a goal in mind.  We see the starting line just ahead.  But for some reason we can’t seem to step up to the starting line.  Because of that our dreams, plans, goals and aspirations for ourselves keep getting pushed away.

And the most frustrating thing of all is the starting line has not moved at all.  It’s still right there where it’s always been.  It’s we who have moved away.  Through reasoning, some legitimate some not, we have slowly inched ourselves further and further away from what we want.

We’re busy.  I get it.  We must take care of our partners, our immediate families and sometimes our extended families.  We must get our kids to school and then to the million and one extracurricular activities they have before and after school.  Then we must make sure they’re doing their homework and try our best to help them with it and the various school projects they have going on.

Then we have to check in with our partners and make sure they’re still breathing.  If we’re wise, we take out quality time each week to spend just with them.  But then that requires planning and doing.  We have to make sure the passion for not just our families stays alive, but the passion between our partners and ourselves as well.

Our parents aren’t getting any younger.  And while they are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, you see a day not too far away where they will be leaning on you more and more.  In fact, in small subtle ways that leaning in has already begun.

Then our friends, associates, colleagues, and communities all require our attention to a certain degree.

We swear we will make time for ourselves and our dreams.  We swear next week, next month, next year will be our time.  But next week, month and year never do come, do they?  We only have right now because right now is the only thing promised to us.  And even if there was a next week, month or year what are we doing now to carve out time for ourselves?  I’ve heard it said, “Luck is preparation meets opportunity.”  What are we doing to prepare ourselves for the opportunity at hand?  Like I said, the starting line has not moved one inch.  What are we doing to prepare ourselves right this minute for when we finally step up to that starting line?

It’s so important to not forget self amongst the million and one things we’re called to do in any given day.  We simply must take time for ourselves.  Even if it’s 20 minutes a day, we must force ourselves to put ourselves first for those precious 20 minutes.  Yes, for most of us that goes against our very nature to put ourselves first.  Even for 20 minutes.  But if we don’t, we’ll never be prepared once we finally make the choice to step up to the starting line.

In-Depth Analysis: Let’s talk about fear.  Specifically, the fear of success.  Yes, the fear of success is actually a real thing.  The fear of success can be a WAY harder concept for us to wrap our heads around because we’re always talking about the fear of failure.  But the fear of success affects people in as profound a way as any of our other fears, including failure.  So what is the fear of success?  Let’s get into it:

The straight forward answer to that question is when you are so afraid of success you’ll do anything not to attain it.  For most of us that seems incredibly counterintuitive.  Especially in the western world where it seems our whole identity is hinged upon how successful we are.  (And how young and beautiful we are, but that’s another story.)  In fact, how successful we are, at least in the Western world, is a rote topic of conversation.  Think about it.  The last time you were in a setting where you’re being introduced to brand new people, how often were you asked what you do for a living?  And once you said what you do, did it not lead to more easy conversation-like questioning about the specifics of what you do?  It happens all the time.  

(Side note: In my weird little mind I think it would be HILARIOUS if the next time someone asks “What do you do for a living?” to answer “I live off the tax-paying dollars of other hardworking people.” Or “I am PHENOMENAL in bed.  So much so my boyfriend/girlfriend pays my way through life.  I get to stay home, look pretty and fuck like a champion!”  Or “I’m a panhandler.  You can find me selling fruit every day on the exit 121 off-ramp.  Stop by!  I’ll give you a deal on half-rotten tomatoes!”  That would be SO FUNNY!!!  Of course, I don’t have the balls to pull that off in public, but I bet you do!  Enough with the shenanigans!  Back to this week’s lesson.)

And we are constantly bombarded with images of successful people in all media.  Rarely do you see people in television or print ads that are unsuccessful.  Rarely do you see people who are down on their luck and can’t catch a break.  And if you do, by the end of the commercial, tv show or movie, they’ve found the “secret sauce” to success and are wildly successful.  It seems we as Westerners are all about finding that “secret sauce” to success and then ball out of control for the rest of our lives.  To fear success seems out of the ordinary to us.

Therefore, if that’s true, if the fear of success is so foreign to the minds of most westerners, is it really all that commonplace?  Well in my research for this blog I found it to be MUCH more commonplace than I could have imagined.  Just a quick Google search on "fear of success" and article after article and page after page of information about it is at our fingertips.  Clearly, it's a problem that a lot of people have to contend with.

So what are the warning signs you may be experiencing the fear of success?  Well a few include:

 You don’t complete your projects (this could be at work or at home). 

 You talk about what you are going to do more than what you actually do. 

 You work furiously on several projects at once, not really focusing deeply on any one of them. 

 You still have exactly the same things on your vision board that were there five years ago. 

 You procrastinate.

 You second-guess yourself often. 

 Distraction is your middle name. 

 You don’t think your work is ever quite good enough. 

 You’re on the verge of ‘success’ and things start going really wrong.

Do any of these things apply to you?

In my research I found a man by the name of Professor Frank Manuel who studied the fear of success.  Professor Manuel suggested the term “Jonah complex” - named for the character Jonah from the Bible -  for people who have a fear of success.  If you don’t know the story of Jonah, you can find it in its entirety in the book of – wait for it! – Jonah.  At only 4 chapters long it’s one of the shorter books in the Bible.  If you’ve never read it, I encourage you to do so.  It’s a fascinating character study.  And if you have read it, reacquaint yourself with it.  It’s a really fascinating story.  Only a few Bible chapters long.  And it’s a good read.  So find it and read it and draw your own conclusions about it. 

Anyway, Professor Manuel’s colleague Abraham Maslow came up with the etymology of the word.  In short he stated: “The Jonah complex is the fear of success which prevents self-actualization, or the realization of one's potential.  It is the fear of one's own greatness, the evasion of one's destiny, or the avoidance of exercising one's talents.  Just as the fear of achieving a personal worst can motivate personal growth, the fear of achieving a personal best can also hinder achievement,”

There is another layer to the fear of success. Many of us have been conditioned to believe that the road to success involves risks such as "getting one's hopes up" - which threatens to lead to disappointment. And many of us-especially if we've been subject to verbal abuse-have been told we were losers our whole lives, in one way or another. We have internalized that feedback and feel that we don't deserve success.

There are probably a lot of deeper layers underneath the two I mentioned.  I encourage us all to look deep inside ourselves.  And if the fear of success is holding us back I encourage us to find out the underlying reasons why.  Because only in doing the work to figure out the core reasons behind that fear of success will we be able to then do the work necessary to fix the problem and move forward.  The Ace of Wands is waiting for us.  That starting line is right there where it’s always been.  I will leave you with this famous quote from the incomparable Marianne Williamson:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?”  Actually, who are you not to be?  You are a child of God.  Your playing small does not serve the world.  There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.  We are all meant to shine, as children do.  We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.  It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.  And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” 

Bottom Line: Fear is a powerful emotion.  It was given us as a tool for action.  The misuse of fear is to become paralyzed by it.  I’ve often heard it said courage is being scared shitless but doing it anyway.  It’s tough to unpack the reasons why we are afraid.  It’s a hard journey to peel back the layers within our psyche to get to the root of our problems.  I’m not gonna lie, it’s hard work.  But we are SO worth the trouble!  We are worth the time and energy, blood sweat and tears we must expend to shed those things within us that are no longer serving us.  Imagine a life without fear that holds us back from the good stuff!  Imagine valuing ourselves and what we have to offer this world enough to be bold, be strong, to be scared shitless but having the self-worth that we do it anyway.  If we can imagine ourselves being that type of person, we can do it.  There’s nothing our mind can imagine that we can’t make happen.  I encourage us to take the steps necessary to rid ourselves of the fears that are holding us back.  You can thank me later.

Have a FANTASTIC week, everybody!

Be Blessed.

Song Of The Week: Zach Williams “Fear Is A Liar” 

For more information and to book a psychic reading with me, click HERE 

For more information on the card used for this week’s reading click HERE  

[junghelioseok]

crosshairs.

↳ he’s never letting you out of his line of sight again.

   ◇ jungkook x reader     ◇ angst | smut | secret agent!au    ◇ 10.5k [1/1]

notes: i hate that i had this planned out a full six months ahead of jk’s birthday. i was never on top of things like this for hobi or yoongi, lmao. also? i actually had this done ahead of time and had a full week to comfortably edit? wild. absolutely wild. a revolutionary concept, really.

anyway. happiest of birthdays to our favorite baby bun!!! can you believe he’ll finally be able to drink legally when they celebrate their 3rd consecutive bbma win next year??? 

warnings: light violence. also, some dirty talk and smutty stuff.

You leave Bangtan’s headquarters for good on a rainy Tuesday evening, disappearing into the darkness with nary a goodbye. Hoseok is the one who discovers your vacated room the following morning and delivers the news in a subdued voice, his usual vigor dissipating into something flat and melancholy. She’s gone. Jimin’s smile drops off his face, and Yoongi hisses a quiet curse. At the head of the table, Namjoon can only shake his head, disappointment flooding across his features. It’s a betrayal, as far as he’s concerned, but he doesn’t want to admit that yet—doesn’t even want to acknowledge it. No one does.

Jungkook is already having a particularly terrible morning, having woken up far too early for a mandatory training exercise. The sun is shining brightly after yesterday’s storm, and he briefly thinks that you would have loved it if you were here, smiling that brilliant smile that made his heart thump erratically in his chest.

But it doesn’t matter. You’re gone, and Jungkook doesn’t expect to ever see you again. Moreover, he doesn’t want to see you again. Maybe he would have missed your presence once upon a time—but no longer. Life would be much simpler without you around.

He rises to his feet before he can even think to stop himself. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, and all eyes in the conference room flicker to him at the sudden motion, shimmering with the sort of sad sympathy that he despises, the sort that makes him want to disappear through the nearest wall. But despite all his talents, Jungkook still lacks the ability to pass through solid objects so he marches over to the door instead, wrenching it open with little regard for the way it slams into the wall. Namjoon is saying something—berating him for being so careless, probably—but he can’t discern the words over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He needs to get away, so he does the only thing that he can.

He runs, and he doesn’t look back.

Somehow, through some malicious twist of fate or otherwise, he ends up standing in front of your room. His fingers freeze on the doorknob, and it takes every ounce of strength in his body and several deep breaths to convince himself to turn it. The door creaks open—that way, I’ll hear any intruders coming, you’d always said—and Jungkook takes one hesitant step inside before coming to a halt.

It’s desolate. The walls are bare and the room is empty save a worn dresser, a wooden nightstand, and the unassuming bed in the corner—a piece of furniture Jungkook has admittedly grown quite familiar with and fond of over the years. A mental picture of you springs to his mind, unbidden, and he quickly banishes it before he can begin to recall your soft curves and the absolutely sinful smirk that so frequently decorated your lips. Those times meant nothing—your departure is proof of that. Stress of the job drove you into each other’s beds, and now it’s driven you away entirely. He frowns at the thought.

Slowly, Jungkook backs out into the hallway, letting the door click shut behind him. You’re gone, and there’s no use in dwelling on the past. This is for the best, he thinks.

And he forces himself to believe it’s true, despite the tiny, insistent voice in the back of his mind telling him otherwise.

///

He discovers your whereabouts purely by accident. By his calculations, there are twenty-seven different routes to get to your location, and an internal debate rages in his mind for a week before he settles on a final decision, one that he can be at peace with. However, not everyone seems to agree. Jimin tracks him down that afternoon in his quarters, his cherubic face pinched with worry.

“So, you’re not going after her?”

Jungkook refuses to look at his best friend, focusing instead on the monotonous thump of the ball he’s throwing against the wall. “Nope.”

Jimin sighs heavily, plopping down on the ground beside him. “I guess I can understand that,” he begins, running a hand through his blond hair. “But wouldn’t you feel better if you did?”

“Would I?” Jungkook throws the ball again, watching it bounce off the smooth alabaster surface before catching it. “It’s been four months.”

“Four months isn’t that long,” the blond man tries.

A derisive snort is his only response.

“She might miss you!” Jimin insists.

“If she wanted to come back, she would have.”

“But—“

“Fuck off, Jimin.” The dark-haired man tosses the ball again, perhaps with a bit more force than intended. It ricochets off the wall at an angle and bounces a few times before rolling to a halt on the other side of the room, and Jimin wordlessly follows its trajectory before returning his attention to Jungkook, his honey brown eyes flashing with hurt. He doesn’t speak again, though, and Jungkook knows he’s waiting for an apology.

It’s one he can’t bring himself to give, and he feels like shit for it.

“I… I know you’re trying to help,” Jungkook tries to amend. “But look, it’s not working. So just fuck off and leave me be, okay?” After another moment, he adds, “Please.”

Slowly, Jimin nods, his worried gaze raking over him one last time. “I still think you should go after her,” he murmurs softly before turning around and walking out, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Jungkook is beginning to think he’s right. But his pride and stubbornness will never let him admit that aloud, much less take one of the twenty-seven routes to get to you.

He stands up. Retrieving the ball, he gives it a long, hard glance before turning and hurling it at the opposite wall as hard as he can.

It drops to the ground sadly, and so does he. 

///

Even though you’re gone, he still sees you everywhere.

Jungkook catches glimpses of your face in his dreams and touches you in his sleep. He sees you in the summer sunlight glinting randomly off of Yoongi’s silver rings during meetings and double-takes every time he passes a mirror and sees your face reflected there. You haunt him constantly, hovering at the edges of his consciousness, just barely out of sight.

Whenever he needs a distraction, he goes out of his way to goad the other Bangtan agents. Some are easier to aggravate than others, and after a while, dodging Jin’s punches and listening to him squawk becomes almost therapeutic. Sparring helps too, and Jimin and Taehyung are more than happy to accommodate him with vigorous practice sessions whenever they have a free moment to spare.

One day, it finally happens. Intelligence reports surface of a dangerous assassin group targeting Bangtan, ruthless and hungry and eliminating anyone who stands in their way. “They’re known as Lotus. Currently, they’re in Beijing, but they’re heading our way,” Namjoon says during an afternoon meeting. “We need to take them out before they cross the border.”

Yoongi snorts. “Fuck, let them come. It’s not like we can’t kick their sorry asses.”

Namjoon raises a brow. “You sound enthusiastic, Yoongi. Are you volunteering to go?”

“Not if I don’t have to,” the pale-haired man replies, slouching further into his chair. Beside him, Jin chuckles and raises a hand.

“I can go, Joon. It’s been a while since I’ve been to China, anyway.”

Namjoon smiles. “Thanks, Jin. You’ll leave tonight. Jungkook, why don’t you accompany him?”

The sound of his name jolts Jungkook out of his stupor. As the youngest member of Bangtan, he’s always butted heads with Seokjin, and he’s sure that this mission will be no different from prior ones in that regard. But now—Jungkook thinks back to how you were last seen in Beijing just a few short months ago, and his adamant refusal to go after you. He hadn’t been ready to see you then, and he still isn’t—no matter how slim the chance that you would run into each other in a city of over twenty million people. “Me? Are you sure?” he asks.

“Is that a problem?” Namjoon’s other eyebrow rises up to join the first, and Jungkook backtracks immediately, realizing his mistake.

“O-of course not,” he says, hating the way he stutters over the words. “What information do we need?”

Satisfied with his compliance, Namjoon wordlessly slides two manila folders across the table, one of which Jungkook snatches up with ease. Opening it, he flips through the papers inside, adamantly ignoring the leader’s perceptive gaze raking across him in favor of picking up his plane ticket and examining the number of the departure gate very closely, as if it’ll suddenly change if he looks away.

Jin nudges him, drawing his attention away from the inked numbers. “Let’s meet at the front door in an hour,” he suggests.

“Who made you the fucking boss?” is Jungkook’s snarky response. Ignoring Seokjin’s angry retort, he pushes back from the table and stands, walking out of the conference room to pack his bags.

///

Beijing is too crowded, Jungkook decides. He’d thought as much within ten seconds of setting foot in the airport, and his mind hasn’t changed one bit in the twelve hours that have since passed. In front of him, Jin is sauntering along the sidewalk, radiating disinterest in the surrounding people and buildings. Only a trained eye could pick out the way the older man’s hand twitches continuously toward the gun concealed at his hip, and Jungkook would’ve laughed at his paranoia if he wasn’t expending all his energy on keeping up with his partner. Somehow, Jin is managing to glide through the bustle of milling people like a fish through water, leaving Jungkook to struggle in his wake.

Dodging yet another couple with a stroller, Jungkook finally manages to pull even with Seokjin. “Thanks for waiting,” he grumbles, just loud enough for the older man to hear.

“I’m not your babysitter,” Jin replies, cutting him a sideways glance. “And as you’re so fond of pointing out, I’m not your boss either, so I don’t have to keep track of your whereabouts every fucking second of every fucking day.”

“Jesus, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” It’s not his wittiest retort, but Jungkook can’t think of anything better.

Jin fixes him with a flat stare. “Great. Now that that’s out of your system, can we get back to the task at hand?” He nods at the innocuous building across the street—a multi-storied apartment complex with a sandstone and brick exterior. Lurking somewhere within is the base of operations for the group of assassins known as Lotus, but Jungkook knows that it won’t be as easy as simply strolling inside and eliminating the target. And Jin knows it too, if his thoughtful expression is any indicator. “We should have a good view from up there,” the older man says after a moment’s contemplation, jabbing a thumb at the hotel they’re standing outside of.

Jungkook follows the direction of his hand, eyeing the chalkboard sign proudly displaying its happy hour offerings. “Rooftop bar?”

“Rooftop bar,” Jin confirms.

“Good,” Jungkook grunts. “I’ll need a fucking drink if I’m going to work with you.”

Jin rolls his eyes. “You know RM doesn’t want us drinking on the job,” he says coolly, turning on his heel and striding toward the hotel doors without a backward glance.

Ten minutes later, Jungkook finds himself sipping on water, sitting on one of the many stools lining the counter that runs around the entirety of the roof. The bar is nearly deserted at two in the afternoon, so snagging seats overlooking the apartment building poses no problem. To his right, Seokjin sits slurping soda, his watchful gaze sweeping the street below.

“Pretty quiet so far,” the older man remarks. “I can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or not.”

“Maybe they’re sleeping in,” Jungkook says unhelpfully, trying to fish an ice cube out of his glass with a straw. “I know I’d rather be asleep right now.”

Jin casts him a disdainful look. “Too bad.” Then his eyes narrow, zeroing in on Jungkook’s ongoing battle against the ice. “What the fuck are you doing? Can’t you just drink your water like a normal person?”

Jungkook gives the floating cube one last furious jab before dropping his straw with a groan. “I’m bored,” he complains. “There’s nothing happening. No one’s going in or out of that building at all; it’s a fucking dead zone.”

The older man raises a questioning brow. “And nothing about that seems odd to you? Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you today? You’re always a pain in the ass, but you’re usually at least somewhat competent at your job. Why are you so off your game?”

There is an uncomfortably long pause as Seokjin stares him down expectantly, demanding an answer. Finally, Jungkook heaves a sigh, his shoulders slumping forward as he lets his head drop down onto his folded arms. “She might be here.”

Jin inhales sharply, and Jungkook knows that the older man has realized exactly which she he is referring to. “Fuck. That’s… yeah. All right.” Awkwardly, he claps the younger man on the back, once, with all the stiffness and empathetic capability of a corpse.

For a few moments, neither man speaks. Jungkook doesn’t raise his head and Jin stares straight ahead with unseeing eyes, lips puckered.

And then he waves down a waiter and orders two shots of whiskey, neat.

Curiosity has Jungkook peering up at him through his fingers. “What happened to not drinking on the job?”

“I made an exception,” Jin says shortly, accepting the glasses of amber liquid with a nod of acknowledgement. Sliding one to Jungkook, he raises his own in the younger man’s direction before tipping it back into his mouth. “Well? Weren’t you the one saying you needed a drink to work together? Go on. It’s… it’s on me.”

Jungkook straightens up and picks up the glass, taking a long sip. “Hey,” he says quietly, staring down at the remaining dregs of whiskey. “Thanks.”

Jin nods, his gaze fixed on the skyline in front of him. “Yeah.”

-

It’s nearly seven o’clock by the time Jin and Jungkook decide to make a move. After nearly five hours of watching Lotus’ temporary base of operations with absolutely no signs of activity, both men are more than suspicious. “I’m telling you, they’ve moved on,” Jin hisses under his breath as they follow a woman and her young son inside the apartment complex.

Jungkook scoffs. “And you don’t think Namjoon would’ve given us that intel?”

“Not if he doesn’t know!” Jin retorts loudly, drawing an accusing stare from the mother in front of them. He flashes her an appropriately abashed smile, which drops off his handsome face as soon as she’s turned her back again. “Seriously, man, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of these guys in hours. There’s no way they’re still here.”

The elevator dings. The woman and her son step inside, and Jin and Jungkook wordlessly come to an agreement to take the stairs instead. Jin swings open the door and Jungkook follows him inside the stairwell, shoes tapping against the hard concrete. “So what happens if they’re not here?” he asks, his voice echoing in the narrow space. “Do we know where they’re headed next?”

Jin sighs. “Besides Seoul to try and finish us off? Not a clue.”

“You think this is a trap?”

A beat of silence, as Jin considers the very real possibility that the afternoon of inactivity had simply been a way to lure them into a false sense of security. “I don’t think so,” he says after a few seconds’ consideration. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“And we all know you have great instincts,” Jungkook mutters sarcastically.

The older man rolls his eyes, sweeping a strand of dark hair off his forehead as he ascends the last few steps. “Great instincts or not, I’ve made it this far in life.” Stopping just short of the landing, he eyes the door that leads out of the stairwell carefully. “Now shut up, we’re here. Be ready for anything.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t a trap,” Jungkook points out dryly. Nevertheless, he checks his handgun before concealing it under his jacket once more.

Jin wisely chooses not to respond. Instead, he lays one hand on the weapon holstered at his hip and reaches out with the other to wrench the stairwell door open with as much nonchalance as he can muster. Together, they step out into the hallway, glancing around. “Room 907,” Jin murmurs, consulting the nearest sign. “You ready to break down the door?”

“Yeah.”

The older man gives him a satisfied nod and turns away, his footsteps muffled against the dark carpet. Jungkook steels himself as they come to a stop outside of the designated room, and is ready to throw his full weight against the door when something odd catches his attention.

“Genie,” he whispers. “The door’s unlocked.”

Jin’s eyes widen. Hesitantly, he reaches out and tests the doorknob, jaw falling slack when it twists easily in his grasp. “I don’t like this,” he mutters warily. “It’s all wrong.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “Well, it’s now or never. Let’s go.”

Seokjin throws open the door with a bang and darts inside, gun raised. Jungkook is right on his heels with his own weapon at the ready, watchful gaze darting left, right, and upward. And then Jin stops dead in his tracks, shoulders tense. “Seahawk.”

Jungkook tries to peer around him. “What?”

Jin doesn’t respond, but he no longer has to. Jungkook has already nudged him out of the way and stepped out of the entryway, only to stare at the sight before him in utter disbelief.

Bodies litter the living room. One is draped over the back of the couch, two are lying prone on the floor, and a fourth sits upright in an armchair. If not for the unnatural angle of his neck, Jungkook could almost believe that he was simply asleep.

“What… what the hell happened here?” Jin asks, flabbergasted.

Jungkook recovers from the shock a little more quickly. “Well, it looks like a massacre happened,” he says dryly.

“One’s missing,” Jin whispers, gaze darting around frantically as he inches further into the room. “Lotus has five agents. There are only four bodies here.”

Jungkook barely hears him. He’s vaguely aware of the older man disappearing down the hallway toward the bedrooms, but his eyes are focused entirely on the four dead assassins scattered around the room. Experimentally, he nudges the man draped over the couch with his foot, eyes narrowing when his head flops around, boneless. “Broken neck,” Jungkook mutters to himself. Meandering around the coffee table, he peers critically at the two prone bodies on the floor—a man and a woman. The woman has a clean gunshot wound in the middle of her forehead, a thin line of blood dribbling down to disappear into her hairline. The man, on the other hand, sports a multitude of mottled purple bruises on his face, a nasty crimson gash cutting crudely across his throat and soaking the carpet in dark congealed blood. “Huh.”

Seokjin emerges from the hallway, his gun now lowered. “Found the fifth one,” he says, nodding toward one of the bedrooms. “On one of the beds. She’s been strangled.”

“Strangled,” Jungkook repeats slowly. “Fuck.”

Jin raises an inquiring brow. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re clean kills,” the younger man murmurs. His gaze flickers over to the bruised man on the ground, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Well, most of them, anyway.”

“So?” Jin shrugs. “Lotus had a lot of enemies. Lots of people wanted them dead.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “It wasn’t just anyone,” he breathes. Like a man possessed, he strides down the hallway and into the bedroom at the end, taking in the sight of the strangled assassin lying on the mattress. Her hands are splayed neatly at her sides, dark hair fanned out underneath her head. She could easily have passed as napping if not for the purplish bruises encircling her throat like a mottled necklace.

Jin squints, bemused. “What are you saying, Seahawk?”

“I… I think it was her,” Jungkook murmurs. He can’t bring himself to look Seokjin in the eye as the older man digests this new information, the silence stretching between them.

Finally, Jin finds his voice. “Are… are you sure?”

“Not sure,” Jungkook admits. “But she never liked to leave a mess behind if she could help it.”

The older man nods, a wistful smile curving his lips. “I remember.” Surveying the room one last time, he nods decisively. “Well. There’s not much else for us to do here, and we should probably split before anyone else arrives.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgement, tucking his gun back into the holster on his belt. “I’ll text RM and let him know that Lotus is taken care of.”

He doesn’t plan on telling the leader his suspicions about who exactly had taken care of them, and Jin gives him a knowing look, an implicit understanding passing between them.

“Hey,” Jin says suddenly. “Want to get dinner? I’m starving, and there’s a restaurant a few blocks away with good beer and the best damn pork buns you’ll ever taste.”

Jungkook blinks, taken aback by the gentleness in his tone, but a low rumble from his stomach reminds him just how hungry he is. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

///

“So, do you want to talk about it?”

Annoyance flares up in Jungkook’s chest, but as peeved as he is, it’s incredibly hard to find the willpower to launch a punch at a man who’s smiling as brightly as Hoseok is. “No,” he grits out, dropping into a crouch and sweeping one leg out in an arc.

Hoseok sidesteps the kick easily, lips still curled in a pleasant smile. “You sure? Jin told me all about Beijing, you know. Said you were really off your game.”

“Jin can go to hell.”

A chuckle escapes the red-haired man as he dodges the sharp jab that Jungkook directs at his head. “If Jin’s going to hell, you’re already there.” He straightens up but keeps his fists raised defensively, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he regards Jungkook carefully. “Really. You haven’t been the same since {Name} left.”

There it is. It’s been so long since he’s heard your name spoken aloud that he’s nearly forgotten what it sounds like. And in the brief moment that Jungkook is distracted, Hoseok launches a roundhouse kick right into his ribs that sends the younger man staggering.

“Jin wasn’t kidding. You really are off your game,” Hoseok remarks, returning to his defensive stance.

Jungkook growls and begins to circle, fists raised in preparation as he looks for an opening to attack. “No one asked you.”

“Yeah, I know,” the red-haired man replies with an easy grin, teeth flashing in the harsh fluorescent lights that illuminate the training room. “But I think you should know that Joon’s noticed too. You can’t keep letting it affect you like this.”

“I’m fine,” Jungkook grits out before going on the offensive again, launching a flurry of punches at the older man. Hoseok manages to avoid the first few but eventually falters underneath the dogged assault, raising his arms over his head as Jungkook tackles him headlong to the ground. “How’s that for someone who’s supposedly off his game?” he spits out, straddling the red-haired man’s torso.

“Ouch.” Hoseok shoves Jungkook roughly off of him—sending the younger man crashing hard to the ground—and winces as he sits up. “Fuck, all right, man. You don’t want to talk about it. I get it.”

Jungkook scowls, rubbing at his bruised shoulder. “There’s nothing to talk about.” One look at Hoseok’s face tells him that the older man doesn’t believe the statement, and if Jungkook’s being honest with himself, neither does he. Still, he persists stubbornly. “I’m fine,” he says again, as if repetition will somehow make it true.

Hoseok offers him a small, sad smile. “That’s wishful thinking, Jeon, and you know it.”

His words ring loud and true in the stifling silence that suddenly fills the room. Jungkook cannot bring himself to look at the other man, who is shaking his red hair out of his face and rubbing at his tailbone with a grimace. After a few quiet seconds, Jungkook exhales heavily and clambers to his feet, extending a reconciling hand.

“Thanks,” the older man says gratefully, allowing Jungkook to pull him upright. “How’s the arm?”

He shrugs, ignoring the dull throb of pain that shoots from his fingertips to his shoulder. “I’ve had worse.”

Hoseok lets out a wry chuckle. “I believe it. Want to go again?”

Jungkook snorts. “I think we’ve had enough for one day, Hobi.”

“Fair enough.” Hoseok turns, striding over to one of the benches along the walls and grabbing his water bottle. Picking up Jungkook’s, he tosses it over before taking a long swig. “Hey,” he begins slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You might punch me again, but I really do think you should talk about it with someone. Maybe not me, necessarily, but bottling your feelings up like this isn’t healthy.”

Jungkook takes two large gulps of water before upending the remainder over his head. “What is there to talk about?” he scoffs, shaking out his wet hair like a dog. “She was last seen in Beijing. End of story.”

“Really?” Hoseok raises a skeptical brow, carefully stepping out of the range of the sudden deluge. “Jin said you thought that she was the one who took out Lotus.”

“Shit, I’m gonna kill him.” Jungkook’s fists clench, and Hoseok tilts his head curiously.

“So it’s true.”

Jungkook rakes a few strands of damp hair away from his forehead irritably. “So what if it is?”

Hoseok frowns. “Do you really think it was her?”

“I know what I saw.”

The corner of Hoseok’s mouth curls up into a wry smile. “Don’t make me repeat myself about wishful thinking, Jungkook.”

“Don’t make me regret agreeing to spar with you,” Jungkook retorts with narrowed eyes. His fingernails dig deeper into the soft skin of his palms, but he barely feels the sharp twinge of pain.

“Okay, okay.” The red-haired man puts his hands up in surrender, a more genuine smile curving his lips. “Bet you’d rather be sparring with {Name} anyway, huh?”

The teasing glint in Hoseok’s eye doesn’t go unnoticed by him. “Shut the hell up,” Jungkook mutters, but there’s no real bite in his tone. His mind is awash in memories of old sparring sessions with you—your hair pulled up and away from your face, concentration etched across your features. He remembers the graceful way you moved, like long grass swaying in the wind. What you lacked in brute strength you made up for with agility, and his lips quirk as he recalls all the sessions that ended with him flat on his back, gazing up as you perched happily on top of him with a triumphant grin stretched across your face.

Most of all, he remembers kissing you after particularly vigorous sessions, his hands trailing down your body in the tight tops you preferred to fight in, the thin material now plastered to your curves with sweat. But he never minded the dampness or the salty tang on your lips, and neither did you. You were too busy trying to get as close to him as possible, and he was too preoccupied with peeling off your shirt to access your cleavage. Jungkook can practically feel the warmth of your body pressing up against him, your arms winding insistently around his neck and tugging him down to your level so you can press your mouth to his.

He misses you. But he’d be damned if he ever admitted that aloud.

One look at Hoseok’s face tells him that the older man knows what he’s thinking anyway. And when he speaks again, it’s the question that Jungkook has been dreading ever since Hoseok started interrogating him. “Why do you think she left?” His voice is gentle.

“I don’t fucking know,” Jungkook growls immediately, and it’s an honest answer. He’s been turning over every possibility—down to the everyday minutiae—to try and explain why you’d suddenly decided to up and leave Bangtan with no warning. He hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in seven months, trying to figure the puzzle out. But all he’s left with when he wakes up in the morning is dark bags under his eyes and the glaring absence of your body in bed beside him. “I don’t know,” he repeats.

Hoseok raises a hand and lays it on his shoulder gingerly, as if touching a coiled snake. “I don’t either,” he admits. “But whatever her reasons may have been, the one thing I do know is that it wasn’t because of you.”

Jungkook doesn’t know what to say in response to that. But as the two of them head for the showers, he feels better than he has in a long time.

///

There’s something about autumn in Paris, something bittersweet and melancholy that stirs in the cool breeze coming off the Seine and the crunch of dry brown leaves under his feet. The city has a reputation for lovers, which Jungkook has never really understood. The French capital has always been overcrowded and rife with petty criminals. On the rare occasions that he finds himself in the city, romance is the last thing on his mind.

Jungkook pulls his scarf a little tighter around his neck and quickens his pace. Based on Namjoon’s briefing, his target has set up base on Rue la Pérouse, just steps away from the Arc de Triomphe. It’s an easy mission—a simple in-and-out assassination. Inhaling deeply, he comes to a stop outside the front door. After a moment’s fiddling, the lock clicks open.

Eighteen minutes later, Jungkook is strolling down Rue la Pérouse again, retying his scarf and adjusting his black leather jacket to conceal a dark bloodstain on his collar. “Fucking brute,” he grumbles under his breath. And he’d been so close to making a clean getaway too.

Rounding a corner, he finds himself gazing up at the white stones of the Arc de Triomphe, a gaggle of tourists clamoring for photographs nearby. For Jungkook, this marks the fourth time he’s seen the ivory monument during his travels, and the sight has long since lost its appeal. Irritably, he weaves through the flock of people and cameras, turning onto Avenue des Champs-Élysées to continue on his way when suddenly, a café to his right catches his eye. To casual passersby, there is absolutely nothing remarkable about the place. There are dozens just like it all across the city. But for Jungkook, what he sees there is enough to make him stumble and nearly walk into another pedestrian.

It’s you. He can scarcely believe it, but there you are, curled up in one of the cushioned wicker chairs with an open newspaper and a mug of coffee sitting at your elbow. Jungkook has to rub his eyes and make sure he’s not hallucinating, but when he opens them and sees that nothing has changed, he stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, mind reeling. Part of him wants to call out to you, to demand an explanation or ask where you’ve been—but something holds him back. Thankfully, you haven’t spotted him yet. Jungkook is sure he looks positively idiotic, standing in the middle of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, gaze riveted on a young woman who left him a year ago without even saying goodbye.

You’re sipping your coffee now, and Jungkook finds himself admiring the delicate curve of your wrist and the way your lips pucker around the rim of the mug. You’ve let your hair grow, he notices. As an agent, having short hair was much more practical, but he has to admit that he likes the longer style. He has never seen you look so peaceful, not even on the few mornings he’s woken up before you to see you still fast asleep beside him, chest rising and falling slowly as you dreamed. It suits you, he decides. Watching you now, it’s almost hard to believe that you were once an elite agent for one of the most dangerous spy organizations in the world.

Just as Jungkook is about to walk away and leave you to your new life, a man with a guitar strikes up a merry tune on the sidewalk behind him. The new sound catches your attention and you look up, gaze wandering to the musician before flitting across the group of pedestrians beginning to congregate. Jungkook tries in vain to duck behind a lamppost, but when you do a double take, eyes widening, he knows he’s been spotted.

“Kook?” you call out hesitantly, standing up and slapping a few euros on the table. Then you are walking toward him, the sound of your voice freezing him in place. ”Is that you?”

He turns, almost reluctantly, and finds himself gazing down into your achingly familiar face. You are speaking French, something in the back of his mind points out. He supposes that makes sense, considering where you are. Your accent is impeccable, and Jungkook realizes that you must’ve been in France for quite a long time to have perfected the language. His own French, on the other hand, is rusty—a fact he remembers when he opens his mouth to speak.

“Y-yeah, it’s me. Uh… hey.” He feels like an idiot.

But then you smile, and the sight is so dazzling that Jungkook momentarily forgets how to breathe. His heart takes off at a gallop, frenzied and uneven, and when your smile widens it skips several beats entirely. “Hey,” you murmur, something indescribably warm shimmering in your eyes. “It’s really good to see you.”

Jungkook swallows, hard. “You too,” he manages, sucking in a shallow breath. His heart flops frantically against his ribcage, and he quickly takes a few more breaths in an effort to calm its rapid rhythm. “You, uh. You look well,” he mumbles once he’s certain that his chest isn’t about to burst.

Your smile somehow manages to grow even further, so much that Jungkook is shocked you haven’t split apart at the seams. “Thanks. You look like you’re doing pretty well yourself, Kook.”

The nickname, so sweet coming from your lips, sends Jungkook’s heart into overdrive again. “I’m okay,” he manages once he recovers, and for the first time he notices your smile falter. ���Just a little slip-up on today’s mission,” he amends quickly, watching carefully for your reaction. “Didn’t manage to make a completely clean getaway.”

“Ah.” Your gaze flickers down to the scarf that Jungkook is fiddling with, momentarily exposing a bloodstain on his collar. “That’s a shame.”

He grunts. “It’s all right.”

Silence falls, and Jungkook cannot find the words to break it. Luckily, you are a bit more articulate. “So, how long are you going to be in Paris?”

Jungkook racks his brain for the details of his briefing, recalling his itinerary with some difficulty under your inquiring gaze. “I leave tomorrow afternoon.”

You nod slowly. “Well, then. Care to take a walk with me? I’d really like to catch up.”

“S-sure,” he says hoarsely, heart rate picking up again. “I’d like that too.”

///

The two of you end up strolling along the Seine, breathing in the crisp autumn air and admiring the sunlight glittering off the rippling expanse of water. In the distance, the twin towers of Notre Dame rise up, ivory against the pristine blue backdrop of the cloudless sky.

Beside you, Jungkook is staunchly avoiding looking in your direction. His eyes skitter from a flock of pigeons pecking at the cobblestones for stray breadcrumbs, to the milling tourists taking photographs on the river. You see the stiff set of his shoulders, notice the way he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. It’s obvious that he has absolutely no idea how to strike up a conversation, and, if you’re being completely honest, you’re equally at a loss. By the time you finally manage to find your voice again, you want to kick yourself for the first thing that comes out of your mouth.

“So, uh. It’s really nice out today.”

Jungkook blinks, lips parting in surprise as he sneaks a fleeting glance at you from underneath his dark lashes. “Oh. Um, yeah, it is.”

Resigning yourself to the fact that you are, indeed, going to talk about the weather, you stubbornly plow on. “How’s the weather in Seoul right now?”

Your dark-haired companion shrugs, gaze now fixed straight ahead. “It’s okay. Mostly cloudy.”

“Ah.” You aren’t sure what else there is to say. Silently, you berate yourself for your choice of conversation topic—rarely do conversations about the weather trigger any deeper discussion, so when Jungkook speaks again you are taken completely by surprise.

“You would hate it right now,” he murmurs. “The clouds, I mean. It’s probably a good thing you’re living here now, huh?”

There’s a certain quality to his tone—something whisper-soft and heart-wrenchingly tender in its reminiscence—that makes your heart feel as if it’s about to swell up and burst. “I do like it here,” you admit quietly.

Jungkook nods, raising his gaze from the cobblestones beneath his feet to hesitantly meet your eyes. “I can see why,” he says, his voice still laden with that same tenderness from before. “And you did always talk about how you wanted to move to France after you retired.”

You grin. “I know. I’m pretty sure I talked your ear off about how much I liked it after RM sent me on my first mission to Paris.”

A disbelieving huff escapes him, bordering on a laugh. “God. That was so long ago.”

“It really was,” you agree with a chuckle. “Hey, that was right before we went to Munich, remember?”

“You mean the time we went to Oktoberfest and drank our asses off instead of actually working?” Jungkook snorts out an actual laugh this time, rewarding you with a flash of his adorably prominent teeth. “Of course I remember. Still the best mission RM’s ever sent us on.”

“Hey, we got the job done, didn’t we?” You elbow him playfully, acting purely on instinct, but the way Jungkook’s eyes widen has you immediately reconsidering the comfortable gesture. A moment later, however, his mouth lifts into another smile.

“We did,” he agrees softly, eyes shining with an indescribable warmth that makes you flush from your toes to your crown despite the chilly autumn air. “We always did.”

Unable to take his intense gaze any longer, you instead focus your attention on a particularly adventurous pigeon that is boldly bobbing its way closer and closer to a little girl and her half-eaten box of macarons. “I don’t know about always,” you say in a hushed voice. Watching the bird zero in on the colorful confections, you miss the slight shift in Jungkook’s expression, something hard flitting across his features before he manages to smooth it away.

“Maybe not,” he acquiesces. “But we were damn good. Remember Cairo?”

The memory brings a tiny smile to your face. “Of course I do.”

“I sure hope so. Not every day you get to take down a whole network of corrupt politicians.” Jungkook grins and you are once again rewarded with the sight of his prominent teeth. “It was nice to make a difference.”

“A difference,” you repeat, blinking slowly. “Yeah.”

Jungkook’s gaze is openly curious now—doe-like and filled with silent inquiry. You know exactly what he wants to ask, can practically hear his next words on his tongue. Why did you leave? Why didn’t you say goodbye?

You aren’t ready to give him an answer. So instead, you turn to him with the brightest, most genuine smile you can muster and an outstretched hand. “Well, it’s almost time for dinner, and I’ve had beef bourguignon going in the oven since this morning. You interested?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jungkook reaches out and accepts your hand, his fingers curling protectively around yours. “Sure. That sounds delicious.”

///

Somehow, Jungkook ends up in your bed. He doesn’t know how it happened, or who initiated the first kiss. All he remembers is entering your apartment and watching you bustle around the kitchen for a few minutes before emerging with two platters of food.

And now you are pressed against him, breaking your fourth or fifth kiss of the evening and gasping for some much-needed air. “Fuck,” you mumble, a hair’s breadth away from his addicting mouth. Your fingers are still tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, your legs straddling his muscular thighs. “We really shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Since when did you decide to start following rules?” Jungkook retorts, tugging you flush against him once more and nipping at your neck. You gasp when he finds a particularly sensitive spot near your collarbone, throwing your head back and allowing him full access to the column of your throat.

“I—ah—never said I was going to start… following rules,” you manage between moans. Already, his mischievous hands have found their way underneath your shirt, trailing along the soft skin of your waist. You allow him to slide the thin material upward, his mouth leaving your neck briefly as he tugs it over your head and off entirely before latching back onto the soft spot near your clavicle. He bites down harshly before sucking at the tender skin—drawing another sharp gasp from you—and his wet tongue darts out a moment later to soothe the bruise that you know will blossom up tomorrow. “Oh god, Jungkook.”

The young man underneath you freezes. Alarmed, you pull back to get a good look at his expression, but he’s burying his face in the crook of your neck again before you can even ask what’s wrong. He kisses his way from the dip in your collarbones down to the valley between your breasts, and you keen in pleasure when he all but rips your bra off and envelops a nipple in his hot mouth.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, Jungkook, please.”

He groans hoarsely, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending shivers down your spine. Pulling back, he meets your gaze directly, dark eyes smoldering. “Say it again.”

“Wh-what—?”

Jungkook cuts you off with an absolutely bruising kiss, his insistent tongue darting into your mouth and lashing yours into subdued compliance. “My name,” he breathes, pulling away just enough to murmur the words against your swollen lips. “Say my name again.”

You sigh contentedly, more than happy to heed his request. “Jungkook,” you whisper, closing the gap between your lips in a soft, chaste kiss. “Jungkook.”

Another groan escapes him, and when he speaks again his voice is deep and cavernous in a way that sends a jolt of heat right to your core. “Christ, {Name}.”

It has been just over a year since you last heard him say your name, and you suddenly understand his adamant, breathy request with perfect clarity. “Jungkook,” you repeat, settling more firmly on his lap and grabbing the hem of his shirt. He lets you pull it off and toss it aside, dark gaze never once leaving yours. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In a rush of motion, you suddenly find yourself flat on your back with all the air knocked out of your lungs. Jungkook hovers over you with a pleased smirk, arms coming down on either side of your head to cage you in. Wordlessly, he leans down to press one final kiss to your mouth before trailing downward, laving at the bruise he’d left on your neck earlier and chuckling when you arch underneath him. “So needy,” he rasps. “You want me to fuck you into this mattress, baby?”

Your only response is to reach down and pop open the button of his jeans, palming his growing erection through the denim. He exhales harshly at the sensation, sitting up and knocking your hand away to unzip his pants and shove them down to his hips, freeing his cock in one smooth motion. Instinctively, your tongue darts out to moisten your lips at the sight. “Jungkook,” you say hoarsely. “Please.”

Jungkook wraps his hand around his weeping length, giving himself a few good strokes as he tongues his cheek thoughtfully. “Hands and knees, baby,” he commands a moment later, and you scramble to comply. Almost immediately after you’ve settled into position, you feel Jungkook behind you, rubbing the head of his cock along your dripping entrance. “So wet,” he hums, giving your ass an appreciative squeeze. “That all for me?”

“You know damn well that it is,” you answer, trying in vain to keep the edge of desperation out of your voice. Your thighs rub together in anticipation as you feel him pressing closer, heat radiating off his chest in waves as he hunches over you and runs a gentle finger along the ridges of your spine.

“Good.” His mouth finds the shell of your ear, voice dropping lower and deeper. “That’s the way it should be.”

And then he’s pushing inside you, slick and hot and so, so familiar. A litany of gasps and curses leaves your mouth as your body adjusts to the intrusion, and you feel Jungkook’s head drop onto your shoulder with a hoarse groan.

“Fuck, I never thought I’d get to be inside you again,” he whispers, and the awe in his tone has you flushing with embarrassment. Somehow, you feel as if you’ve heard something that you had no right hearing, something that he didn’t intend for you to hear. And yet, he’s right—you didn’t think you’d ever see him again after you left, much less have his hips nestled up against the curve of your ass with his cock buried so deep inside you.

“Jungkook,” you urge softly, rocking back against him. “Move, please. I want you so badly.”

Your words seem to snap him out of his stupor. “How badly, baby?” he asks, squeezing your thigh and stopping your movements, much to your disappointment. “Tell me.”

“So badly,” you keen. Your head flops forward, hair falling messily around your face as your eyes squeeze shut. By this point, all you can feel is the slow throbbing of his length against your walls, slowly driving you insane. “So, so badly, please, Jungkook. I need you to move.”

“Such a greedy little thing,” he chuckles. “So needy and so fucking wet.” Agonizingly slow, he begins to pull back, retreating until only the head of his cock is still nestled inside you, before snapping his hips upward and filling you to the brim once more. “Fuck, you feel good. Don’t forget to scream my name, okay?”

You don’t need the reminder, for his name is all you can manage to keen out in between low whimpers begging for more. The pace that he sets is fast and sloppy, each movement filled with an urgency that borders on frantic. Pleasure coils in the pit of your belly and spirals outward, coursing through your veins in a torrent of tingling warmth that renders you near speechless. You feel fit to burst—gasping out as much to Jungkook, who only chuckles and slides a wicked hand from your hip down to the apex of your thighs. Two fingers find your swollen clit, pinching lightly before rolling around the sensitive nub in hard, insistent circles, and the resulting sound that leaves your lungs is near inhuman. Your head falls forward onto the mattress as he presses even harder on your bud, the rhythm of his hips never once faltering as he continues to drive into you.

A particularly hard thrust sends you sliding forward several inches on the bed, your knees dragging along the creased sheets and bunching them up further. You gasp as your arms give out, dropping to your elbows instead and moaning as your nipples brush against the soft material. “Fuck, Jungkook!”

“God, you’re hot,” he grunts, tangling his hand in your hair and forcing you to straighten until you are kneeling upright, his slick chest pressed flush against your back. “Wrap your arms around my neck, baby.”

Obediently, you reach back to wind your arms around him, mouth parting to release a whimper when his teeth catch on your shoulder and drag along the tender skin. Seconds later, his hot tongue traces the same path. One hand curls around your hip to keep you in place as he continues rolling up into you, the other wrapping more firmly around your hair and wrenching your head around. You meet his gaze, and the pure lust smoldering there sends electricity ricocheting down your spine and straight to your core. “O-oh god. God, Jungkook.” You can feel yourself growing wetter by the second, easing the slide of his thick cock along your tightening walls.

“Fuck, {Name},” he rasps out, his voice cavernous. “You feel goddamn incredible.”

“S-so do you!” you manage to stammer, your chest heaving with uneven, sharp breaths. Your tummy tenses.

And then Jungkook is crushing his mouth to yours, swallowing every moan and cry as you come undone in his arms, clenching around his surging cock in spasms. His hips stutter—falter—and then he is coming too, creamy heat flooding through your core and painting your walls white. Your name escapes him in a reverent groan, muffled and hot against your parted lips.

It takes several long moments for you to recover, but Jungkook eventually untangles his hand from your hair and releases his ironclad grip on your hipbone. Without his support, your muscles give out entirely, sending you flopping forward onto the rumpled bedspread with a low groan. His softening dick slides out of you, and immediately you can feel your combined juices beginning to trail down your thighs. “Wow,” you breathe, rolling over weakly to look up at him. “Fuck. I can barely feel my legs.”

The dark-haired man chuckles and collapses tiredly beside you, raking a hand through his sweaty bangs. “That good, huh?”

“That good,” you confirm with a lazy little grin, craning your neck and planting a kiss on the first part of him you can reach, which just so happens to be his chin. “Color me impressed, Jeon.”

Jungkook huffs out another laugh and leans down to press a proper kiss to your mouth. “I didn’t even eat you out,” he points out with a smirk.

Your gaze flickers up to meet his. “Well,” you begin, watching his face cautiously, “stay the night and maybe you can do it in the morning.”

He doesn’t immediately refuse, and a tentative tendril of hope takes root in your chest when you see his expression shift into one of careful consideration. “Okay,” he finally says, after what feels like eons but couldn’t have actually been more than a couple seconds. “I’ll stay tonight.”

The tendril in your chest blooms into something beautiful and radiant, wrapping around your heart and holding on tight. “Good,” you whisper, shifting a little closer to his chest and pressing your cheek against the warm, slightly damp skin. “Good.”

Jungkook stays awake long after your eyes flutter shut, silently admiring the way your lashes rest against the soft curve of your cheeks as you dream—hopefully about him. His arm tightens around your waist at the thought, a smile tugging his lips upward when you instinctively curl into him with a content sigh. Not just good, a satisfied voice in his mind croons. This is more than good.

It’s fucking perfect.

///

When Jungkook wakes up in the morning, you are gone.

Panic wells up inside him, roiling in his gut and threatening to upset the few bites of dinner he’d managed to eat last night before his mouth decided to engage in an entirely different, much more pleasurable activity instead. “{Name}?” The syllables escape him in little more than a warble, hoarse and strained. “{Name}?”

Reaching out, he touches the slight dip in the mattress where you’d lay the night before. The sheets are cool beneath his fingertips, indicating that you’ve been gone for quite a while now. His chest tightens at the thought.

“{Name}!” he tries again, voice a little stronger this time. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he stands up and reaches for the jeans he’d kicked off and to the foot of the bed last night, pulling them on hastily. His shirt is nowhere to be seen so he foregoes any attempt at covering up his chest, striding out of your bedroom and through the rest of your small, cozy apartment in search of you. He throws open closet doors and peers behind the shower curtain—even flopping onto his stomach and checking underneath the worn couch in a moment of fantastic absurdity.

But you are nowhere to be found.

There’s a despairing groan forming a lump in his throat and fighting to get out, but Jungkook wills it back down. Plucking his leather jacket up from where it’s hanging askew on the corner of your dining table, he shrugs it on and crosses over to your front door, flinging it open and glancing both ways down the hall in hopes that you’ll suddenly appear. But when you don’t, Jungkook slides his boots on and steps out into the corridor, letting the door click shut behind him.

Two flights of rickety stairs and one door later, Jungkook is standing on the street, taking in the quiet bustle of a city that’s still shrugging off the night’s sleep. A young man on a red bicycle zips by with a bundle of newspapers in his basket, barely swerving to avoid him, and Jungkook flinches back with a low curse. “What a fucking moron,” he mutters under his breath, but he’s no longer sure if he’s talking about the newsboy or himself. “An absolute asswipe.”

“Huh,” a voice hums thoughtfully from behind him. “I do need toilet paper, now that you mention it. But I’ll pick that up next time when I go to the store.”

Jungkook stiffens—whirls around—and there you are, standing on the sidewalk with your head tilted, gazing up at him with a curious little smile. His heart stutters in his chest before taking off in a mad sprint, lips parting to release words of relief that he hasn’t had time to formulate yet.

“Kook? You okay?” There’s a concerned knit in your brow now, and Jungkook shakes his head quickly.

“Y-yeah,” he stutters. “It’s nothing.”

You don’t look convinced as you look over his appearance, your eyes narrowing further when you take in the state of his clothes. “Where the hell is your shirt?”

“Fuck if I know,” he says immediately. “You tell me.”

An amused grin twitches on your lips, and Jungkook is suddenly struck with the urge to swoop down and kiss you senseless. “I’ll help you find it after breakfast,” you promise, and for the first time he notices the paper bags dangling from your hands. Automatically, he’s reaching out and taking them from you, singlehandedly hefting both up with ease and peering curiously inside.

“What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” you reply, turning and ascending the front steps to your apartment building. “I realized I didn’t have that much food in the fridge this morning, so I went to the bakery down the street for some pastries. Somehow, I didn’t think you’d want beef bourguignon this early.”

Jungkook follows after you, bags still swinging loosely in his hand. “I’m not picky.”

“I know,” you say with a laugh, stepping inside and meandering through the lobby to the stairwell entrance. Pushing open the door, you begin the short ascent to your floor, already fumbling in your purse for your keys. “I’ll heat up some leftovers if you want them.”

“That’s okay.” Jungkook trails after you slowly, watching as you unlock your front door and pad down the hallway to disappear into the kitchen.

A second later, you poke your head out. “Coming?” you ask, peering inquisitively at the young man who still has not moved from the entryway.

“Yeah,” Jungkook grunts. Quietly, he joins you in the kitchen, setting both bags down and watching as you begin laying out the various pastries and confections you’d purchased, along with two cups of coffee. You hum as you work—something sweet and sentimental that he doesn’t recognize—and Jungkook finds that the question he’s wanted to ask since he first glimpsed you sitting at that nameless cafe can wait no longer. “Why’d you leave?” he blurts out, just a touch more sharply than he intended.

The melody dies in your throat. “What do you mean?” you inquire softly, not quite meeting his eyes. “I already told you, I was picking up breakfast.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Jungkook surges forward, backing you up against the counter and tilting your chin up with his index finger. Your gazes meet—yours wide, his unyielding.

“Why’d you leave?” he repeats, softer this time. He isn’t sure if he wants to hear the answer, but he knows he needs to.

You suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly, eyes fluttering shut before you finally speak. Your voice is hushed in the sudden quiet of your apartment, but he still hears every word perfectly. “I wasn’t good enough.”

Jungkook watches the way your throat bobs nervously, his jaw going slack at your confession. “You… what?”

“I wasn’t good enough,” you repeat, swallowing. Mustering up your strength, you shove him in the chest, and he steps aside listlessly as soon as your hand comes in contact with his sternum. Freed from the cage of his body, you continue, “So… I left.”

“Good enough?” Jungkook echoes, mind awhirl. He’s never been good with words. “Good enough… for what?”

You suddenly feel like your chest has been stuffed full of cotton. “For Bangtan,” you say softly. “I wasn’t good enough for Bangtan, or Namjoon, or—“ and here your voice chokes off into a pitchy whisper, barely audible, “—or you.”

“Me,” Jungkook says dumbly, blinking twice in rapid succession. He doesn’t move a muscle.

Tears are beginning to prick at your eyes—tears you hastily try to blink away, to little avail. Turning away from the frozen young man standing in your kitchen, you busy yourself once more with arranging croissants on a plate. You are just about to reach for a jar of honey when two strong arms wrap around you from behind, enveloping you in sudden, stifling warmth.

“You didn’t think you were good enough,” Jungkook breathes disbelievingly in your ear, his hot breath fanning across your neck and ruffling a tendril of hair that tickles your cheek. “But you were. You are. God, {Name}, you’re fucking perfect and… and I missed you. I missed you so damn much.”

Your cheeks are damp before you can even process his hushed confession, the tears trickling down your face and dripping off your chin. Jungkook turns you around gently, swiping his thumb underneath your left eye and pressing a tender kiss underneath your right.

“Come back,” he entreaties softly as he pulls back, delicately cupping your face in both hands. “Come back with me.”

“I can’t,” you whisper. “I… I’ve moved on, Jungkook.”

He presses closer until you can feel the heat rolling off his bare chest in waves, the ends of his leather jacket tickling your sides. “But you still care,” he murmurs. “Why else would you have done what you did in Beijing?”

You freeze. “How did you know about that?”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches up into a wry smile. “I only had a hunch,” he admits. “But you just confirmed it.”

“Oh.”

You don’t know what else there is to say, so Jungkook continues on, unfazed. “You still care, {Name},” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave and transforming into something syrupy and warm. “I know you do. And now that I’ve found you, I’m not letting you go again so easily. So come back to Seoul. Come back home.”

“Jungkook…” His name leaves your lips in little more than a breathless whisper. “I-I don’t… I can’t—“

“You can,” Jungkook states firmly before leaning in and capturing your lips with his. “Now, I think I’m ready to eat.”

“Oh!” Startled, you try to wriggle free from Jungkook’s grasp and grab the plate of croissants off the counter, but he stops you in your tracks with a cavernous chuckle.

“I wasn’t talking about the pastries, baby,” Jungkook says with a smirk, and your face goes up in flames when you see the wicked glimmer in his eyes.

He may fail to form coherent sentences sometimes, but damn if he isn’t good with his tongue.

///

Jungkook arrives back at Bangtan’s headquarters that evening, the skies opening up and greeting him with a torrential downpour just as he parks his car in front of the building. “Shit,” he grumbles, turning off the ignition and scowling at the soaked windshield. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Umbrellas exist, you know,” you pipe up from the passenger seat. “And luckily for you, I’ve got one.”

Jungkook grins, accepting the little plastic bundle you hand him. “So well-prepared,” he remarks, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “I was just going to suggest we make out until the rain dies down.”

You tilt your head, already beginning to push yourself up and over the center console. “Honestly? I like that idea way better,” you murmur as you settle comfortably in his lap with one knee on either side of his thighs.

“Good,” Jungkook says with a chuckle, curling his hands around your hips and tugging until you are chest to chest. You take his face in your hands, thumbs gently tracing along his chiseled jawline before leaning down and pressing your lips to his.

You’re fairly certain that you could spend the rest of your life like this, pressed up against Jungkook in the driver’s seat, kissing him as raindrops continue drumming against the window. The steering wheel is digging into your back and you legs are beginning to fall asleep, but Jungkook is warm and solid and very, very determined in his quest to map out every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow, you will have to face Namjoon and the other members of Bangtan—will have to explain why you left them for so long and beg for their forgiveness.

But tonight, it’s just you and Jungkook, and you’ve got an entire year’s worth of kisses to catch up on.

also set in this universe:

[myg] [jhs]