#word salad i’m so sorry for whoever actually reads this

[dearmyexmom]

Dear Mom,

One of the hardest things about not talking to you anymore is the fact that sometimes, I really miss you.

I miss you so much that it hurts.

But what hurts the most isn’t the fact that I know that talking to you will only ever generate stress and heartache. It isn’t the fact that talking to you will give you a victory that you’d lord over me for the remainder of your life; how you lost your daughter but managed through constant letters and cards and gumption, you won her back. The hardest part is the fact that I don’t actually miss YOU. I miss the mother I SHOULD have had. I miss the comfort of being able to go to an adult, to be held and told that I’m going to be okay. I miss the idea that I had someone who would always be there for me, who would have my back, and did it because they loved me. But we both know that wanting that from you, of all people, was one of the reasons that I left.

You couldn’t give that to me. I know that know, after nine years of silence. But I still crave that. I still crave the IDEA of a mother. And sometimes it makes me wonder if I made the right choice. If what I did was really in my best interest. When holidays come up, I wonder if the loneliness is worth it. I play out ideas in my head as to how it would be if I were still talking to you, or anyone else from our family. I wonder how I would feel, if instead of rejection, I’d gotten acceptance. My family tree feels so small since I trimmed the branches and I miss the feeling of being underneath a swath of people that were meant to be there for me. Who decided to have me, and then for the eighteen years I was with them, put themselves over me.

I know that the second I would say that, I’d get an argument, too. I still talk to my sister, and she defends you. She says that you were sick, that you’re doing so much better now, that so much went on behind the scenes that we didn’t see. But the fact of the matter is, or at least how I feel about it— you never did it where I could see it, because you didn’t actually do it. You like the idea of saying that you stood up for us. But you had eighteen years to do it even once. You knew that he hit us. You knew his hands went where we didn’t want them. You heard us say, ‘stop’. But television, or the sewing machine, or ducking your head was easier for you. And that’s putting aside all of the things that you did yourself, that you are still doing. It hurts when you tell me I’m punishing my siblings by not talking to you. It hurts when you send me a birthday card or text about how much you love me, and how you’re sorry for what I think you did to me. Maybe that’s actually what hurts the most. Is the lies, that you send to me, on my birthday of all days. The apology that isn’t an apology, just a four letter word that USED to fix everything between you and me.

There’s so much I wish I could say to your face. So much anger, hurt, and confusion. There are so many questions I want to ask you. But I also know that none of my questions would ever get the truth. It would be whatever you thought you could say to make me like you again. Or whatever you could think to say that would make you the hero, even when you know that at best, you were the character on the sidelines that watched it all happen. There’s also a lot of joy that I’ve come across in my life recently that I wish I could share with you. That I wish I could share with my mom. My marriage, my successes, my happy little moments. I wish I could come to you for advice, for guidance, as a daughter should have been able to do with her mother. But when I look at the phone, or when I go on social media, when I get so close to hitting that ‘unblock’ button because I think my heart can’t take it anymore—

I remember.

You didn’t actually care about those things when I was a kid. There were more important things in your life at the time. There’s still a lot of important things in your life. And it isn’t the fact that I want to be, or wanted to be, your center of attention. Or that I feel like not ENOUGH time was given to me. You had four kids, three of which I helped you raise. It’s the fact that there wasn’t enough room in your mental floor for me at all. It’s the fact that it wasn’t until the very week that I was packing up to leave your house, that you wanted to know about my day. Or that until after I wasn’t in your house anymore, that you wanted to call every day. It’s the fact that while I was five feet away from you, you couldn’t turn around to talk to me. But when I left and looked for someone who wanted my attention and time, you had to monopolize what you never wanted. And at first, I was so happy. A mom that wanted me around and wanted to talk to me had come out of the woodwork, had risen out of the eighteen foot grave that was our relationship . . . But who got angry at me when I was at work. Who got upset when I couldn’t drop everything I was doing while living a state away from you so that you could come over at the drop of a hat. Who told me she wished I would lose her number, and who told me that she hopes I was happy with my “new” family.

Fuck, mom. Did those words hurt the most. I didn’t want a new family. I didn’t go out to find one because my old one wasn’t good enough for me. I didn’t leave because I wanted to hurt you, or because I felt like I was too good for you. I left, because I was so tired of hurting and wondering why I wasn’t good enough for YOU. I still sometimes wish that I had been.

I think that’s enough words for now. I’ve gotten some of it out, at the very least. There’s a lot more to come, too. But maybe . . . Just maybe, getting it out . . . Little by little, saying what I’ve wanted to say to you for almost a decade . . .

Maybe that’s how I heal.

From,

Me.

[gukyi]

midas | jjk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bullseye. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re rather good at being both. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything else?”

“Fuck you,” you spit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Community service,” you say gruffly. 

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

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

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

A minder? 

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

Well. It could be worse. 

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

So at least there’s that. 

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

A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, I’m not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says who?” Jungkook spits back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only your life was as kind to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

She looks doubtful. “Your name?”

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

“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung looks about ready to pass out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Healing and invisibility,” you spit out. Not nearly as glamorous or lucrative as his own, but they come with their own benefits. For example, the ability to infiltrate high-level, upper class places of employment. “Maybe they thought I’d make a good babysitter since those are two skills often used with children,” you tell him pointedly. 

“I don’t need a minder,” Jungkook repeats for the umpteenth time. “I don’t misuse my magic or abuse my powers.”

“Uh,” you point out, an eyebrow raised skeptically, “I think I’d like to beg to differ.” There’s more gold in this room than miners probably found in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. The fact that nons haven’t noticed the abundance of it in his office is outrageous to you. How else do they think he and his family built up this empire?

“Please,” Jungkook says with a frown. “As if we don’t all use our powers for our own benefit. Huh? What did you do that was so terrible that you had to be assigned as my minder?”

“I pickpocket,” you explain economically. No point in sugar-coating it. Jungkook has probably already figured out you don’t come from nearly as much money as he does. “And I got caught.”

“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously. 

“Sucks for you, too,” you fire back. “You got caught as well. Agree to the terms or go to jail, Jeon Jungkook. I don’t care. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

You stand there in silence for a few more seconds, letting your words dissipate into the air, sinking into the ground. Jeon Jungkook seems to have this furious battle within himself, brows furrowing as he rubs at his chin, pacing back and forth behind his desk. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. He goes to jail and his reputation is soiled. The Realm repossesses all that he has made of himself and he must start from scratch under their ruthlessly watchful eye. There will be no recovery. Only survival. 

Or, he deals with you for a couple of months until the Realm is satisfied with the both of you, and you both go on your merry way, never having to see each other again. 

You know what you’d pick if you were in his shoes. 

“Fine,” Jungkook spits out, pointing an accusing finger your way. “But you are to be invisible whenever we are in public, and that includes here.”

“Done. But you have to decrease your turning otherwise we’ll be stuck with each other forever,” you negotiate. “I’ll also have to come and live with you. Can you handle that, or are you too ashamed to have someone else inside your home?”

Jungkook scoffs. “I live in a penthouse the size of a museum. Pick whatever bedroom you fucking want. I doubt we’ll even see each other.” At least there’s one upside to having to stay with him in his massive residence.

“Fine,” you spit out, just for good measure. 

“Fine,” he counters back. Like anything about this conversation, this agreement, this goddamn life you have to live, is fine. 

Yeah, right. 

Jungkook’s penthouse is much more magnificent when you are more than two steps in the door. From where you had stood before, barely just past the door frame as he crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the trash bin, you hadn’t been able to see it in half its glory, let alone in full. When you can stand in the center of it all, eyes darting from the hallways and archways and spiral staircases leading to a rooftop pool or gym or both, it is overwhelming. Suffocating. 

His living room alone is larger than anything you have ever lived in, anything you have ever had the pleasure of calling your own. The ceiling is sky high and completely glass, streaks of sun shooting down and casting its rays on his chic furniture, deep hardwood floors. You’re so busy looking up that you nearly trip on a white rug laid out on the floor. 

“There are four bedrooms down that hallway and two down that one,” Jungkook says gruffly, flinging his keys into a bowl resting on a shelf and shrugging off his jacket, letting it hang over his forearm. How could one person possibly take up all of this space?

“Where do you sleep?” You ask. 

“That’s none of your business,” Jungkook says with a frown. 

“There’s no point in not telling me,” you remind him helpfully, “there’s only so many places you can be.”

Jungkook sighs. “It’s upstairs. But you can just sleep in any of the empty ones down here.”

“Thanks,” you deadpan. 

“Is that all you brought?” Jungkook asks with a raised eyebrow, looking at the backpack hanging loose off your shoulder. The zipper’s broken, so the outer flap is in a constant state of being folded over, but it works. 

“What, did you expect a moving truck?” You retort. 

“Ugh, forget I asked,” Jungkook says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns away from you. He begins to point around the room. “There should be some ready meals in the fridge if you’re hungry. TV’s always set to the news, but feel free to change it. Volume shouldn’t ever be over forty. Books are alphabetized by the author’s last name. No parties, though I don’t imagine you frequent those.” 

You can’t tell if that’s a jab or just him being observant, but either way, it’s true. You don’t even have any friends. 

“Fine, anything else?”

“Every bedroom has an ensuite bathroom,” Jungkook informs you. “So use that one. Don’t come into my bedroom. There’s more than enough space here for the both of us to go without seeing each other, so let’s keep it that way.”

“Aw, you mean I’m not allowed to wake up to your handsome face and infectious attitude every day?” You pout sarcastically, making Jungkook scrunch up his nose and frown. “Don’t forget that the only way you’re gonna get me out of here is if you listen to the Realm and follow my rules.”

“Yeah, which are?”

“You’re not allowed to turn at all when I’m around, whether or not you can physically see me. Every time you do is a strike. Three strikes—because I’m generous and forgiving—and I’ll report you to the Realm. The whole point of me being here is to make you stop using your powers all of the time.”

“It’s not like I’m doing any harm to people,” Jungkook defends. “You steal, what’s your excuse?”

“You use your power to add onto your already-enormous bank account,” you point out crudely. “I use mine to survive. It’s different.” Jungkook isn’t convinced. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I got caught and so did you and now we both have to deal with the consequences.”

He huffs to himself. 

“So do we have a deal?” You ask, glaring up at him, unrelenting. Jungkook’s chocolate brown eyes flicker as the gold around his house reflects off of his irises, like he’s trying desperately to find a way to get himself out of this before it’s too late. 

What he doesn’t realize is that the very first moment he ever turned something to gold, the very first time the object began to shimmer and spark, he was already too far gone. 

You suppose that in a way, so were you. 

“Fine,” Jungkook gruffs out, a veiny hand held out towards you. It’s stiff and cold, much in the same way that his penthouse is, that he is. This is not an agreement birthed from choice. It came from necessity, out of self-preservation. He is doing this to protect his reputation. You are doing it to protect your freedom. If all goes well, after a couple of months the two of you will never have to cross paths again. Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? “Deal?”

You grab his hand in your own, squeezing tightly. There is no going back from this. 

“Deal.”

On the bright side, being a minder has finally given you something to do instead of stalking the streets and wasting away on your mattress on the floor. Granted, office life isn’t that much more entertaining, but at least you don’t have to be out in the summer heat anymore. 

As per your side of the deal, you remain invisible whenever Jungkook is out in public, which, quite frankly, is less frequently than you had originally anticipated. His entire life seems to go back and forth from home to work then work to home, an endless cycle, a Newton’s cradle on repeat. Maybe that’s why he’s such a prickly asshole—he doesn’t ever make time for things he enjoys. 

You thought he would at least have business dinners or fundraising events or company galas to attend. Isn’t that what most CEOs do? Flaunt their wealth to other wealthy people? Jungkook has so much money that he could easily entertain himself by one-upping all of his fellow CEO friends at every event he goes to, flashing the Rolex watch on his wrist or the fancy Italian shoes he always wears. 

But no. He wakes up, gets dressed, eats a meal from the ready-made ones wrapped in foil in his fridge, and goes to work. When he comes home, he takes off his suit jacket and shoes, eats dinner, and lounges around his penthouse. Works out sometimes, maybe watches a movie. 

Being rich always seemed to be a lot more fun than what Jungkook makes it out to be. Maybe it’s because everything in modern media is completely fake and wholly unrealistic. Or maybe he’s just purposefully making his life boring because you’re here now. 

But even if the only two places Jungkook ever goes are work and home, his personality doesn’t seem to change no matter what location he’s at. All of his employees are simultaneously frightened of him and desperate to please him, lowering their heads when he passes by their cubicle but placing finished report files and completed tasks at the edges of their desks for him to glance over as he does. You follow him like a wearied assistant (of which he actually has three, and you are just the annoying invisible one) and he acts like you aren’t even there. When Jungkook returns home with you carelessly traipsing in after him, turning visible the moment he closes the door, he shrugs off his outerwear and goes back to doing his very favorite thing in the whole world: pretending you don’t exist. 

At least that hasn’t changed since you moved in. 

The bright side is that Jungkook hasn’t turned at all since you’ve shown up. Not in his penthouse and not at work, though he is usually far too busy dealing with real-world issues to dwell on whether or not he’s got enough gold to his name. The answer is that he does, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. Too much is apparently never enough. 

Even if you are invisible, being in an office setting is somewhat unsettling to you. From a people-watching perspective, you love it, because you get an entire building of people to observe and judge, but from a personal perspective, it’s just another reminder of a life that you are not meant to live. 

All of these people in their ties and pencil skirts and uncomfortable leather shoes, fighting to beat each other out for the next promotion and desperate to please their absolutely unpleasable boss. A nine-to-five job, day in and day out. A fat check in their bank account every month. These are things that are both undesirable and unattainable to you. A glimpse into their lives doesn’t spur you to pursue a career path like theirs, it tells you that no matter what, you won’t ever be able to do what they do. 

“Sir, here are the finished analysis reports on the Lee Corporation joint stockholdings,” a proud young man says, plopping it down on Jungkook’s desk as you watch on in silence. The not-speaking part has been rather difficult, but you do get to whisper annoying things into Jungkook’s ear whenever nobody’s around. 

“They are completed?” Jungkook asks without even looking up at the man, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Did I not ask for them to be completed by Friday?”

The man goes white in the face. 

“Uh—” he begins, immediately losing all confidence he had when he entered Jungkook’s office. “Well, I—”

“I don’t appreciate belated work,” Jungkook spits out. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The man nods and scurries out of the office before Jungkook can say anything else. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Wow, couldn’t even say a ’thank you’?” You chide. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

“Late work is unacceptable,” Jungkook says. You’re lucky that his blinds are always drawn, or everyone would see him talking to apparently nobody. “There are no exceptions.”

“He was a day late,” you point out. 

“Three, if you include weekends.”

“That doesn’t make a difference; he wouldn’t have been able to turn them in over the weekend,” you tell him. 

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Jungkook orders sternly. He looks angry, but also foolish, because even though he can judge where you’re standing from the sound of your voice, he still can’t meet your eyes. He’s staring holes into the succulent plant on the shelf to your right. 

“I’m not,” you defend, annoyed. “I’m telling you how to be a nice person.”

“I don’t need lessons on that, either.” Jungkook frowns. “He turned in work late and was reprimanded. It’s not any different than what happens in school.”

“But you didn’t even thank him for his time or for showing up to your office, or for the fact that he did the work!” You cry out. 

“What should I be thanking him for? For making the thirty-feet trip from his desk to my office? For turning in work that he was obligated to do late?” Jungkook challenges. “He had to do those. He wasn’t doing me any favors.”

“Except he was, because if he didn’t do that work, then you would’ve had to do it,” you remind him. “Everybody here is doing work because you aren’t able to do all of it yourself. And that’s not your fault—there are only twenty-four hours in a day and you are only one person. But you should be thanking them for their contributions. Even when they turn in something a little late. It’ll do wonders for other people.”

“Are you implying that people don’t like working here?” It’s like he wants to keep this fight going. 

You sigh, loud enough for him to hear despite being a good few steps away from him. “I’m saying that everybody out there—” you say, opening the blinds that cover the walls ever so slightly, just enough for him to see out into the sea of people that sit outside, “—everybody wants so desperately for you to like them. Or at least outwardly display that you don’t hate them. And if you just said please and thank you every now and then, people wouldn’t be so afraid of you.”

Jungkook opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he shuts it like a trap and sits back down. He probably doesn’t really appreciate the fact that you’re directing him on how he controls his office on top of how he uses his magic. But it’s the truth, and he had to hear it one way or another.

“I didn’t ask for suggestions on how to run this office,” he spits out. “Next time I think advice like this is warranted, I’ll ask.” Which will be never.

“I’m here whether you like it or not,” you stand your ground. Jungkook gets to put up with you no matter what! “So I’ll tell you whatever I feel is necessary.”

Jungkook scowls. 

“Don’t frown, it ruins your pretty face,” you tease. You walk a couple of steps and lean over to stretch his lips into a smile. He stiffens up, clearly having lost a sense of humor alongside his patience. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

“I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he bites. 

“You’ll have to get rid of that attitude, first,” you counter. “Or neither of us are going anywhere.”  Entitlement and greed go hand in hand. There’s no way you’ll be able to get Jungkook to stop turning everything around him into gold without giving his personality a makeover as well. Somewhere in there is a decent human being.

You just aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to find him.

The time spent at home is less eventful. Besides you, Jungkook has no one to shout at and be rude to, and in any case, he, for the most part, avoids you entirely. Which is understandable but totally counterproductive, because if you never interact, neither of you will ever get what you want. 

Still, there is plenty to keep yourself busy inside of his penthouse. He’s subscribed to every streaming service under the sun and has a movie theater-esque surround sound system lining the walls. He has more books than some small town libraries. His internet is stupidly fast. Even if this setup is temporary, you sure as hell aren’t going to waste a second of it. 

It is sort of weird to eat food with golden forks and knives, though. You always think you’re going to crack your teeth on your utensils. 

You and Jungkook aren’t on speaking terms right now because an hour ago you caught him turning a vase in his office gold, the metal slowly wrapping around the base of the pot like pixie dust, sparkling and shimmering as the clay was overlaid with a deep, lustrous yellow. It increased the value of the vase tenfold and sent the both of you flying back to square one. 

“Jungkook, what the hell?” You had shouted, storming into the room as Jungkook’s face turned beet red. “Just because I’m not sitting in the room with you doesn’t give you a free pass to do whatever you want.”

“It was just one pot!” Jungkook had defended himself. “I’m not even going to sell it or anything, it just looks nice. The room needed something extra.”

“I’ve upheld my side of the agreement, what’s so difficult about upholding yours?” 

“Oh yeah, like telling me how to do my job even though you have no experience in business whatsoever?” He had challenged. “I don’t think I agreed to that part of the deal.”

“Strike one, Jeon Jungkook,” you had spat out at him. “Otherwise there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to get rid of me.”

Granted, the vase did look much better in gold than it did when it was made of clay, a glazed design of ferns and vines wrapping around the base. But even if Jungkook does have a particularly good eye for interior design, it doesn’t give him a free pass to turn things just to match his chic aesthetic. How many other things has he turned when you weren’t around to shout at him? You’ll have to go through his entire house every day, taking stock of every single item inside of it, making sure that nothing has inexplicably turned to gold.

Defeated, you had returned back to the main living room, flopping around like a beached whale on the leather. Jungkook always has the television set to the news, so you put it on in the background as you count the minutes until you’re finally free. Judging from what’s happened so far, you think you’ll be here forever. 

There’s a knock on the door. You don’t recall Jungkook answering any buzzes to his home, but maybe he’s just ordered a pizza or something and it’s here. It’s nearly dinnertime, anyway. 

You wait a few seconds to see if Jungkook’s going to make any attempts at answering the door himself. When the knock repeats itself and Jungkook still doesn’t appear, you hop off of the couch to get it yourself. You’re hungry, and pizza sounds delicious right now. A massive upgrade from Campbell’s soups. 

When you open the door however, there is no pizza delivery guy behind the door. Instead, there is an extremely well-dressed couple who are smiling happily at you, albeit a little surprised to see you on the other side of the door. 

“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused. 

“Hello!” The man says happily, chortling to himself. “Who might you be?” One good look at the two of them tells you that they’re Jungkook’s parents. His dad has the same nose, and his mom has the same big, bright eyes. They would kick you to the curb if they knew who you were. 

“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully. 

“Well, Y/N, do you mind letting us inside? The air conditioning out in this hallway has always been too strong,” his dad asks. You nod awkwardly and step to the side, letting the two of them in. “Ah, looks the same as always. You must give Jungkookie that interior designer’s number, alright? He could do something much nicer with the place,” he tells his wife, who nods in agreement. She passes by the bowl that Jungkook always throws his keys into when he returns home and presses a finger to it, letting gold wrap around the edges until it’s transformed into the metal. 

“Jungkook!” You shout down the hallway, desperately hoping that he isn’t going to leave you alone with his parents. 

“What?” He shouts back. 

“We have visitors!” You call. 

Jungkook’s parents are already picking out all of the things about Jungkook’s living room layout that they would change, turning picture frames here and decorative sculptures there gold, careless and without reason. You’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying your best to look as unsurprised and as normal as possible. Luckily, you haven’t been interrogated yet, but there’s no telling what will happen if Jungkook doesn’t show up yet. 

Two minutes later, Jungkook comes strolling down the hallway, clearly uninterested, but his eyes practically bulge out of his head when he sees who’s come to say hello.

“M-Mom! Dad!” He sputters out, terrified. “What—what are you doing here?” He asks, looking at you nervously. You shrug unhelpfully. All you did was answer the door. 

“Came to pay our wonderful son a visit, of course!” His father says, guffawing loudly. He reaches an arm out and pulls Jungkook into a crushing hug. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, I mean—” Jungkook begins, speechless. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, you know.”

“I know!” His mother cries happily. “But you know that families must always stick together.”

“Yeah…” he trails off. “Listen, it’s really nice to see the both of you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment—”

“We should stay for dinner!” His mother suggests, a lightbulb going off above her head. “We haven’t seen you in so long—we have so much to catch up on! What do you say, honey?”

Jungkook’s father looks peachy keen. “Sounds like a great idea! And you can introduce us to Y/N too, hmm?”

“Okay…” Jungkook says. He turns to you and you’ve never seen him so caught off guard. With his big, wide eyes, he’s a deer in headlights. “Just, uh, give us a second, would you? Thanks.”

That’s the only warning you’re given before Jungkook is pulling you down the hallway and into the nearest bedroom, slamming the door shut behind the both of you. The sound of the wood hitting the frame makes you jump as Jungkook furrows his brows and turns to face you directly. 

“Alright, here’s the deal,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes as you stare up at him, unimpressed. “My parents can’t know that I’ve been assigned a minder. They just can’t. They’ve trusted me to run this business and to be in control of my life and I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do if they find out why you’re really here.”

“Okay, so?” You say with a frown. “I’ll turn invisible. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But they’ve already seen you, you opened the goddamn door,” Jungkook says with a sigh, clearly exasperated. He rubs his forehead before his hand makes its way through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands. 

“Well, sorry for not wanting to leave whoever was outside hanging,” you retort. 

“No, it’s fine, whatever,” Jungkook says. He paces around the room slightly, eyes glossing over the still life painting hung up on the wall and the door to the walk-in closet. He pauses in front of it for a moment, thinking, before he rounds on you. “Can I trust you to pretend to be my girlfriend for just one night while they’re here?”

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Please? They seem to already be under the impression that we’re dating anyway, and I don’t want to have to think of a different explanation for you,” Jungkook pleads. He’s desperate. 

“Let me get this straight: you want me, your minder, to fake being your girlfriend for your parents?” You ask, punctuating every word. This is worse than actually being his minder. 

Jungkook nods. “Just while they’re here. And then we can go back to avoiding each other. Please?” 

And for once, when you see Jeon Jungkook’s stupidly beautiful face, you don’t feel angry, or resentful, or envious. You feel… sympathy. It’s easy being rich and powerful, even easier when you don’t even need to work for your money, but parents are parents, no matter how much gold is in your pocket. 

Besides, it’s not like you rejecting him will have much of an effect on the grand scheme of things, anyway. You do, and then Jungkook has to spend an awkward night with his parents and you won’t accomplish anything. 

“Fine,” you say, begrudgingly so. “But only for tonight.”

“Oh God, thank you,” Jungkook says, and he actually means it. He dashes into the walk-in closet and pulls out a summery day dress, all flowy and floral, coming down to right above your knees. “Here, put this on. You know I don’t give a shit about what you wear but my parents will.”

“Why do you have this?” You ask, holding the hanger in your hand. One touch of the fabric and you can already feel the craftsmanship, the material sturdy and soft.

“An old hookup or something, probably.” Jungkook shrugs, nonchalant. 

You decide not to question whether or not you are about to wear something that Jungkook has had sex with someone in and head into the closet to change. From inside, you can hear Jungkook pacing back and forth in the bedroom, no doubt trying to come up with a believable story as to why you’ve suddenly appeared in his life and where you had come from. 

When you emerge, Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. This dress is easily the most expensive (and clean) thing you’ve ever put on your body, draping seamlessly along your hips and smoothing over all of the parts of your body you’ve never been too fond of. The sensation is pleasant but uncomfortable, as you have always vastly preferred your own clothes to other people’s, but wearing this at least doesn’t make you feel like you live in an abandoned house on the edge of town. 

“Wow,” Jungkook says dumbly, looking at you with his lips parted like a fish, mouth agape. He scratches at the nape of his neck and coughs. “You look kinda good.”

“How thoughtful of you to say,” you chide, basking in the feeling of finally catching Jungkook off guard. 

“Hopefully my parents won’t be here too long,” Jungkook says as he opens the door, letting you exit first. “Normally, they stick around just long enough to tell me about all of the things in my life that I’m currently doing wrong or should improve upon, and then they leave.”

“Fun.” It doesn’t sound very fun at all. 

“At least this time they won’t be grilling me about a girlfriend,” Jungkook says, offering you a grateful smile as you return to the main living space, where Jungkook’s parents are in the middle of turning some of the decorative trinkets on his shelves gold. “Sorry,” he begins, catching his parents’ attention. “We were just talking. Y/N had to change.”

“She looks lovely in that dress, did you buy it for her?” His mother asks. You send a small smile of thanks. 

“Yes, of course,” Jungkook lies. You think not knowing the origins of this dress is best for both you and him. He shuffles the both of you into the kitchen, an awkward hand on the small of your back. If you were a third party watching the two of you, you could sniff out the fake gestures and affection from a mile away. No two people in love are this stiff around each other. 

His parents wait in the living space, blissfully ignorant, as the two of you fumble around in the kitchen in a last-minute attempt to scrounge up something resembling an acceptable meal. You, admittedly, do not use a kitchen fairly often, and stick to pouring the four of you some wine as Jungkook fishes through his fridge and cabinets. He eventually decides on heating up a pre-made pasta dish, filled with all sorts of vegetables you couldn’t name even if you tried. It smells good, at least. 

For someone who seems to rely entirely on a personal chef to do most of his cooking, Jungkook knows his way around the kitchen fairly well, bouncing from one end to the other as if he’s running on a mental timer. Granted, he isn’t actually cooking anything, but compared to you, he may as well be a top chef at a five-star restaurant. Ten minutes later and he’s got a mouth-watering spaghetti dish, topped with vegetables and what looks to be an herb garnish, a side salad, and four glasses of wine that you so expertly poured. 

Unfortunately, with his parents around, you and Jungkook don’t get to go through your usual meal ritual of sitting as far away from each other as physically possible and not talking whatsoever, sitting down next to each other in his fancy suede dining chairs as his parents take the two seats opposite you. Jungkook’s dining table only seats six, despite the sheer size of his actual dining room, and quite frankly, you have never seen him actually use it for what it’s meant for: dining. 

“Delicious, did you make this?” His father asks, already reaching over to serve himself some. 

“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.

The serving utensils then move to Jungkook’s mother, who does not turn them into gold, instead opting for a baby tomato, which she places in her drink to serve as some sort of extremely niche ice cube. You can’t imagine how good that will taste. Jungkook’s father laughs at his mother, who is obviously proud of herself. Jungkook forces himself to chuckle ever so slightly, and you crack a very helpless smile. It doesn’t really take a genius to figure out where Jungkook got his turning habits from. 

“So, Y/N,” Jungkook’s father begins, catching you right as you shove an entire forkful of pasta into your mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk getting ready for the winter, “how long have you known our son?”

“Uh, a couple of—”

“A couple of months,” Jungkook interrupts, speaking louder than usual. “We met at the Park Gala that they hosted, do you remember?”

You kick Jungkook’s shin under the table, making him wince. 

“Ah, yes.” His mother nods in recollection. “Unfortunately we were on that cruise through France, so we couldn’t make it. A shame, we would have loved to meet you then. Are you a friend of the Parks?”

“An associate,” Jungkook explains as vaguely as possible. “Y/N works in law.”

“Ah, law,” Jungkook’s father says romantically, twirling his fork around in the air. “The conscience of business.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing out a small laugh. The less you say, the better. Though it is ironic that you now apparently work in law, considering your favorite activity is breaking it. You suppose that nobody knows the law better than its criminals. 

“Where are you from, Y/N? Do we know your parents?” This is starting to sound less like a dinner conversation and more like an interrogation. 

“Y/N actually built herself up,” Jungkook covers for you. Lord knows revealing your true background would send both of his parents storming out of the building. “She doesn’t like to talk about her parents very much.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Ah, what a shame,” his mother tuts, shaking her head. “We’d love to meet them.”

“Yeah…” you agree distantly, making a mental note to give Jungkook a good shove when this is all over. Well, two can play at this game. “Jungkook is teaching me a lot about how you guys run your business.” You add pointedly, earning a leg kick in return. “It’s very interesting to see from a law perspective.” More like from a human perspective. 

“Oh, you must be very impressed,” his father says proudly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We’ve all worked extremely hard to get where we are.” Because turning things to gold at the press of a finger is truly such a taxing job.

“I’m certainly surprised,” you say back, sending a patient but stiff smile their way. They return the favor easily. Maybe you’re more like these people than you thought. “It’s a big change from what I’m used to.” Jungkook smacks his leg against yours, and you retaliate not a moment afterwards.

“I’m sure,” his mother says, voice sickly sweet. “But you’ll be able to adjust in no time. It’s definitely a level up, is it not?”

Jungkook looks like a lost child in a grocery store aisle, eyes wide as they flit back and forth between you and his parents, hurling thinly-veiled insults at each other like it’s nobody’s business. 

“It’s different,” you respond. 

“Well, I’m sure that Jungkook is doing all that he can to accommodate you,” his father says. “Sometimes the people he chooses to date are… not ideal for this sort of lifestyle. We hope that you are able to adjust quickly. We understand that this is a lot.”

“I certainly hope that I’m a good match, then,” you finish, because something inside of you can’t bear to let Jungkook’s stuffy, elitist parents get the last word. 

The rest of the meal is rather silent, save for a few mindless comments about how poorly Jungkook’s decorated his dining room. You and Jungkook have been warring underneath the dinner table all evening, your shins undoubtedly sporting bruises, because apparently everything the two of you are saying to his parents is wrong. Jungkook’s parents either don’t know or don’t care, because they don’t say anything about the tension that settled over the table like a cloud of fog, thick and potent. 

When everyone’s finished eating, Jungkook’s parents head straight to the door, determining that their contributions to his evening and his penthouse are enough—for now. Who knows if or when they’ll return. You and Jungkook have no choice but to see them off, rounding out the night just as you started: fake, empty smiles. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Y/N,” his mother tells you, hand clutching her purse. “I hope that we may see each other again sometime soon.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to it,” you say with glee, knowing that the chances of you never having to speak to her again are well in your favor. 

“Nice work, son,” his father says, a heavy hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you ever need anything.”

“Will do,” Jungkook promises distantly. You can tell that Jungkook doesn’t ask his father for advice too often. 

You bid your goodbyes and Jungkook shuts the door behind them, and it’s almost as the atmosphere immediately begins to clear, the air conditioning cycling out the tension, like a breath of fresh air. 

“Ugh, thank God that’s over,” you huff out, already itching to get out of this dress and back into your own clothes. It was gorgeous at first, but now it’s just an ugly reminder. 

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Jungkook says. 

“’Wasn’t that bad’?” You repeat. It’s as if the words went in through Jungkook’s one ear and right out the other. “Are you serious? It was unbearable. Your parents were judging me from the moment I opened the door. No wonder you’ve never had a lasting girlfriend. I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to deal with that.”

“Excuse me?” Jungkook says, rounding on you as fire burns in his eyes. “What do you mean, ’that’?”

“I mean that I don’t know how on Earth people just accept the fact that in other people’s eyes, they’ll never be good enough?” You tell him like it’s obvious, because it is. This sort of life has been so ingrained into Jungkook’s head that he doesn’t even recognize it as unwelcoming and stifling. “I couldn’t stand being your girlfriend. Your parents are judgy and rude, and you all act like people who don’t come from as much money and power as you have no business sitting where you sit.”

“So your best approach was to shade and insult my parents in return?” He combats. “I would hate to be your boyfriend. My parents get more aggressive when people fight them, but you shove me under the table when I try to get you to back down? Just so you can have the final word to two people you’ll probably never see again?”

“The fact that anyone has dated you astounds me,” you tell him. 

“The fact that nobody’s dated you doesn’t astound me,” Jungkook spits back. 

You frown, embers flaring in your boiling blood. What, did Jungkook think you were going to enjoy yourself tonight? By pretending to be some sort of ditzy, desperate-to-please girlfriend? “You’re welcome for doing you a favor and not just straight up telling your parents you’ve been assigned a minder because you can’t handle your own powers. Don’t expect me to do it again.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Jungkook mumbles to himself, just loud enough for you to hear. 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.

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

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

“Mr. Jeon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

“You figured correctly,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is,” Jungkook agrees.

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

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

“For what?” Jungkook asks.

“For listening to me.”

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

“Of course,” he tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what are you gonna do, then?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, yeah.” 

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

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

“And your investments are public, correct?”

“Yes.” Jungkook nods. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, it helps?” You ask with a smile. 

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

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

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

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

“That’s noble of you,” Jungkook says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the matter?” You call out. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t we just order takeout?”

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

“Get what?” You challenge. 

“You don’t know how to cook.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re the kitchen!”

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

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

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

“Is it easy?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old family recipes die hard, you suppose. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna bet?”

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

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

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

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

“Will I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices. 

“I never take it off,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother would have loved it. 

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

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

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

“I know,” he says. 

You can’t sleep. 

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

But tonight, you are wide awake. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we considering that strike three?”

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

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

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

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

“Can’t sleep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has become someone he wants to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A modern day crisis,” you joke. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We thank you for your service.

Oh. 

Already? 

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

You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well. 

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

So what changed?

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

It isn’t over already, is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Jungkook says. 

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

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

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

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

Another person to fill up this barren house. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This arrangement has always been temporary. 

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

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

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

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

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

To Y/N,

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

Jungkook

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

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

You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

��What?” You demand. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You refuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

Like Jungkook. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jungkook—”

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

“Listen, I can explain—”

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

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

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

“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jungkook, you know that—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To remind you of the magic inside you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted. 

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

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

You ring the doorbell. 

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook budges a little bit. 

“Please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That old memories can become new once more. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loser washes the dishes! ♡

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

And then he shouts, 

“You’re on!”

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

[alwaysmarveling]

Rock Band

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Warnings: None, just fluff :)

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Not too sure how I feel about this one, but it’s Wanda so hopefully you guys enjoy it (also I miss playing Rock Band)!!

“You ready for game night, Bird Boy?” Bucky winked.

“You bet, old man. I’m going to crush you, just you wait.” Sam smiled at Bucky with a glint in his eye and mischief clear in his voice. “You guys coming?” Sam turned to look at you and your girlfriend. “The theme is Wii games. Even Thor is coming.” You looked at Wanda for confirmation before answering.

“Yeah, sounds fun. Don’t know if we have the same need for total domination as you losers, though.” Tony laughed from his position in the chair next to you.

“Just you wait, kiddo. You’ll get into it. They all do.”

“Even if I do, I doubt it’ll be that hard to take a bunch of grandpas down,” you winked at the men before scooping some salad into your mouth.

“Since when am I a grandpa?” Sam scoffed.

“Since you became old, which, according to my calculations, has been… oh, right, always. Grandpa in spirit.”

“Well this grandpa is going to beat your ass, so just prepare yourself,” Sam challenged.

“I personally would like to go back to the ‘losers’ thing,” Steve countered. “The only loser is going to be you. Do you even know what games we’re going to be playing, Y/N?”

“Nah, but I figure whatever it is I’ll win,” you smirked.

“Oh, someone’s feeling cocky today. I’d be scared if I were you.” You turned your head slightly to your right, noting how Wanda’s lips curled upwards at Steve’s warning. “Nat has yet to be defeated in Mario Kart, and I, for one, am pretty decent at Smash Bros.”

“You’re on,” you winked at him, the table beginning to clear out. “See you tonight.”

When everyone had left the table but you and Wanda, you turned to your girlfriend. “I suck at Mario Kart. And Smash Bros,” you whined, burying your face into the crook of her neck. “What got into me?” Wanda laughed and ran a hand down your arm.

“You’re too competitive for your own good, detka. If it makes you feel better, Nat already knows you’re bad at Mario Kart,” Wanda smiled, reflecting on the many game nights the three of you and Carol had had together over the years.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m going to be a loser,” you complained, your voice muffled.

“You’ll be fine, babe. You’re good at, um... What's that game called again?”

“Mario Party 8?”

“Yeah, that one!”

“I can’t win game night with one game, Wanda.”

“Well, you’re always a winner in my book,” your girlfriend reassured you as she played with your fingers.

“Cute, Wan,” you huffed. “Maybe there is a way I could be a winner…” you smiled. When Wanda began to shake her head furiously, you began to beg. “Please, baby, you don’t have to do a lot. Just distract them a little? Please? Pretty please?”

“As much as I love you, Y/N, there is no way I’m messing with their minds just so you can win a game night.”

“I guess you have a point,” you sighed, making sure the fake sadness was clear in your voice. Wanda only laughed, brushing your cheek with the back of her hand.

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Besides, if you win, I can’t kiss away your pout.”

“But if I win, you can kiss me as a little ‘good job,’ you know?”

“You’re cute when you pout, though.”

“Am I not cute when I’m smiling from the pure joy of winning?”

“Weren’t you just saying you didn’t want ‘total domination’ less than five minutes ago?”

“Don’t change the subject,” you grumbled. Wanda chuckled, pressing her lips to your forehead.

“Sorry, printsessa. You’d better go practice if you want to try to win tonight.”

“I suppose,” you mumbled, pulling away from the witch. “You’re going to help me, though, right?” Your girlfriend pecked you on the lips, causing a smile to slowly form on your face.

“Of course.”

---

Later that night, you and Wanda were sprawled across your bed watching the first show that played when you turned on the TV. Your head laid in Wanda’s lap as Wanda traced invisible patterns in your hair and along your face.

“Okay, but why is ‘womb’ pronounced ‘woom’?” you spoke up. “Shouldn’t it be ‘wom’? You know, like ‘bomb’? Or what about ‘tomb’? Why is it pronounced like that? Who said that putting a ‘b’ at the end of the word makes the ‘o’ long for some words but not others?” Wanda brought her gaze down from the screen to your face, her brows furrowed and nose scrunched.

“What the heck even made you think of that?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, “I’ve just been thinking.”

“Maybe you should be thinking a little less, printsessa,” Wanda giggled, drawing a swirl on your cheek with the tip of her finger.

“That tickles, Wan.” That didn’t stop the witch, who simply pinched your cheek before resuming her tracing. “But I thought you liked my thinking. I have some pretty good thoughts,” you defended yourself, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

“Like ‘what would happen if the French used the Statue of Liberty like the Trojan Horse?’” Wanda raised her eyebrows.

“It was a hypothetical!”

“A pretty bad one, if you ask me.”

“Well sorry, Miss Smartypants.”

“You can be smart too, dorogaya. You just… have your moments,” she winked at you.

“I hate you,” you grumbled, turning away from her so that you were facing the flashing screen, images playing across it but neither of you really sure—or caring—what was going on.

“You love me.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yeah huh.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I-”

“Guys, game night is starting,” Tony knocked at your door.

“Okay, we’ll be down in a second,” Wanda told him. You didn’t listen for if he had left, instead turning your gazes back to each other.

“Okay, maybe I do love you a little bit.” Wanda raised her brows, her finger now running along your lower lip.

“Only a little?”

“I might be able to be persuaded otherwise, but as of right now, yes, a little.” Wanda hummed before leaning down to join your lips.

“What about now?” she asked, her lips brushing yours as she spoke.

“I love you a medium bit.” She kissed you again, this time a little longer than the last.

“And now?”

“I love you a lot a bit,” you whispered. Wanda smiled, giving you one last kiss before sitting back up.

“I love you a lot a bit too. Now, let’s get down to the living room. I believe we have a bunch of ‘grandpas’ waiting for us.”

---

“Wanda, Y/N, I missed you. How has life been treating you on Earth?” Thor waved at the two of you. You guys had little time to wave back, let alone respond, before Tony spotted you.

“There they are,” Tony clapped his hands together. “We were just about to get started. First on the agenda is Smash Bros because this one,” he aggressively pointed in Steve’s direction, “said he needs to go to bed before 1. Party pooper.” Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Some of us just don’t want to destroy our entire sleep schedule in one night.” He turned away from Tony to face the two of you, holding out one controller. “We’ve got one spot left, who’s playing?”

---

More than three hours later, the clock read 11 PM and the group of you had made it through several games. As you expected, you hadn’t won anything, but Wanda held her own in Smash Bros and was actually close to beating Nat in Mario Kart at one point (that didn’t last long, but you were proud nonetheless). Thor beat you all at Mario and Sonic at the Olympic Games, but with all the jumping and yelling going on at the time, you weren’t sure the tower would hold up long enough for you guys to actually finish the game.

“Are you planning on winning any time soon, Y/N?” Nat winked at you from her spot on the couch, one leg resting above the couch and the other bent at the knee on a cushion.

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed. “You know that I suck at video games.” No one else could hear your conversation with the chaos going on over Cooking Mama. That’s right, Cooking Mama.

“I actually thought you were playing us the first couple game nights. And then I finally realized you were just that bad,” Natasha chuckled, quickly having to dodge the pillow you’d thrown in her direction.

“Would it kill you to sit normally for once?”

“Yes,” she smiled, “Yes, it would.”

“How’re you doing, babe? Not too upset yet?” Wanda joined you on the couch with a peck to your cheek.

“Doing just dandy, Wan. See, I can be a good sport.” The witch laughed.

“I’ll check back in with you in an hour.”

“Hey, ladies, we were going to play Rock Band. You guys interested?” Bucky held up the controllers.

“Who won Cooking Mama?” you asked, a smirk clearly written across your face. Bucky rolled his eyes before responding.

“Clint. Now are you guys joining, or what?”

“Mm, I think I’m going to grab a drink. I’ll enjoy the show for a little bit first,” you winked as you slowly rose from the couch.

“She’s only saying that because she doesn’t want to lose,” Sam scoffed. “Y/N’s just upset she can’t deliver on her promise to beat us all.”

“Just you wait for Mario Party 8, Sam. Just you wait.”

“We don’t have that game,” Bruce whispered to you apologetically. “We let Peter borrow it for the weekend. Sorry, Y/N.”

“Are you serious?” You threw your hands up.

“Coward,” Clint teased, sticking his tongue out at you.

“Oh, calm down, Clint. Rock Band doesn’t even have a winner,” Nat chastised.

“Yes, it does! Whoever gets the highest score wins.” The redhead simply rolled her eyes before winking at you.

“Alright, I’m in. Put me on guitar. You coming, Wan?” Natasha turned to her.

“I’m a bit exhausted from the last game. Soon, though,” the witch promised.

“You want anything, babe?”

“A water would be nice,” Wanda smiled at you. “Thank you, detka.”

“Of course.” You squeezed her hand before heading toward the kitchen.

“How come you didn’t ask any of us if we wanted anything?”

“Okay, Sam,” you turned, crossing your arms, “Do you guys want anything?” A chorus of “no’s” echoed through the room. You shook your head, letting out a puff of air before continuing into the kitchen and grabbing one water for you and your girlfriend.

After a small argument over the song choice, Sam, Bucky, Nat, and Tony were all jamming out to ‘Say It Ain’t So,’ and you couldn’t help but laugh from your position on the couch. Wanda’s left arm was wrapped around your waist, holding you close to her, not that you were complaining. You appreciated the body heat, and her, of course.

Sam did have a pretty decent voice, you had to admit. You didn’t think he’d get so into it, but it was quite entertaining.

Speaking of entertaining, it was extremely difficult to hold in a giggle every time you looked at Bucky. Not that he was bad at it—he was surprisingly very good—but it was obvious he’d spent hours playing this game. Eyes closed, head shaking frantically side to side, and cheeks rosy, one might’ve thought Bucky was actually playing at a concert. You were sure Bucky had his part memorized, which was quite a lot for a guy who was still complaining about all the “confusing, new technology nowadays.”

Nat couldn’t be farther from the opposite of the Winter Soldier. As one might expect, she was hitting every note, but from the look on her face, you had a harder time going up the stairs without tripping than she was having playing the game.

And Tony, well, you didn’t really know what to expect with him, but it certainly wasn’t this. For a guy with all the charisma in the world, you thought he would’ve been more… coordinated. He dropped a drumstick at least twice already, and he could never seem to hit the pedal when he had to use the sticks at the same time.

Unfortunately for you, the song quickly came to a close and a new distraction arose—you.

“Y/N, no avoiding it any longer. C’mon, get up here. Which one do you want to be?” You glanced reluctantly at Wanda before answering. If you wanted to play to win, your best bet was singing, but none of the Avengers, including Wanda, had heard you before, and you were in no rush to change that. At the same time, your girlfriend was right; you definitely had a competitive side to you, and seeing the looks on the guys’ faces when you won would be a glorious sight. But maybe it wasn’t all about winning, after all, Wanda had promised you a kiss…

“Put her on the mic,” Natasha smirked. She removed the strap of the toy guitar from her neck before handing it to Steve. Before you could protest, the microphone was shoved into your hands and someone pushed you towards the front of the room.

“Good luck, Y/N,” you barely heard Wanda call from behind you, more worried about what you were going to do.

“Okay, so, Steve and I will be on guitar and bass, Thor on drums, and Y/N on mic. We ready?” Bucky scanned the room for approval. When everyone except for you nodded, he went to choose a song.

“‘Wanted Dead or Alive?’ Really, Buck?” Steve shook his head.

“It’s a good song,” he shrugged, moving to his spot next to Steve. “Should we show them how it’s done?”

“Ha, funny of you to think you’ll win,” Thor boomed, rubbing the drum sticks together.

“Y/N? You’re awfully quiet.” Sam smirked.

“Oh, shut up, Big Bird. Let’s just get this over with.” The man held up his hands in surrender as he backed away from you slowly.

As the first few measures of the song passed, you made a decision. Screw what the rest of the Avengers thought, you were going for it. You took a deep breath as the words rolled across the screen.

“It’s all the same, only the names will change.” The second you started singing, you heard everyone else go quiet around you. Steve, Bucky, and Thor all stopped playing for a second, and you could practically feel everyone’s mouth drop as you forced your eyes to stay on the screen in front of you.

“Every day, it seems we’re wastin’ away.” Just keep going, you told yourself. As much as you wanted to shrivel up in a corner somewhere far, far away, you had already started this. Might as well finish it.

“Another place where the faces are so cold, I’d drive all night just to get back home.” A whistle erupted from behind you—it had to be Tony—and amongst the hooting and hollering, you smiled, relieved, as the rest of the Avengers seemed to snap back into it.

The rest of the guys got back into the groove, and at one point you weren’t even sure you could hear yourself over Thor’s rather enthusiastic drum playing. You had a hard time not laughing at Bucky when you were watching him earlier, but it was pretty much impossible to not laugh now when you were seeing him with Steve. They were definitely feeding off of each other’s energy, and, wow, was it a sight. You’d never seen them this… loose before. They’d definitely need a comb after this game.

Nevertheless, your teammates’ antics helped you fully relax into the song, and it was over before you knew it. On the last beat of the song, you heard a loud crack and whirled around just in time to dodge part of a drumstick coming straight for your face.

“Thor, what the heck are you doing, man?” The god laughed sheepishly.

“Are you trying to kill my girlfriend?” You glanced over at Wanda, who looked ready to grab Thor around the neck. One stern look from you made her hesitate, but the anger remained obvious in her eyes.

“I guess I got a little caught up in the game. In my defense, your human toys are way too fragile.” After one harsh glare from Wanda, the god swallowed and added, “I apologize, Y/N.”

“Dude, how the heck are we supposed to keep playing with a broken drumstick?” Clint inspected the broken piece, which was at least the size of his palm, passing it from hand to hand.

“Ah, forget it. We can just switch to a different game. Y/N’s would’ve won the rest of the rounds anyway,” Bruce shrugged as he pointed at the screen.

The rest of the Avengers followed his finger, and sure enough, you had finished with a perfect score.

“Okay, Y/N, I’ll give it to you. That was good. How come you never told any of us you could sing?” You laughed, shaking your head.

“Nobody asked me.” You shrugged before handing the microphone to Bruce, allowing the conversation to return to what to do about the broken drumstick and returning to your seat next to Wanda. “Babe, I defeated the grandpas,” you whispered before pushing your face into the crook of her neck. More relaxed now that you were safe next to her, she chuckled, grabbing your hand.

“You did. I thought you would’ve been more excited about it?”

“I’m very happy about it,” you murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” she smiled, squeezing your thigh. You whined, prompting your girlfriend to laugh softly and kiss the top of your forehead. “I wouldn’t mind hearing you sing more often. You’re a good singer, malyshka.”

“Thanks,” you muttered.

“Wow, Wanda, you didn’t even know your girlfriend could sing?” Clint teased. With the conversation back on you, you pushed yourself further into Wanda’s body. She reassured you by tracing small circles at the top of your knee.

“Obviously none of you knew about it either.”

“I did,” Natasha smirked, causing you to look up at her in shock. “I heard you singing in the shower the other day when I went to drop off the sweatshirt you left in my room.” You threw your head back in laughter before chucking a pillow in her direction, which she easily caught.

“You suck. You put me on singing on purpose!”

“You wanted to win, didn’t you?” your best friend shrugged, clearly not feeling bad for what she had done.

“Okay, okay, can we get back to game night now?” Sam whined. “Sure, Y/N can sing. But can she dance?” Everyone groaned playfully as Sam pulled out a copy of Just Dance. “Natasha, you’re not allowed to play,” he quickly added. The redhead crossed her arms, a smile on her face.

“Fine with me. Go get ‘em, Y/N.” You grinned. Giving Wanda a peck on the cheek, you stood from the couch yet again and rolled up your sleeves. This was going to be a long night.

[mistaeq]

Hope u don't mind me requesting again but I was wondering if u could do headcanons for the crusaders with a reader who likes to quote memes or vines like when she's got an idea of some sort she's just like "oh yeah, big brain time" or they're in a fight with an enemy she's like "I'ma bad b*tch you can't kill me", I just wanna see their reaction to someone with that chaotic energy (sorry if this doesn't make sense ':>)

Stardust Crusaders: With a s/o who Quotes Memes and Vines

TW // none

Thank you for your request! I genuinely had a lot of fun writing this idea for these five dorky men <3 enjoy!

Stardust Crusaders with a s/o who's often quoting memes and Vines, had to be fem!s/o, but I didn't need to point out reader's gender while writing, so it turned out kinda neutral.

WORD COUNT: 1.3k

KUJO JOTARO

He's annoyed by your habit most of the time, but he can't deny that sometimes the result is pretty hilarious, above all when you happen to do it when fighting against enemy stand users.

Jotaro was trying to figure out a way to attack without being noticed, to make sure it could be effective and quick, when he heard you whisper "Big brain time", and the second after, you suddenly screamed at the top of your lungs, yeeting your stand against the enemy stand user.

"YOU'RE TRYING TO FUCK WITH MY HOMIES RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY SALAD?" screeching more or less the same way Stroheim would have done years ago, you guide your attack, your stand successfully making the enemy retire.

He tries to look annoyed and pissed, but you still managed to win, and he must admit he's a proud boyfriend. Jotaro is silently complimenting you, in his mind. Still, he scolds you. You acted in an irresponsible way and you could get really hurt.

When you see him so pissed over your behavior, all you manage to do is trying to ignore him. "Y/n, I'm not done with you." you usually shrug. "...Hi Not Done With You, I'm y/n."

Sometimes you both wonder how did such different people like you two end up together. But to be honest, Jotaro getting worried over you is something you enjoy, and seeing you so confident in your fighting skills makes Jotaro feel all proud and relieved you're not breaking down.

JOSEPH JOESTAR

He doesn't really know what these hilarious sentences are, but hearing you quoting them always gives him a reason to say he's in a good mood despite the pressure DIO puts on your lives.

The six of you were on your way to Pakistan, just before your fight with Wheel Of Fortune, and you were sitting right next to Joseph. Out of boredom, you both were reading the road signs, and you took the occasion to be yourself.

"Road Work Ahead..." Joseph read out loud. You snorted, and rested your head on your hand, smiling at him, and answering, whispering to not to annoy your fellow crusaders. "Uh, yeah, I sure hope it does." The man loudly laughed, scaring Polnareff who was driving.

Unfortunately, after that hilarious moment, you got really hurt in the fight against Wheel Of Fortune, and before even thinking of driving a kilometer more, they had to be sure you were okay. You really looked dead.

Much to Joseph's relief, after he pulled you up from the ground, holding you tight in his arms and caressing your hair a couple of times, you opened your eyes. And noticed his ones were almost teary. Did he get that much scared?

You immediately smiled, not wanting to see him like that. You pulled a thumb up, a smug grin on your face. "I'm a bad bitch, he can't kill me." the man laughed, tenderly kissing your forehead and letting you back in the car.

MUHAMMAD AVDOL

He knows what those quotes are. Avdol doesn't really mind them, he finds those genuinely funny. But he minds them when you fuck up your protection just because you want to quote those.

He particularly remembers that time you were with Polnareff, when a clone of Avdol himself and a clone of Jean's sister, Sherry, were created by an enemy stand user. He was watching the two of you from afar, just before joining you and saving you. As soon as you saw the clone of your boyfriend, you eyed at Polnareff.

"Are you telling me you asked for THIS thing, Jean? This is not Avdol, this is some flesh without his feelings! This bitch's EMPTY!" your strong stand picked up the clone, and threw him violently on the ground, over Polnareff's head. "YEET!"

When you did that, it took no time for the clone to rip off a bite of your leg, and you couldn't express how much it hurt. When you learnt that the actual Avdol was there too, much to Polnareff's surprise since he didn't know anything, you immediately scolded your boyfriend.

"You could come and help a little sooner... mother trucker, dude. That bite hurt like a buttcheek on a stick." Avdol stayed silent for a couple of seconds, before bursting into a laughter with you, kissing your lips. "I missed you so much, babe."

Avdol spent the following twenty minutes in checking on you and making sure you had no more severe wounds that could interfere with your trip to Egypt. He's pretty apprehensive, when it comes to you.

KAKYOIN NORIAKI

He totally knows what those quotes are and laughs with you on those. It's likely for you and Noriaki to understand each other and communicate through memes and Vine quotes. It happens to be useful to talk without enemies understanding you.

The crusaders have plenty of war flashbacks of you and Kakyoin acting weird because of those. For example, the time you were walking with your boyfriend, along with Jotaro and Anne. You genuinely tried to hold back from quoting vines around Jotaro, but as soon as a man threw a paper on the ground and not in the bin, you two screamed.

"WHOEVER THREW THAT PAPER, YOUR MOM'S A HOE!" that's one of the reasons that pushed Jotaro and Anne to isolate themselves from the actual Kakyoin and the actual you, being attacked by Rubber Soul afterwards.

Rubber Soul and his fellow enemy stand users were an infuriating thing for you and Kakyoin. Last time you had a talk together, understanding they were only serving DIO for money, you found yourselves pissed off. Like for real.

"We here not having the money for some chicken nuggets and still helping Jotaro and Mr. Joestar for FREE and y'all want a hundred thousand dollars from a naked vampire? Not gonna happen, Karen!"

You're able to bring out the loudest part of Noriaki, since none of the crusaders like the same stuff of this type the way he does. You often call each other "dude" or "bitch" - regardless of your genders, in fact you called him a bitch several times -, even if you're an actual couple.

JEAN PIERRE POLNAREFF

He doesn't really know what those quotes are, but he finds it hilarious when you say them, and gets interested in it, so that he can get the reference when you repeat those. He starts saying those too, afterwards.

It happened when you met Hol Horse, a fast, precise bullet coming towards you, as you and Polnareff moved a little, but enough for the bullet to get in the little space between you, leaving you safe and sound. It had scared you, you weren't gonna lie, and in both your minds, a perfect vine quote appeared.

"Ah, stooop. We coulda dropped our croissant." if that quote wasn't perfect to be said with your boyfriend... nothing else could ever be. You both laughed, as Hol Horse realized he was alone against two people, and before you could say anything more, he was running away.

Teaching vine and memes quotes to Polnareff is the cutest thing ever, because you know he's gonna use them sometime, with your fellow crusaders or with enemies. But he doesn't have a great memory, and will need your help.

"Next time you put your fuckin' hands on me, imma fucking... babe help." no wonder Enyaba was staring at you two with a scared and confused look on her face. "...rip your face off..." you helped him. "...rip your face off." Polnareff repeated. "...bitch." you added, whispering. "Putain." you choked on your breath, did Jean fucking say bitch in french?

Polnareff has no chill, if you're willing to risk it all for a vine quote, he'll fucking do it with you, no matter what. Jotaro wants you two dead.

[beyondspaceandstars]

While You Sleep

Chapter 17

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: angst, mental health discussion Summary: Soulmate!AU - Throughout life, you’re given glimpses of your soulmate through dreams. As you sleep, memories flash in your mind showing you the life your soulmate has lived. Everyone around you raves about how their soulmate reads great books or volunteers in their spare time. But you can’t relate as your dreams end up being more like nightmares. Through initial images of death and violence, you come to learn your soulmate is the Winter Soldier.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

You had no idea where Bucky was taking you. All you did know was that he was gripping your hand tightly and walking slightly faster than you, say, the average human would be used to. He was feeling a lot, you could tell. A million little things going off in that head of his. You wanted to know them all to try to ease them. You wanted to help him again as he had helped you these past few weeks. 

But he wasn’t giving you a chance. Right now, the only thing he was outwardly focusing on was dinner. Whatever this dinner was going to actually entail. 

You almost couldn’t believe it when he finally came to a stop. Your eyes got wide as you read the restaurant name. You lowered your gaze quickly to look in at the familiar decor and seating. 

It’s where you two had met. Where you had that first date. The night you began to consider that maybe the nightmares had been a blessing, not a curse. You wished you still had that attitude. 

“This is where you want to eat?” You asked.

Bucky shrugged. “Brings back good memories.” 

With nothing much else left to say, Bucky guided you into the restaurant. He asked for a table for two and by some weird luck from Fate, you two were seated at a very familiar table. In very familiar seats. All that was missing was a proud-looking Steve to make some smart remarks. Oh, Steve… You worried about what he would think of this situation. 

“You gonna get the salad again?” Bucky asked. His voice was almost on the lighter side, easing some of your concerns - at least, for the time being. You chuckled. 

“Is that really what I got on our first date?” You sighed. “How cliche of me.”

“You were nervous. I was nervous,” Bucky admitted. His eyes danced around the menu. “Hell, I’m still nervous.”

Slowly, you pushed your menu aside, already having settled on the salad again (don’t wanna get too crazy), and reached for Bucky’s hand. He was shaking just ever so slightly.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your thumb drawing mindless patterns on the back of his hand. He gripped yours tighter, giving a little nod.

Soon after that, the waitress stopped by and took your drink and meal orders. Everything was pretty much cookie-cutter from your first trip here. Bucky with his burger, you with your salad. Both indulge in some ice water. You almost wanted to make a comment about the chicken nuggets, but Bucky looked way too all over the place for much more banter. He let go of your hand, sadly.

Bucky suddenly spoke your name like it was breaking his heart with every syllable. Your eyes perked up. “What are we going to do?” He asked. 

You shifted your gaze quickly. “You heard what Bruce suggested.”

“There has to be something more we can do.”

“He seemed pretty dead set on it,” you sighed. “He’s the expert, Buck.”

“Well, maybe we need to get a second opinion from whoever he was talking about-,”

Your eyes fell on him once more. “Bucky, what’s going on?”

Now Bucky was the one looking away. Your waitress awkwardly placed your meals in their respective spots. Neither of you moved.

“I don’t know if I can give it up.”

“Wh-What?”

Bucky ran his hand through his hair frustratingly. “I always thought that’d be what I wanted, to just stop. No more fighting, no more missions, no more… Anything. Just live a normal life as I should’ve all those years ago.” He let out an exaggerated breath. “But now that it’s actually a possibility, the thought of giving up everything I’ve known is daunting.”

You felt your eyes beginning to water. You dug your nails into your hand trying not to explode in the restaurant. “Bucky, come on. This could help me so much, you know? Please tell me you realize that because right now it looks like you don’t… you don’t care that I’ve suffered.”

“Sweetheart, please, I-I get that. I really do.” Bucky tried reaching for your hand upon seeing how tense they were but you quickly pulled away. “It’s just… What if I can’t do it? What if I can’t cope and then, sure, the nightmares stop but you lose me.”

“Lose you?”

“What if I don’t adapt?” 

The question hung over the table eerily. You didn't really know the answer to this. You hadn’t thought this was going to be something that needed a whole conversation on. In your mind, it was so simple: Bucky gives up missions, the nightmares stop, you two live happily ever after. You never thought there’d be a chance he’d be too nervous to retire. Too concerned about himself, his mind. You had seen him so strong going against the organization that terrorized him. But there was a distraction. An ulterior motive. You. 

He had distractions galore, you just being the newest addition, and giving up work would put him in the unknown. 

“You don’t think you can just exist as a civilian.”

“Possibly,” he confirmed. You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself. Your anger was slowly subsiding as you tried to understand.

With shaky breaths, you dared to ask, “You can’t even try for me?”

As you slowly opened your eyes, you thought Bucky looked like he had been slapped. The surprised yet uncertain reaction he wore made you wonder what you were getting yourself into. What you had been getting yourself into.

But as fast as all those emotions ran across Bucky’s face, he quickly pulled himself out of it. It was like he was suddenly aware of what was going on. What point you two were at here. You felt a slight pull from within you.

He shook his head. “I’m going to have to, aren’t I?”

You sighed, realizing the position you had now put him in. There was almost no winning in this situation, huh? “No, Bucky. Not if you don’t want to. I’m sorry, I’m making this all about me.” 

With shaky hands, you tried stabbing at your salad but your appetite had suddenly gone missing. You wanted to push the whole thing off the table and storm away, completely lost in your anger over the hand you had been dealt. Everyone else got happy, exciting lives with their soulmate - why couldn’t that be the case for you and Bucky?

Bucky gave you a weak smile, his eyes softer at your apology. “I think you’re entitled to do so given…everything.”

“It’s just… This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. Neither of us should have to give up anything to just have a life together.”

Bucky picked at his french fries. “I’ll try, doll. We’ll go to Steve later, let him know.”

“A-Are you sure?” It felt maybe too good to be true. But Bucky nodded, fairly confidently. 

“You’re right, the situation is not fair. But I have a chance to maybe make it a little better.” His voice cracked ever so slightly. “We both deserve a life together.”

You nodded, your heart filling with optimism, something you don’t think you felt so presently since your first time in this restaurant. Close to a full-circle moment, you declared. “Do you think Steve will be okay with this?”

“It was recommended by Bruce. Doctor’s orders, literally,” Bucky chuckled. “Besides, he’s my best friend. He’ll understand.”

***

“I don’t understand.”

Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise. You shifted uncomfortably beside him. “About retirement or…”

“No, no,” Steve shook his head, waving a hand in dismissal. “You could’ve walked away at any point before this, Buck. I mean about the nightmares. I thought they would’ve gone away.”

You both let out sighs of relief. Leave it to Steve to fumble that one. He had seemed a bit different when you entered the room like something was on his mind. Neither of you asked him about it but you knew Bucky would grill him eventually. Especially after that misunderstanding. 

You had been pretty much dreading this conversation as just a while ago you were nervous about what Steve would think. He had been such a key player in this arrangement, having only the best intentions the world wasn’t aligning with. You knew he was always concerned about the nightmares so it must’ve been a bit unsettling to hear improvement wasn’t exactly linear. 

“Bruce discovered our bond has been tampered with,” Bucky explained. It was as simple as anyone could put it and you were actually thankful for that. You grabbed Bucky’s hand, he accepted. 

“A tampered bond?” Steve shook his head. “I’ve never heard of anything like that before. What caused-,”

The words died on Steve’s lips as he saw the dark look that came over Bucky’s face. There was no need to speak of it anymore. Steve nodded in a silent understanding.

He changed the subject, “Well, I think it’s very brave of you, Buck, to want to step away.”

“Thank you-,”

“But this was passed along to me today.” Steve tossed a folder on the table. You didn’t miss the way Bucky tensed in your arms as he stared at the government emblem embossed into the waxy paper. You waited, hopeful, for how Bucky would approach this.

Bucky began shaking his head slowly. “I just got done saying-,”

“You know this isn’t under my control,” Steve said. Hell, even you knew that and this wasn’t anywhere near to what you did for a living. No government orders were coming down about coffee. 

“Why me?” He asked just above a whisper.

Steve crossed his arms, frowning like a man holding the secret of the universe. He ignored Bucky’s initial question. “They said you needed to be included. I glanced over it and it honestly doesn’t look too complicated. I’m still working out who will all be on the team. I just know, well, you’re on it.” He sighed and glanced down. “The government thinks it’s the least you can do given your...history.”

Bucky scoffed but didn’t try to defend himself. Something in your heart snapped at that. He dropped your hand and reached for the folder. You tried looking over information but everything was just jumbled nonsense to you. It probably didn’t help that you were suddenly crying. Neither of the men had noticed but you felt the tears hitting your cheeks. You saw the way your vision was getting blurred. Just one more time, you told yourself as some sort of self-soothing affirmation bullshit. You needed to book a therapy session, stat. 

“Fine,” Bucky agreed without so much as looking at you. But why would he? What were you going to do? This was outside the realm of anyone in the room but that didn’t mean it didn’t absolutely cut you up inside. 

All you could do was hope. Once again, some fueling from good old-fashioned hope was going to get you through it. Hope that the mission will go smoothly. Hope that he'll come back in one piece. Hope that this wouldn’t be a distraction for you to just get whisked away again (you doubted, but hey, life got funny). 

You had one tragedy creeping into your brain every night. You didn’t need another one on top of it. You wanted to communicate this to Bucky but you believed he already had some idea of it by the way his eyes overanalyzed every word on the file’s pages. 

Just this one. The words were unsung but well present in the room. You felt like the world was never going to let you catch a break as Bucky took your hand and began leading you out of the compound, still not looking at you.

[lady-literature]

ayy, so ya’ll know that Miraculous/DC crossover I screamed about a while back? I found plot for it.

It is not quite finished yet, but it’s also so much longer than I originally planned on it being. (me: I’ll just write a fun little thing to get this out of my head!

me, 13k words later: oh no)

SO! Here’s a little sneak peak!

(or, find the finished product here!)

***

There is an unspoken rule, kept by any outsider who’s ever set foot in Gotham, that you should only ever visit the city once. Most find that visiting even once was already too much.

The most dangerous city on earth isn’t kind to its residents—much less strangers who don’t know how to watch their pockets or keep off the streets after dark. It’s gotten better, perhaps, in recent years since the Bat started lurking on rooftops, but that doesn’t mean the city is good.

Normal people stay as far from Gotham as they can get.

Marinette, (un)luckily, is far from normal.

***

The touring of Metropolis, New York City, and Gotham had been going well as far as Marinette was concerned, no matter what Chloé says to her about carelessness and naivety.

She’s glad her, Adrien and Chloé all decided to take this summer trip before they started University in the fall. It sucks that it was just the three of them, she wishes more of their friends could’ve tagged along but, alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

Kagami was in the middle of training season and couldn’t come. Luka was touring with his father, learning the tricks of the trade and other things. Nathaniel had already been commissioned to paint a mural downtown before they really finalized dates. Nino was in much the same boat as Nath, just with music and pitch meetings. Felix hated traveling and Alix was doing… something. Time travelling, probably. Or at least spending more time in the burrow.

Marinette was certainly starting to notice the way she’s begun talking about ancient history like she was actually there when she goes on rants now. Felix also probably noticed but Marinette’s also sure that he’s aiding and abetting her in exchange for insider information so…

She’ll probably have to deal with that later, unfortunately. But not today.

Their tour group was going to Amusement Mile later that afternoon, but had been given free roam until then. Marinette decided to spend the time up until lunch at the park near the meetup spot in Gotham Square and Chloé hadn’t complained or vetoed that idea so the trio happily camped out on the grass.

Marinette had returned to her sketch of Lady Gotham in between eating bites of her sandwich. She thinks she much preferred the style of it to New York City’s Lady Liberty. There was just something about the Statue of Justice that inspired her.

She’d been doodling about it since they left the marina yesterday. She also had plenty of pictures of the statue for inspiration later. There’s one she especially likes and thinks she might even print out to put up on her wall at home.

She’s playing with the idea of draping fabrics for formal wear designs like the roman togas both Lady statues seem to wear when a tennis ball rolls up and bumps into her leg. She has only enough time to move her sketchbook out of the way before a large dog bowls into her, tail wagging happily and barking up a storm.

“Oof!”

Adrien’s already halfway up the tree, startled out of his light doze by the barking and Chloé only daintily moved away from Marinette, leaving her to her fate. 

Pushing herself back up so she’s not crushed by what feels like one hundred pounds of dog, she comes face to snout with quite possibly the biggest dog she’s ever seen. From there, there was really only one choice of action Marinette could have followed.

“Oh! Well, aren’t you just the prettiest boy?” she tells the dog happily, reaching up to give him scratches. “Such a big boy! You nearly bowled me over, didn’t you?”

If it’s possible, the dog’s tail begins to wag even faster, enough that he accidentally overbalances himself and decides to roll with it, flopping onto his back and letting her rub his stomach. Marinette does so enthusiastically, her baby-talk to the dog devolving into broken not-words and the occasional exclamation of good boy! in both English and French.

The dog was a great dane, and had the softest coat of black fur she’s ever seen. There was a thick red collar around his throat, and Marinette stopped furiously rubbing his belly long enough to look at the silver tag attached to it.

“Titus, huh?” she says to the dog. “Such a strong name for such a distinguished boy, huh?”

“Oh god,” she hears Adrien groan from his spot still up in the tree. When she looks up, she finds him eyeing Titus with distrust, the absolute kitten. “I hope whoever his owner is, they’ve never read Shakespeare.”

Both her and Chloé blink at the strange non sequitur.

“Uh, why? Exactly?”

“Because they have shit taste in his plays if they do! Titus Andronicus is, like, Shakespeare’s worst play.”

Chloé glares up at him. “You’re such a nerd. Now stop being ridiculous and get down from there.”

“But, Chloé! It’s a dog.”

“Adrien Agreste!”

Marinette tunes out the two blondes as they devolve into sibling-like bickering. It’s a skill she’s had to learn and learn quickly with living in such close quarters with the pair for the last few weeks and also being friends with the pair for the past three years.

“Speaking of your owner, I wonder where they are?” She scratches under Titus’ chin thoughtfully. “Should we go look for them?”

Titus' head flops to the side, almost like he’s listening for something, before he’s clambering up onto his feet to tower over her. He’s almost twice as tall as she is sitting, which is just ridiculous. Why is everything in America so big?

Getting to her feet herself, Titus still stands almost as tall as her. She can rest her elbow on his back when she grabs his collar to make sure he doesn’t run off. He leads mostly, pulling her along at a steady trot she has to jog to keep up with.

He truly was such a well behaved dog and certainly lived up to his breed’s reputation as a gentle giant.

Or at least she thought so, until the call of “Titus! Here!” echoes through the park and he goes racing off towards it, dragging Marinette along for the ride no matter how much she tries to slow down.

Titus comes to a skidding stop, and Marinette barely stops herself from falling by keeping her arm around Titus.

“And who are you?”

Looking up, she finds a young man, probably around her age, staring down at her. He does not look happy—but most Gothamites don’t, Marinette’s found. He’s also, despite the almost glare he’s giving her, very attractive.

When she opens her mouth, incoherent French comes tumbling out, much to her embarrassment.

Ah. ‘Not being able to speak coherently to people she finds attractive’, she had wondered where that particular personality trait had been as of late. Even after so many years hanging around people who should be—and are—super models, she still acts like a spaz. Why is she like this?

The man raises an eyebrow at her, looking very unamused.

She tries again. “Ah- Je suis- I mean, I am very sorry. Your dog found me sitting over there with my friends and I figured I should find his owner instead of letting him just wander around and I assume your his owner because if you aren’t this is very embarrassing for me. Not that it wasn’t embarrassing before but, oh, I’m definitely rambling and I’m going to shut up now.”

Pressing her lips together as tightly as humanly possible so her tongue will stop making horrible life decisions, she holds Titus’ bright yellow tennis ball out to his owner.

The man huffs, taking the ball from her hand. “I didn’t ask for your life’s story.”

Marinette blinks and then frowns. Her hand tightens around where she’s still holding onto Titus’ collar and she has to very carefully unclench her hand before she breaks it or something.

“I didn’t give it,” she says through clenched teeth, embarrassment abruptly forgotten. There’s no need for the man to be rude.

He scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She doesn't really have anything to say to that. Instead, she turns to Titus, who’s sitting like the good boy he is. She very seriously leans down to eye level—she does not have to lean down far—and tells him, “Your owner is an ass. But you are still a very good boy.”

She plants a kiss to his forehead that makes his tail wag, gives him one last scratch behind the ears and walks back towards her friends without looking back at the rude man. 

***

Colonel Bug: so I met kagami and felix’s lovechild today

MY HONOR: I would never stoop so low.

the evil twin: I would never stoop so low.

ShutUpTurtleMan: Nettie

dearest

the evil twin: Okay first of all-

ShutUpTurtleMan: sunshine

light of our collective lives and reason I breathe

what the fuCK

YoureUnderAgreste: Kagami, my love, how could you?

The Betrayal™

GottaGoFast: ew

Queen of Salt: ew

sneaky snake: Send pics or it didn’t happen

give me art or give me death: [a photo of the ‘right in front of my salad?’ meme]

Queen of Salt: wait

I was with you all day when did this happen?

was it the owner of the dog that attacked you?

ShutUpTurtleMan: WHAT

Colonel Bug: he didn’t attack me!

chloe stop spreading misinformation!

titus was a sweetheart!

YoureUnderAgreste: incorrect

he was, in fact, a menace

give me art or give me death: wait was Titus the dog or the lovechild

ShutUpTurtleMan: ^^^ ?

Colonel Bug: shut up adrien

all animals are great

stop being elitist

give me art or give me death: okay but seriously what kind of dog was it

the evil twin: why exactly was he our lovechild?

GottaGoFast: because of the dramatic tryst you and Kagami had obviously

keep up

Colonel Bug: because he was as pretty as he was rude actually

And gave me the feeling that he’d rant about his honor and parentage if it given the chance

MY HONOR: you say something once as an unsocialized teen

GottaGoFast: MARI YOU DOG!

ARE GETTING TAIL IN GOTHAM OF ALL PLACES?

Colonel Bug: no alix

did you not read the part about how rude he is

YoureUnderAgreste: i mean,,,,,

Felix is pretty rude and we all still like him

ShutUpTurtleMan: and Chloe

YoureUnderAgreste: oh good point nino

Colonel Bug: i hate it here

i spoke to him for like 2 seconds

Queen of Salt: Okay first of all-

YoureUnderAgreste: so i mean it’s not really a dealbreaker yaknow?

Colonel Bug: this familys a nightmare

i shoulda left you all on the street corner where i found you

YoureUnderAgreste: BUT CHA DINDT

ShutUpTurtleMan: but yA DIDNT

GottaGoFast: BUT CHA DIDNT!!

sneaky snake: but ya didn’t

***

I have every no regrets. stay tuned for more!

[shift-shaping]

Solas/Surana Party Banter round whatever

hello. here it is again, but different this time! SIGNIFICANTLY. there's way more and it's a little bit ~angst-y~. anyway, here's the previous version, and here's a preface to this post.

-

In case you aren't aware of what my girl's Whole Deal is, she was in love with Alistair during the Blight and he sacrificed himself, which Sucked Balls for her. She wandered around in the mountains for most of the past ten years, and now she's in the Inquisition because she doesn't know what else to do with her life.

content warnings: brief mention of colorism

Lots of banter under the cut

Solas: Surana. Now that you have joined the Inquisition, what title do you prefer to use?

Surana: What title do you use?

Solas: None. But you have earned many.

Surana: 'Warden,' I guess. I don't really care.

Solas: Not 'Hero of Ferelden?'

Surana: No. Surana is fine.

.

Solas: You dislike your title?

Surana: It is inaccurate. Alistair was the real hero, and he died fighting the archdemon --I only ever did what I had to do.

Solas: Hm.

.

Solas: You do not think yourself a hero?

Eirwen: *sighs* If a man is ordered to save a child from a burning building or else be killed himself, is he really a hero? No, he is not.

Eirwen: Had I not been made a Warden, I would have been killed or made Tranquil. I did not choose to do the right thing. I was forced to.

.

Surana: Why do you keep asking me so many questions, Solas?

Solas: You are an historical anomaly. An elven mage elevated to the status of legendary hero.

(If the Inquisitor is an elf, a mage, or both:

Eirwen: Well apparently it’s not that anomalous.

Solas: Even still.)

Solas: I have seen echoes of your victories in the Fade alongside reflections of your losses. You have overcome a great deal. Do not be so quick to dismiss your own story.

Surana: Your dreams are lying to you. That legacy is not mine to claim.

Solas: I will not try to convince you otherwise, but know this: whatever bitterness you feel towards your legacy, you will gain far more accepting it than you ever would fighting its tide.

Surana: This isn't really about me, is it?

Solas: It never is.

.

[After All New, Faded for Her]

Eirwen: I’m sorry about Wisdom, Solas.

Solas: I appreciate that. Thank you.

Eirwen: It must have had a wealth of knowledge. It is a shame to lose so much for so little.

Solas: There is a difference between wisdom and knowledge.

Eirwen: Right, yes. I remember a joke about that. Would you like to hear it?

Solas: Not particularly.

Eirwen: *clears her throat* Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is knowing it does not belong in a fruit salad.

Solas: ...

Eirwen: Too soon, I suppose. Sorry.

.

Solas: Thank you, Surana.

Eirwen: I told you, Dorian and I aren’t fond of that particular vintage. And we thought you’d appreciate the earthy tones.

Solas: Thank you for that as well, I think, but that is not what I as referring to.

Eirwen: Oh?

Solas: Your joke. You… it was unexpected. But not bad at all.

Eirwen: Oh. Well, that’s about the least dirty joke I know. Want to hear one a drunken dwarf told me in the Deep Roads?

Solas: Another time, perhaps.

Eirwen: Ah, you wouldn’t like it anyway.

.

Solas: Surana. You said before that a man ordered to save a child from a burning building under threat of death would not be a hero.

Solas: I disagree.

Surana: Oh?

Solas: The man threatened with death may not see himself as particularly noble, but the child will always see him as their savior. Regardless of his motivations, he will always be a hero to the child he saved.

Surana: So no matter who or what made him do it, he is still a good person because another thinks him such?

Solas: I did not say that. 'Heroic' and 'good' are not necessarily the same.

.

Surana: So what is your point, then? That I should make people call me 'Hero' at Skyhold?

Solas: My point is that you should not feel guilty if they believe you to be someone you are not. You cannot control them, and attempts to the contrary will only serve to make you miserable.

Surana: Why do you care so much? Why does it matter to you how I feel about being called 'the Hero of Ferelden'?

Solas: It --doesn't. You are right, of course. And I meant no offense.

Surana: That's not-- I'm not offended, I'm curious. I want to know why it matters to you, a random wandering apostate, whether I call myself a hero or a bastard or a drunkard or nothing at all.

Solas: It is as I said: elven mages are rarely given the level of respect and admiration that you are. It is a shame you see no benefit in that.

Surana: Benefit? Like what, seeing my ears cut off in statues? My staff turned into a sword? My skin lightened in paintings and my relationships reduced to spectacle or seduction?

Surana: Maybe I am offended. I would love to be an anonymous apostate. I was, for a while, but I couldn't stop trying to live up to a version of me that doesn't exist, never has, and never will. The real hero is dead, and you have me instead.

Solas: You must let that be enough, Surana.

Surana: It isn't.

.

Surana: Solas, you have dreamt in all sorts of places, right?

Solas: Yes.

Surana: Have you ever --well, did you ever see the Battle of Denerim, in your dreams?

Solas: Not as you would remember it.

Surana: Of course not. But... I mean-- did you--

Solas: It is done, Surana. You cannot linger there.

Surana: How do I do that? How do I stop seeing it?

Solas: You do not. But instead of letting it weigh you down, let that pain be what pushes you forward. Focus on where you must be, and what you must do. You are needed here, now, exactly as you are, not as the person you were in Denerim. Whoever others think you are, you must go forward as who you know you are. If you lose sight of that, you are lost.

.

Surana: Solas, thank you.

Solas: For what?

Surana: You know full well what.

Solas: I try to help, when I can. The pain you carry is... familiar.

Surana: Familiar?

Solas: You feel guilt simply for being alive, as though self-flagellation will make you worthy of existence.

Surana: Self-flagellation? *dryly* You have a way with words, you know.

Solas: *just as dryly* You flatter me.

[If neither Solas nor Surana are romanced]

Surana: You deserve the flattery.

Solas: Is that a compliment, from the Hero of Ferelden herself?

Surana: I take it back. You're an ass and I hate you.

Solas: *chuckles*

.

[After Here Lies the Abyss]

Surana: I didn’t know you disliked the Wardens so much, Solas.

Solas: It was not worth mentioning.

Surana: Not until it became acceptable to criticize us, you mean.

Solas: What have the Wardens actually accomplished in terms of understanding the Blight? Do you honestly feel you understand it any better than you did before you became one?

Surana: Is that a serious question? Do I understand it better after witnessing its ravages than I did when I’d merely read about them in a book?

Solas: What did the Wardens teach you? What did you learn from them, about the Blight?

Surana: More than I will ever tell you.

Solas: *bitterly* Ah. Of course.

.

Surana: You have always been an apostate, have you not?

Solas: By your Chantry’s definition, I suppose.

Surana: My chantry? Am I the Divine now, too? *scoffs* Anyway, you have never spent time in a Circle.

Solas: No.

Surana: Then one thing I will tell you about the Wardens is this: there is no other path to freedom for many mages than to join them. You were not dragged from your home in chains because of what you are. You were not barred from dreaming, nor threatened with Tranquility when you failed to perform a difficult spell.

Solas: You should not have had to make that choice, Surana.

Surana: Yet I did, because it was the only one I had. And the Wardens are all the world has to counter the Blight. You can disagree from your tower in Skyhold or your hut in the woods or whatever, but we are working with what is available to us. Come up with a real solution and I will listen. But I’m uninterested in ignorant complaints from someone who was not there.

.

Surana: It’s not my Chantry.

Solas: Poor wording, on my part.

Surana: I don’t even like the Chantry.

Solas: Abelas. I meant no offense.

Surana: Yes, you did. Or you just don't care.

Solas: What would you have me say, Warden?

Surana: Nothing. Just be quiet.

.

Solas: Where was home to you, Surana? Before the Circle?

Surana: *sighs* An orphanage in Denerim’s alienage.

Solas: Really? Huh. In that case, I would have expected you to sound more like Sera.

(Sera, if present: What? You think all city elves sound the same?

Solas: You are from the same section of the same city. Why would you not have the same accent?)

Surana: I don’t sound like Sera because I was beaten in the Circle until I spoke 'properly.’ No offense to Sera, of course.

(Sera, if present: More reasons to be glad I’m not like you two.)

.

Solas: I am sorry, Surana. Living in the Circle must have been difficult, and I imagine being a Warden during the Blight was no easier.

Surana: *sighs* It’s alright. You couldn’t have known.

Solas: I should have tried. I have done you a disservice, and I hope you can forgive me.

Surana: Maybe. Possibly. Did you bring any of that wine with you?

Solas: Unfortunately not.

Surana: *playfully* Then, no.

Surana: …But please, call me Eirwen.

Solas: Eirwen. Ma nuvenin.

.

[After Surana hears Cole and Solas banter for the first time]

Surana: Oh! I think I got that one, it's --oh, wait. No, that can't be it.

Cole: You were close, though.

Solas: Nearly had it.

.

[If Eirwen is romanced by an elven Inquisitor]

Solas: *playfully* For all your talk of wanting anonymity, Eirwen, you seem incapable of avoiding spectacle.

Surana: Is this about the drunken bear? I already apologized for that.

Solas: No. You and the Inquisitor. Two of the most powerful elves in Thedas, together?

Surana: Jealous?

Solas: Not for the reason you think.

Inquisitor: How could we resist?

Surana: We are both very pretty.

OR

Inquisitor: One day we will be free of all of this. Together.

Solas: For your sakes, I hope you are right.

.

[If Solas is romanced and Eirwen's personal quest is completed]

Solas: You no longer consider yourself a Grey Warden, Eirwen?

Surana: Did the Inquisitor tell you that?

Solas: Yes. You threw your badge into the Abyss.

Surana: Bit dramatic, I suppose. I was having a moment.

Solas: Evidently.

.

Surana: It almost felt traitorous, honestly.

Solas: Why? You were forced to join the Grey Wardens, were you not?

Surana: They still saved my life.

Solas: And condemned you to an early death. They bought you time, nothing more.

Surana: But time is all any of us have, isn't it?

Solas: No. You have a name, and experience, and the influence to pull the strings behind the world.

Surana: Careful. You'll make the Inquisitor jealous.

Solas: I am not attempting to flatter you. I am only telling you what you must already know: that you are more than a Warden, and always have been.

.

Surana: Where will the two of you go, once this is over?

Inquisitor: (Somewhere quiet) A place where we can be left alone.

OR (Somewhere fun) Someplace with good wine.

OR (Home) North. Where my people are.

Solas: An appealing prospect, vhenan.

Inquisitor: What about you, Eirwen?

Surana, based on the Inquisitor's answer to the previous question: (Somewhere quiet) Somewhere without so many damn demons.

OR (Somewhere fun) I was thinking Rivain. I've heard the food is excellent.

OR (Home) The Deep Roads. Where my people are.

.

[If neither Solas nor Eirwen are romanced]

Solas: Have you ever learned any elven, Eirwen?

Surana: Unfortunately not. A few words here and there, a long time ago. It wasn’t exactly taught in the Circle.

Solas: Would you like to?

Surana: I –oh. I hadn’t –um.

Solas: *chuckles* You do not have to learn.

Surana: No! I would love to. From you, I assume?

Solas: I cannot imagine you were going to learn it from Sera.

Sera, if present: I prefer real words, thanks.

.

Solas: What elven words do you recall, from your alienage?

Surana: Ah… okay. Hahren, that’s like… elder, or leader. The tree in the middle was called the vhenadahl. Lethallan is like friend, or ally, or maybe even sister?

Solas: Do you know what vhenadahl means?

Surana: It must be something about a tree.

Solas: And where is it, in the alienage?

Surana: A central place, somewhere everyone could see it.

Solas: And what is another word for the middle of something that lovers might call each other?

Surana: …Heart?

Solas: So what do you think 'vhena’ means, if 'dahl' is tree?

Surana: Uh... heart?

Solas: Yes. But also 'home.' The vhenadahl was both the home of your people, and the heart of the alienage.

Sera, if present: Just call it what it is --a big stupid tree.

.

Surana, in elven: *haltingly, mumbling* [Her early leaf’s a flower… but] –shoot.

Solas, in elven: [But only so…?]

Surana: M- it starts with an ’m’…

Solas: Take your time.

Surana: Meh- malath?

Solas: *laughs*

Surana: Is that wrong? Shit, that must be wrong.

Solas: Not wrong, per say, but perhaps premature.

Surana: What? What did I say?

Solas: Do not concern yourself with it, lethallan.

Surana: …was it dirty?

Solas: No.

Surana: …then what was it?

Solas: Patience, Eirwen.

.

Surana: I found out what ‘ma lath’ means.

Solas: I would expect nothing less from such a gifted student.

Surana: Mhm. It’s –well. I’m glad I said it, but you were right. It was premature.

Solas: I agree. Though...

Surana: Though?

Solas: *chuckles* I think this is neither the time nor place.

Surana: What is, then?

Solas: When I have you alone, Eirwen.

Surana: *laughs awkwardly* Maker's breath...

.

Sera + Surana

(If Solas has begun "teaching Eirwen elven")

Sera: So… you and Droopy ears.

Surana: Why do you call him that?

Sera: Cause he’s all –I don’t know, sad or wha'ever.

Sera: Anyway. Teaching you 'the ways of the elves,’ is he?

Surana: It’s just not a very good nickname, frankly.

Sera: Well I don’t want to know what you call him.

Surana: Certainly not droopy.

Solas, if present: *snorts*

Sera: *laughs* Ew! Keep it to yourselves, then!

.

Solas: Eirwen, I–

Solas: I am sorry we had to cut our lessons short.

Surana: It’s… I understand. We… no, you were right.

Solas: Please, Eirwen.

Surana: Perhaps, in another life, another time, we could have–

Solas: You are a bright light in a dark world. You will always be important to me, for whatever that is worth.

.

Surana: Can I ask you a question, Solas?

Solas: Of course.

Surana: It's not about me, is it?

Solas: I--

Surana: It's about trying to fight the tide.

Solas: Eirwen...

Solas: I am so, so sorry.

Surana: Telanadas, hahren.

Solas: Ma nuvenin, vhenan.

[a-room-of-my-own]

Hi! Did you see the NewStasteman interview with Judith Butler? The way she framed the whole debate about gender is so depressing, I cannot believe it... And that's without going into the Rowling debate, the more I read about it on Twitter and tumblr and the most depressed I get. How can womanhood be reduced to a feeling anyone can claim?

https://www.newstatesman.com/international/2020/09/judith-butler-culture-wars-jk-rowling-and-living-anti-intellectual-times

I had not seen it so thank you for giving me the opportunity to read it. She’s really manipulative and that’s pretty scary honestly. I picked up a few examples to show you 

“I want to first question whether trans-exclusionary feminists are really the same as mainstream feminists. (…) I want to first question whether trans-exclusionary feminists are really the same as mainstream feminists. (…)I think it is actually a fringe movement that is seeking to speak in the name of the mainstream, and that our responsibility is to refuse to let that happen.  

It’s “our” responsibility to act on something she cannot prove? It’s quite easy to observe that trans-activists are an active minority within the feminist movement. On the other hand, it’s much harder to prove than most people support modern trans-activism in all its implications. She doesn’t give any source, proof or figures to support her claim but ask people to fight for it, nevertheless. That’s faith, not fact. 

If we look closely at the example that you characterise as “mainstream” [the problem of men claiming to be trans to access women’s space] we can see that a domain of fantasy is at work, one which reflects more about the feminist who has such a fear than any actually existing situation in trans life. 

Then again, no proof, when many gender critical bloggers have lists of dozens of examples of men using self-ID to access bathrooms, women’s shelters, women’s prisons, some of them sex offenders.  

The feminist who holds such a view presumes that the penis does define the person, and that anyone with a penis would identify as a woman for the purposes of entering such changing rooms and posing a threat to the women inside. It assumes that the penis is the threat, or that any person who has a penis who identifies as a woman is engaging in a base, deceitful, and harmful form of disguise. This is a rich fantasy, and one that comes from powerful fears, but it does not describe a social reality. 

That’s a lot of words to call women who are afraid of men “hysterical”. #sorority 

Trans women are often discriminated against in men’s bathrooms, and their modes of self-identification are ways of describing a lived reality, one that cannot be captured or regulated by the fantasies brought to bear upon them. The fact that such fantasies pass as public argument is itself cause for worry. 

Word salad that could be translated like this: our priority shouldn’t be protecting women from men, it should be accommodating men, because #notallmen are predators, so it would be very unfair to them, uwu. Men’s concerns should always be considered while women who are afraid are irrational. 

I am not aware that terf is used as a slur.  

I’m 99% sure that’s a lie, but okay. 

I wonder what name self-declared feminists who wish to exclude trans women from women's spaces would be called? If they do favour exclusion, why not call them exclusionary? 

Women who want to have spaces without men should be called exclusionary, because we define women based on their relationship with men and how they include them. Suuuuure. 

If they understand themselves as belonging to that strain of radical feminism that opposes gender reassignment, why not call them radical feminists? My only regret is that there was a movement of radical sexual freedom that once travelled under the name of radical feminism, but it has sadly morphed into a campaign to pathologise trans and gender non-conforming peoples. 

We’re not the ones telling you can cure a psychological problem with cross-sex hormones and amputations, but we are the one pathologizing trans and GNC people. That’s hi-la-rious.  

My sense is that we have to renew the feminist commitment to gender equality and gender freedom in order to affirm the complexity of gendered lives as they are currently being lived. 

Meaningless word salad > "women should let men redefine the word woman as they please"

Let us be clear that the debate here [between people who support JKR and others] is not between feminists and trans activists. There are trans-affirmative feminists, and many trans people are also committed feminists. So one clear problem is the framing that acts as if the debate is between feminists and trans people. It is not. One reason to militate against this framing is because trans activism is linked to queer activism and to feminist legacies that remain very alive today. 

TLDR: Real feminist can only be trans-supporters. 

Feminism has always been committed to the proposition that the social meanings of what it is to be a man or a woman are not yet settled. We tell histories about what it meant to be a woman at a certain time and place, and we track the transformation of those categories over time.  

That’s gender for you Judith, not biological sex. Social identities vary, biological sex is a constant. Saying that isn't essentialism.

We depend on gender as a historical category, and that means we do not yet know all the ways it may come to signify, and we are open to new understandings of its social meanings. It would be a disaster for feminism to return either to a strictly biological understanding of gender or to reduce social conduct to a body part or to impose fearful fantasies, their own anxieties, on trans women...  

“Women who are afraid of men are irrational” third instalment.  

Their abiding and very real sense of gender ought to be recognised socially and publicly as a relatively simple matter of according another human dignity. The trans-exclusionary radical feminist position attacks the dignity of trans people.   

Men are whoever they say they are, women are whoever men say they are.  

One does not have to be a woman to be a feminist, and we should not confuse the categories. Men who are feminists, non-binary and trans people who are feminists, are part of the movement if they hold to the basic propositions of freedom and equality that are part of any feminist political struggle.  

Many feminists consider that men can only be feminist allies, so the debate is clearly not settled.  

When laws and social policies represent women, they make tacit decisions about who counts as a woman, and very often make presuppositions about what a woman is. We have seen this in the domain of reproductive rights. So the question I was asking then is: do we need to have a settled idea of women, or of any gender, in order to advance feminist goals?   

Does “woman” need to have a *gasp* definition? Judith is saying it doesn’t. You’ll notice that she doesn’t say that anything about “man” not having a stable definition. She believes it’s possible to fight against misogyny while having no stable definition for what a woman is. Laughable. 

I put the question that way… to remind us that feminists are committed to thinking about the diverse and historically shifting meanings of gender, and to the ideals of gender freedom. By gender freedom, I do not mean we all get to choose our gender. Rather, we get to make a political claim to live freely and without fear of discrimination and violence against the genders that we are. 

Word salad > “we don’t get to choose our gender but we get to choose it I am very smart"

Many people who were assigned “female” at birth never felt at home with that assignment, and those people (including me) tell all of us something important about the constraints of traditional gender norms for many who fall outside its terms.   

Many women have internalized misogyny and homophobia, which in turn had a huge impact on their sense of self and self-esteem, but that doesn’t mean they’re not women Judith. And I don’t think any woman who was forcefully married, who had her vulva mutilated for religious reasons, had to wear a veil since she was a toddler, or was sold as a child into prostitution ever “felt at home” with having been born a girl, you absolute unit.  

Feminists know that women with ambition are called “monstrous” or that women who are not heterosexual are pathologised. We fight those misrepresentations because they are false and because they reflect more about the misogyny of those who make demeaning caricatures than they do about the complex social diversity of women. Women should not engage in the forms of phobic caricature by which they have been traditionally demeaned. And by “women” I mean all those who identify in that way. 

That was going so well until the last sentence 

I think we are living in anti-intellectual times, and that this is evident across the political spectrum. 

JB, darling, just read your own word salad and get some self-awareness. 

The quickness of social media allows for forms of vitriol that do not exactly support thoughtful debate. We need to cherish the longer forms. 

Tell that to your supporters Miss I Wasn't Aware TERF Were A Slur.

I am against online abuse of all kinds. I confess to being perplexed by the fact that you point out the abuse levelled against JK Rowling, but you do not cite the abuse against trans people and their allies that happens online and in person. 

Kindergarten argument, but sure. Also, yet again, no proof. 

I disagree with JK Rowling's view on trans people, but I do not think she should suffer harassment and threats. Let us also remember, though, the threats against trans people in places like Brazil, the harassment of trans people in the streets and on the job in places like Poland and Romania – or indeed right here in the US.  

“Threats against JKR are bad BUT have you seen what’s happening in Brazil?”. I’m sorry what? Also, could trans-activist please stop instrumentalizing Brazilian stats, since they reflect the situation of prostituted homosexual transsexuals ?  

 So if we are going to object to harassment and threats, as we surely should, we should also make sure we have a large picture of where that is happening, who is most profoundly affected, and whether it is tolerated by those who should be opposing it. It won’t do to say that threats against some people are tolerable but against others are intolerable. 

NO ONE, literally NO ONE said that threats against trans people were acceptable. In fact, most, if not pretty much all threats, especially physical threats, don’t come from radical feminists, but from men. Basically, what she’s saying is “who cares about threats against JKR, trans people (men) matter more”.  

If trans-exclusionary radical feminists understood themselves as sharing a world with trans people, in a common struggle for equality, freedom from violence, and for social recognition, there would be no more trans-exclusionary radical feminists.  

♫ Kumbaya my Lord, Kumbaya ♪ 

It is a sad day when some feminists promote the anti-gender ideology position of the most reactionary forces in our society. 

All radical feminists are right wingers, sure. 

Anyway, it's terrible that this kind of article is taken seriously when it could be summed up as "women are irrational and hysterical, men can be women and redefine the word woman if they so wish"...

[captainlilyuniverseworld]

Happy Birthday Sam

Title: Happy Birthday Sam

Square Filled: CEO AU

Ship: Sam Wesson/Dean Smith

Tags: CEO AU, Smith/Wesson AU, CEO!Sam, HR!Dean, Sick!Dean, Based on It’s A Terrible Life with a few changes. 

Summary: It’s CEO of Sandover Publishing, Sam Wesson’s birthday. Dean’s home sick and Sam got a few fires to put out at work, but they still manage to spend some time together. 

Word Count: 2115

Created for: @spnaubingo

AN: I went over this thing about five times so any mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

Happy Birthday Sam

“Happy birthday Mr. Wesson.” 

Sam jumped startled as Becky appeared in front of him with a card. “I took the liberty of having everyone in the office sign a birthday card for you.” 

“Thanks, Becky…” Sam awkwardly took the card from her. 

“Hard to believe you’re turning thirty-six today, you hardly look a day over twenty-eight,” she added. 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “...How do you know I’m turning thirty-six?” 

She blushed and tapped her headset. “Sandover Publishing House. How may I direct your call?” She gave Sam an apologetic smile before she hurried off back to the receptionist’s desk. 

He shook his head and walked down the hall to his office. He flipped on the lights as he stepped inside and went over to his desk with the intention of turning on his computer and paused when he saw the flowers on his desk. It was a mixed bouquet and lavender and orange roses tied together with a bow in a clear vase. 

Sam picked up the small card attached to the vase and read the small note. Happy Birthday was written on the card in neat calligraphy. He tucked the card back in amongst the flowers and looked up at the knock on his door. 

“Morning Rowena,” he smiled at the older woman. “No Dean this morning?” 

“Poor dear’s at home sick as a dog,” she answered. “He wanted to make sure you took a look at the candidates for the assistant head of IT position. Though we both agree Miss Bradbury is the best choice for the job.” 

“Well at least he took his sick days this time instead of trying to work through it like before,” Sam told her. 

He flipped through the files Rowena had given him and then handed them back. There was a green tab sticky on the second file, usually Dean’s indication who would be the best fit. Red was ‘No way in hell’ and yellow meant ‘with a little work they’d be good’. 

“If Dean says she’d be a good fit, then give her a call and schedule a drug test and background check,” Sam told her. “I trust his judgment. He hired me after all.” 

“Wonderful, we’ve already got her scheduled for next Monday,” Rowena told him. “Oh, and before I forget. I left you a little something in your second drawer. Happy birthday Sam.” 

He started to protest but she was already gone. He sighed and opened the second drawer of his desk and saw a gold gift bag. He peeked inside and saw an assortment of various candles. He made a mental note to send her a thank you card. 

Sam reached for his phone as it started ringing and leaned back in his chair 

“Wesson speaking,” he answered. 

“I can’t do it.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Can’t do what Chuck?”

"I can't do it. Speak in front of all those people, what am I supposed to say?" The man asked. "What if I say the wrong thing? What if they don’t like the new book?” 

"You'll be fine Chuck," Sam told him. "It's a simple interview. Answer a couple of questions, announce the publication date for the new book. Take some pictures with a few fans, you'll be home by 9 pm to chat with Mistress Magda." 

"Okay," the man took a deep breath. "Okay. Thanks, Sam...and Happy Birthday. I uh, I forgot to get you a gift." 

"Don't worry about it," Sam answered. 

He hung up and turned his attention to be his email to get started on work. He was tempted to shoot Dean and email and see how the other man was doing. Even if he was home sick, Dean was a workaholic at heart. 

He grabbed his phone as it started ringing again. 

“You’ll be fine Chuck, ” Sam said by way of greeting. 

“...It’s Cas..” Castiel replied. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Sam apologized. “Chuck called about his interview, but that’s not important. What’s up?” 

“There was an issue with the printers,” Castiel answered. “The book covers, they’re uh…” he trailed off awkwardly. 

“I’m on my way,” Sam told him. 

He hung up and made his way down to the receiving bay. Castiel was at one of the tables with one of the large boxes of books open, a few stacked next to him, and packing peanuts on the floor. 

“What’s the problem Cas?” Sam asked 

Castiel wordlessly handed Sam one of the books and Sam snorted as he looked at the cover 

“...At least it’s tasteful?” Sam added. 

“We can not put these on the shelves, no matter how...tasteful,” Castiel replied. “Adler would have a fit. He’s still upset about that petition that went around a few months ago when we announced the reprinting of books 1-5.” 

“Adler can suck on a lemon,” Sam said bluntly. “How many were printed?” 

“Just a couple hundred for Chuck’s book signing on Saturday,” Castiel answered. “I tried to call the printers, but there was no answer.” 

“Of course there wasn’t,” Sam sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. “Just...put these in my office for now. I’ll go over to the printers and see if I can’t give Lucifer a kick in the ass.” 

Castiel nodded and started to put the books back in the box. “Oh, and happy birthday Sam. Did the flowers survive the night okay?” 

“The roses? They weren’t delivered this morning?” Sam asked. 

“Last night,” Castiel answered. “I saw them outside your door, so I put them in your office before I went home last night. Someone must like you.” 

“What do you mean?” Sam asked. 

“Well, lavender roses usually mean that someone has a crush on you. And Orange means that they’re proud of you. So whoever got them for you must like you and the man that you are. Or they just liked the color combination,” Castiel answered. 

“Thanks...I think,” Sam nodded and went back to his office to grab his keys.

He drove to the printers and followed the sound of loud rock music to the offices on the second floor. He turned off the stereo and dropped one of the books on Lucifer’s desk. 

“Real mature Lucifer. What’d you do? Find some fan art online and switch out the real picture we sent over?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Like it’s that different from the actual cover photo,” Lucifer smirked. 

“You know this is illegal right? What if these had made their way to the bookstore instead? Sandover could’ve been sued by the original artist,” Sam told him. 

“Cas would’ve caught it, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Lucifer rolled his eyes. “I’ve already got Crowley printing out the books with the right covers. You’ll have them tomorrow afternoon you fuddy-duddy.” 

“You are a monumental pain in my ass you know that?” Sam said. 

“Who? Me?” Lucifer smiled innocently. “By the way, this is for you.”

He set a wrapped bottle on the table and Sam picked it up cautiously. “What is it?” 

“Just open it would you,” Lucifer told him. 

Sam tore off the paper and raised an eyebrow at the bottle of tequila. “If you find your new age hard to swallow just add some tequila.” He read off the note that was taped onto the bottle. 

“Consider it a birthday gift from me and Crowley,” Lucifer added. 

"Thanks," Sam smiled a bit. "...and it was a little funny. But please refrain from trying to get my place of work sued." 

"Yeah yeah yeah," Lucifer waved his hand dismissively. 

Sam turned the stereo back on, on his way out, and drove back to work. 

"Happy birthday Sammy." Gabriel thrust a small wrapped package into his hand. "Don't open it till you're alone okay." He winked and walked off. 

Sam shook his head as he walked back to his office and set the tequila and Gabriel's present on the coffee table. He turned his computer back on and pulled up the website from the café that was down the street to order his lunch. 

He looked up at the knock on his office door and saw one of the delivery people from the café. 

"Turkey BLT and medium Caeser salad with a strawberry banana smoothie?" The guy asked as he read off the receipt. 

"Uh...yeah…" Sam stood up and went to meet him. "But I didn't, I haven't even ordered yet." 

"Looks like someone bought you lunch," the younger man said. 

Sam took the food and tipped the guy before he went back to his desk. He looked at the roses, and at his lunch. He wasn't sure if he should be flattered or weirded out. He was too hungry to care and he dug into his lunch. He picked up Gabriel's gift and unwrapped it. 

From the man that brought you Casa Erotica, the novelization comes a new series set in the steamy world of office romances. Featuring Dan Hanson and Sean Blythe. 

Sam grabbed his phone and called Gabriel. 

"Did you write an erotic novel about me and Dean?" Sam asked when the line picked up. 

"Don't flatter yourself, Sam. Sure Dan's got your build and maybe Sean's got Dean's boyish charm, but that is where all similarities end," Gabriel told him. 

"You realize if Dean sees this he is going to massacre you," Sam replied. 

"Guess it’s a good thing Deano’s home sick today,” Gabriel mused before he hung up. 

Sam hid the manuscript in the bottom drawer of his file cabinet and locked it for extra measure. He’d get rid of it later...after he read it. He pulled up the highlights from the previous night’s football game and used it as background noise as he ate his lunch and finished going through his emails. 

He was getting ready to throw the trash away when he saw a message typed out in the notes section of the receipt for his lunch. 

Enjoy the rabbit food Rapunzel. Don’t work to hard, it is your birthday after all.  

He smiled and knew exactly who’d gotten him the flowers and his lunch. 

                                  --------------------------------------------

Sam hoped it wasn’t too late as he rode the elevator to the third floor. He had a bag of takeout in one hand and a few movies in the other. He stepped off the elevator once it reached the third floor. He shifted the movies to his other hand as he knocked on the apartment marked 3F and smiled when Dean answered the door. 

He was wearing an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt with a pair of sweats and a large thick comforter wrapped around him. 

“Sam?” He asked hoarsely. “What are you doing here?” 

“I wanted to say thank you for the flowers, and for lunch,” Sam answered. 

He couldn’t tell if Dean blushed or if his face was red because it was sick. 

“Although you didn’t have to do that,” Sam added. 

Dean shrugged a little. “I wanted to do something nice for your first birthday together...I would’ve baked you a cake but vertigo’s a bitch.” He broke off with a cough. “I’m glad you liked the flowers though. I almost went with red but it seemed a bit to cliché, and I didn’t want you to think Becky got them for you.”

“Shockingly Becky was pretty tame today,” Sam told him. “I went by that deli you like and picked up some of their chicken noodle soup. I also rented us a few movies, I would’ve liked to use the gift certificate Adler gave me for a way too overpriced steak, but we can go when you’re feeling better.” 

“Sam...you really don’t want to spend your birthday night with a sick person,” Dean started to protest. 

“Well, considering it’s my birthday, you don’t really get a say of who I get to spend it with now do you?” Sam asked. “Now get your ass back on the couch.” 

“Don’t make me laugh, my throat feels like sandpaper,” Dean told him. 

Sam walked into the apartment and shut the door behind him while Dean tried to clean up around the couch. Sam got one of the movies set up and grabbed a bowl for the soup, and joined him on the couch. 

“Happy birthday Sam,” Dean told him. “I promise next year will be a lot better.” 

“You know? All things considered, this one turned out to be pretty good,” Sam replied as he got comfortable. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know why Gabriel asked me to pick between Sean and Sheene would you?” Dean asked as he ate his soup.

“Nope, no idea,” Sam answered. 

“Such a weird little man,” Dean mused as Sam wrapped an arm around him. 

[buckybarnesbingo]

BBB Discord Party Round Robin

What started out as simple summary, one prompt and one sentence per person, ended up being so intriguing that we went all-out and created a fic!  Each person was given about half an hour to write up to 300 words, and the option to cross off one of their bingo squares, and this is the glorious result!

Prompts

cookies 

dragon

window cleaning

potato salad

cat stalker

sharing a bed

beach

Participants

@rebelmeg​

@fightingforcreativity​

@ladydarkphoenix-blog​

@psychiccatpanda​

@dreaminglypeach​

@ibelieveinturtles​

LiquidLightz

@menatiera​

Summary: To say that Bucky had been surprised when a FREAKING DRAGON showed up at the summer BBQ at his beach house would be an understatement. How should the ex assassin have anticipated a dragon, who seemed to have followed his cat to the BBQ? It didn't seem to be dangerous as of yet seeing as the two were happily sharing potato salad.

When Tony showed up late, he nudged Bucky, "Hey Buckaroo - I brought - WHOA! I didn't know you had a... cat."

Sure, it’s the cat that surprises you, Bucky thought, but Tony was still talking a mile a minute around the cookie in his mouth, “So, anyway, I brought that- fuck, is he your window cleaner, he’s gorgeous!”

"Window cleaning is just one of the many services I offer," the dragon said swinging it's head around to stare unblinking at Tony.

Bucky jolts back and stares at the dragon as he recognises the sound of that voice, then quickly pulls his phone out to text Steve... "where exactly are you right now?"

Steve doesn't answer his phone, obviously, but a telltale notification sound pings from somewhere inside the dragon's belly, audible through the slightly open mouth of the creature, and Bucky has to rub the base of his nose, muttering, "of fucking course you do this reveal to me after we've been sharing a bed for weeks."

And you can find the rest of the fic under the cut!

@rebelmeg

Tony, another cookie in his hand, held up a finger. “Um, excuse me, I hate to be nitpicky about weird details when Steve has apparently turned into a dragon, BUT…” he pointed at the dragon.  “Did I hear a cell phone in there? How did you manage to SWALLOW A CELL PHONE?”

Steve turned his large, scaly head in Tony’s direction, and it was amazing, he actually managed to have an extremely Steve expression on that reptilian face. “Classified.”

Tony snorted and dipped a plastic spoon into the potato salad. “You’re a lying liar who lies. And you’re going to need some very intense tech support for that phone by the time it gets… out.  And oh, ew, all of the options for how it gets out are just disgusting.”

Bucky, who had been standing there fighting the temptation to call Steve (he wanted to see what happened when the swallowed cell phone started vibrating and ringing), dragged himself back to the conversation. “Steve, I think you might wanna tell us exactly what’s going on.” He glanced at the cat that was now sitting next to Steve and very daintily licking its paws. “Maybe start with the cat?”

LiquidLightz

The dragon remained stubbornly quiet, a strange fiery blush spreading across its face.

Bucky waited him out for a full minute before he threateningly pulled out his phone and began to dial... 

"Ok, OK!"  Steve caved in as the first riffs of ‘Holding Out for a Hero’ echoed around inside of him and Bucky’s eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously as he mercifully ended the call while Tony coughed up cookie crumbs from all his cackling…  great, thanks Nat!  One more thing he would be having to explain later in excruciating detail.

Raising his huge snout skyward with a big defeated sigh, Steve let out a little spurt of fire before starting on some ridiculous explanation about how he had wanted to look good for the BBQ, so Nat suggested he go to a day spa she knows, but he had nobody to leave the cat with and so he took him along since they offered pet day care services... 

He trailed off as the laughter of everyone around him burst out in a crescendo and he leveled his steely gaze back down on them, now irritated beyond embarrassment. 

Bucky was the first one to compose himself, once Tony started making hot stone massage dragon jokes and he quickly recalled what was most pertinent here. 

"Steve, can you please get to the part where you're a dragon and if this is something you've been keeping from me or a temporary mishap?"  Bucky was not exactly sure what he'd prefer, since, well, dragons are pretty magnificent and he wouldn't mind having his own. His mind began to wander into the possible perks of a dragon boyfriend and whether Steve could fly now.

@psychiccatpanda

Dragons can scowl - that was a thing Bucky knew now.  

Steve harrumphed and glared, trying to work through his embarrassment.  “So I never actually made it to the day spa. I went to bed last night and the cat I adopted when you got Alpine - d”

“Inky?”  Bucky asked.

“No, I called him Beetle,” Steve said with a puff of steam.

“Still say Beetle’s a dumb name for a cat,” Bucky mumbled.

Tony nodded in agreement and helped himself to another cookie. “I’m gonna start the grill, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine Tony,” Bucky said and then tried to turn the conversation back to the dragon boyfriend issue. “So you slept with the cat and now you’re a dragon? Or were you a dragon before?”

“No. I’m not a dragon… well, I wasn’t,” Steve sighed. “So Beetle slept with me, sneezed… and turned into a guy named Loki. I freaked out, he got mad, and turned me into a dragon.”

From the grill, Tony said, “So where’s this guy now, Steeb?”

“I wish I knew,” Dragon Steve said miserably.

“Meow?” Alpine interjected himself and twined between the dragon’s toes and Bucky’s legs to situate himself at Tony’s feet. He looked up with wide blue eyes.

@menatiera

Steve turned his gaze to the cat. “I know, I know,” he said. “Food will be ready for you soon.”

Bucky’s eyebrow arched up. “If you tell me that you can talk to animals…”

The fiery blush somehow deepened on Steve’s dragon face. “Uh, not all animals. But cats… I think they speak a dialect of dragon, somehow, because I kinda understand them now.”

Instead of answering, Bucky decided it was a good time to stuff his mouth with two cookies at once, lest he let out a scream of excitement.

Alpine jumped on the table, and started to rub his face to Steve’s scales. He kept this up, right until Steve started to breathe heavily, and with one final tickling of his full body, Alpine threw himself off the table and ran under the cover of it.

Steve sneezed.

Several times.

With violent force.

The table turned out to be an inadequate hiding place, as it was blown away by the wind of the squeeze, along with most of the BBQ supplies, including the plates, utensils and napkins.

Tony was saved thanks to Bucky’s quick reflexes, who dragged him out of the way of a flying pitcher that was full of hot water to become Bruce’s tea later.

Steve was sniffling and scratching his snout. “Sorry,” he said nasally, then he stared at the ground. “Uh. I think the phone’s out.”

Bucky didn’t want to know. But he kind of did. “How did it get to your lung? Or is a dragon belly connected to sneezing somehow?”

Alpine slowly walked back into the scene, stepping into the dragon snot with delicate disdain, and poked the phone with his nose. He meowed a few times.

“He wants us to look at it,” Steve translated. “He says something about messages. Or notes? I’m not entirely sure. I’m not fluent in cat yet.”

@dreaminglypeach

My boyfriend the dragon isn’t fluent in cat yet, Bucky thought. How is this my life?

“Well, go on, then,” Tony encouraged, wafting his hand at the phone as Alpine curled into Steve’s side again, seeking warmth despite the fact that it’d been far too goddamn sunny all day.

“I would,” Steve said, raising one clawed… paw? Hand? Strangely enough, Bucky had no idea what the anatomy of a dragon is. “But there’s this whole no opposable thumbs issue at the moment.”

Tony looked at Bucky. Bucky looked back at Tony. Neither of them moved to pick up the phone.

“He’s your boyfriend.”

“And?”

Tony scoffed. “And that means you get to be the one playing with the phone he ate, duh.”

“I hate you,” Bucky said. “I hate both of you. And whoever this Loki jackass is, I really fucking hate him.”

Steve made a bizarre snarly noise, maybe a draconine laugh, maybe a growl, then nudged the phone in Bucky’s direction with his nose. “You know the passcode,” he said, baring a whole load of pointy teeth at him.

Dutifully, Bucky picked the disgusting thing up, wiped the slime coating it on his jeans (well, those were being burnt now), and tapped out his own date of birth to unlock it.

“Ha!” Tony said when it unlocked, peering at the screen over Bucky’s shoulder. “Stark Tech. Can’t beat it. I’d like to see an iPhone keep working after spending time inside a dragon.”

“Do we know a Valkyrie?” Bucky asked, ignoring Tony’s bragging to look at the long string of messages Steve apparently received over the last three hours. “Because she sure seems to know you, and boy is she unhappy.”

“Never heard of her,” Steve answered. “What’s she say?”

“Rogers,” Tony read, “be careful, Thor’s brother is

@ladydarkphoenix-blog 

on the loose and looking to cause trouble. Not sure what exactly but he is looking for mischief. Well that can't be good."

"Obviously not seeing as I'm now a dragon," Steve snorted in annoyance, a small puff of smoke escaping his nose.

"So how do we fix this," Bucky inquired as he sent back a text explaining the situation as it was before setting the phone down to not have to deal with the slimy mess for a moment. As the three discussed options and people they thought might be able to help, Alpine let out an angry yowl as he seemingly started floating away from where he'd been napping.

Steve let out a low rumbling growl, "don't touch him Loki or I'll eat you myself…"

Loki appeared, holding a fighting Alpine by the scruff to protect himself from claws and teeth. "Now is that any way to speak to an honored guest?"

@fightingforcreativity

“An honored guest my ass,” mumbled Bucky, pointedly ignoring the snickering coming from Tony.

“My my, so rude the company you keep, Anthony.” Loki drawled, still holding Alpine and only slightly being turned towards the three heroes. “I was just hoping my gift was well received.”

Tony sputtered at that. The assassin turned towards the other brunet, a questioning eyebrow risen. Tony, though, ignored him and started to ramble at Loki, “Serious? I hate that name. Stop calling me that, Reindeer Games! Why are you here? And what’s going on with Steve as a dragon? I mean sure, dragons are pretty cool and he’s quite a beauty like this but c’mon, Lokes, usually your mischief is directed against Thor not Steve.”

Sure, Bucky could say something about Tony obviously eyeing his dragon boyfriend up- and what a mess that was- but he was more interested in what the heck really was going on. Maybe after they figured out Loki's motive, Bucky could think about why Steve preened under Tony’s compliments.

Also, Bucky wasn’t sure what was going on at all between Loki and Tony, but by the look of it Steve had an idea. How Bucky could interpret his boyfriend’s limited facial expressions at the moment, was another mystery to be shoved in the ‘to never investigate’ box.

Before Loki could answer, the dragon rounded on him. “I told you to let him go!”

Steve’s hiss was threatening and Bucky didn’t blame Loki for gently putting Alpine back done and backing up a bit after that. “Fine. The good captain was collateral damage in my attempt at wooing.”

Everyone froze at that. 

‘Wooing? What the…?!’, Bucky thought disbelievingly. 

The first person to recover was Steve though, and cautiously the formerly blond asked, “Wooing who?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Anthony of course!”

@ibelieveinturtles

There was stunned silence as everyone gaped at Loki, then Steve started huffing, little bursts of flame spouting from his nostrils.

"Are-are you laughing at me?" Loki demanded haughtily. 

Steve shook his head. "The look on Tony’s face!" he chortled. "It's like he doesn't know whether to be flattered, insulted, or just plain horrified."

They all looked at Tony, who made an immediate attempt to control his face.

"Flattered," he said hastily, "definitely flattered but, er, I'm not sure how Pepper's gonna react."

Loki drew himself up. "It was her suggestion," he said. 

"Pepper suggested you turn me into a dragon as a courting… gift?"

Loki nodded. "She assured me you have the ego to pull it off."

Steve began to huff again and this time, both Loki and Tony glared at him.

"What?" Steve asked.

"She's not wrong," Bucky interjected in an effort to save his boyfriend from all the attention. "Also, she may have mentioned to me last week that dragons are her favourite mythical animal," he finished.

"Indeed," Loki said, smirking. "She told me she always wanted to ride a dragon."

Bucky's laughter joined Steve's draconic huffing and Tony’s expression changed.

"Really?" he asked.

"Of course," Loki replied. "It is a most exhilarating activity."

Bucky stopped laughing as an idea slammed into his mind. He turned a speculative gaze in Steve's direction. Steve must have felt the weight of Bucky's gaze as the giant head turned to look at him.

"Something on your mind? Steve asked in a surprisingly quiet voice.

Bucky nodded. "That riding a dragon thing," he said.

Steve's eyes glittered. "You wanna try it out?"

"Yes."

They looked at Tony and Loki who were now standing much closer together and seemed to be deep in some sort of negotiations. 

"Climb on," Steve said. "Before Loki remembers to change me back."

Bucky scrambled up Steve's outstretched leg and settled himself in front of Steve's wings.

"Ready?" Steve rumbled, and without waiting for an answer, launched himself into the air.

Bucky whooped as they climbed. This had undoubtedly been the best BBQ ever.

--------------------------------------------------------

Title: BBB Round Robin Fic Collaborators: Rebelmeg, Fightingforcreativity, Ladydarkphoenix, Psychiccatpanda, Dreaminglypeach, Ibelieveinturtles, Liquidlightz, Menatiera Squares filled:

Rebelmeg: Y2 - tech support

LiquidLightz (LLightz): B3 - spa day

Menatiera: U4 - hot water

Dreaminglypeach: B1 - sharing body heat

Ladydarkphoenix: U5 - "Don't touch him!"

Fightingforcreativity: B4 - Collateral Damage

Ibelieveinturtles: K2 - Whiplash

Ship: Stucky, hinted Stony or Stuckony, Pepperony, pre-FrostIron /FrostPepperony Rating: Gen Major Tags: round robin fic, dragon Steve, animal transformation, Loki shenanigans, cats, multiple ships, hijinks and shenanigans Summary: To say that Bucky had been surprised when a FREAKING DRAGON showed up at the summer BBQ at his beach house would be an understatement. How should the ex assassin have anticipated a dragon, who seemed to have followed his cat to the BBQ? It didn't seem to be dangerous as of yet seeing as the two were happily sharing potato salad.

When Tony showed up late, he nudged Bucky, "Hey Buckaroo - I brought - WHOA! I didn't know you had a... cat."

Sure, it’s the cat that surprises you, Bucky thought, but Tony was still talking a mile a minute around the cookie in his mouth, “So, anyway, I brought that- fuck, is he your window cleaner, he’s gorgeous!”

"Window cleaning is just one of the many services I offer," the dragon said swinging it's head around to stare unblinking at Tony.

Bucky jolts back and stares at the dragon as he recognises the sound of that voice, then quickly pulls his phone out to text Steve... "where exactly are you right now?"

Steve doesn't answer his phone, obviously, but a telltale notification sound pings from somewhere inside the dragon's belly, audible through the slightly open mouth of the creature, and Bucky has to rub the base of his nose, muttering, "of fucking course you do this reveal to me after we've been sharing a bed for weeks." Word Count: 2300

[captcas]

Worth Fighting For (9/?)

WORTH FIGHTING FOR by capthamm

Killian “Hook” Jones is a dominate up and comer in the UFC while Emma “The Savior” Swan’s career was cut short. When Hook’s manager moves up and the office brings in UFC’s youngest legend to keep him in check, will either of them be able to handle it?

read on ao3 // tumblr: ch 1/ ch 2 / ch 3 / ch 4 / ch 5 / ch 6 / ch 7 / ch 8

[CHAPTER 9/?]

“Whoever invented folding chairs deserves a swift kick in the arse.” He points his fork at Emma as they talk over dinner. Her eyes sparkle with joy and he knows instantly he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“Jeeze, Jones, you are ancient.” She laughs, eyes rolling sarcastically, as she takes another sip of her rum and coke.

A woman after his own heart.

They’ve fallen into this easy conversation ever since he returned with the popcorn a few hours before– had he known that was the direct way to being her friend he would’ve bought an entire popcorn factory months ago. Emma watched the weigh-ins casually, knowing the ropes as much as anyone would, and it allowed them to bond a little over the sport which brought them together.

Thank God for UFC.

When she suggested they grab dinner at a restaurant beside the hotel, he hesitated at first, not wanting to push his luck, but when she took his hand and told him today should be a “cheat day”, he couldn’t have resisted if he tried. She definitely teased him for ordering a salad but he assured her that his youthful glow does require some maintenance. That’s all it took for the conversation to continue flowing as easy as ever. He glances towards his watch and realizes they’ve been talking non-stop for over an hour, Emma’s plate completely empty as the waiter takes it away.

He’s about to ask for the check when Emma speaks up, “Could we see the dessert menu, please?”

She smirks at him when he raises an eyebrow in question, before studying the small menu like she’d be tested on its contents. Emma ultimately orders strawberry shortcake before turning to him once again, “I always order dessert. I couldn’t have it for so many years when I was fighting and then with the morning sickness and then trying to get back to pre-baby weight… I just decided I shouldn’t have to live without dessert anymore… sure, I have to work a little harder at the gym each week, but it’s so worth it.” She’s interrupted by the waiter returning. He sets the red sugary cake in front of her and she turns to smile and give him her thanks before digging in.

Killian watches her in awe, entirely convinced there isn’t a single thing he doesn’t like about her.

She realizes he’s staring and chuckles before taking another bite, the blush rising on her high cheekbones. “Would you like some, Jones? You can’t really call it a cheat day if you order salad.”

He’s never had strawberry shortcake, but he’s positive he could never deny her anything, “Aye, Swan, just a bite.” He looks around for his fork, blushing himself when he realizes the waiter has already cleared it. She shrugs, unphased, and portions off a small bite for him. He grabs the fork from her, their fingers barely touching, but the electric currant shooting through his veins all the same. He has to withhold dirtier thoughts as he puts her fork in his mouth, now entirely aware of the tension building between the two of them. He swallows the slew of innuendos with the cake. Emma is looking at him expectantly, as though somehow his review of this entirely too sweet concoction will determine whether or not she likes it as well.

He smiles at the thought more than the dessert, but she seems satisfied. She takes her fork back and smiles. “What’s your favorite dessert?”

The question catches him off-guard. While seemingly trivial, it’s more personal than they’ve ventured thus far. (Besides the random truths Emma seems to drop out of nowhere.) He’s taken aback by her desire to know him , and has to hold down the one million questions he wishes to ask her. “I’ve never been much for dessert…” She gives him an entirely unamused look and he can’t help but laugh, “No, Swan, it’s true!”

“You have to have at least one guilty pleasure treat, Killian.”

He does. His mother’s chocolate cake. Did she just call him Killian? He takes a deep breath, knowing full well this could open up to deeper questions than favorite dessert. “Aye, love. I suppose I always loved my mother’s chocolate cake.”

She studies him, probably to make sure he’s answering truthfully, and then frowns, “Loved?”

He knew this was coming, and he wants her to know, but it doesn’t make it any easier. “Aye. My mother passed when I was 11.” He waits for pity or an “I'm so sorry” but it never comes. Instead she takes a deep breath of her own.

“That’s probably the real reason I love dessert so much. You never really get any when you’re a foster kid.”

She meets his eye and the air is taken from his lungs. She understands. It feels like a ton of bricks has been lifted off his chest, and she understands. All he can do is smile and nod, but he hopes she knows he understands too.

Emma smiles softly before declaring she’s “stuffed”. They call for the waiter and Emma insists she put it on the company card– “They’re only paying for one hotel room anyway.”

He chuckles, but nerves wash over him as her casual reminder of the situation which awaits them back at the hotel hits him like a high kick. Bloody hell.  

. . .

Killian Jones is really easy to talk to. So easy that it’s not until they’re walking back to the hotel that she even realizes she told him about her upbringing.

What the hell, Emma?

Her comfort level with Killian is something she’s hard pressed to ignore, but as they unlock the door to their room, she finds herself forced to confront it far sooner than she wanted to. She can’t help but track his every move as he leads her into the hotel room. He walks straight for the small sofa and she watches the muscles ripple through his arms as he lifts his duffle bag onto it. Sometimes she forgets he’s Killian “Hook” Jones the athlete and not just– well, just Killian. It’s times like this that she’s reminded how fit he is. When he realizes she hasn’t moved, Killian shoots a questioning look over his shoulder and Emma shakes herself out of it– whatever it is.

He scratches behind his ear and she can’t help but laugh, breaking the increasingly tense silence between them. “Uh… I’ll grab the couch, lov–Swan. I’m sure there’s extra blankets in here somewhere. Do you want to clean up first?”

Emma’s chest hurts when he shys away from calling her love, but can’t find it in herself to blame him– the word in this context threatening to hang between them like something more than a pet name. She nods in response and heads into the small bathroom. She immediately runs the cold water, splashing it over her face in an attempt to realign her senses. Emma stares at her reflection in the mirror and can’t help but notice she seems brighter, maybe even happier.

She ignores the twing in her gut telling her why.

Finishing up her nightly routine, she heads back into the main area to find Killian laying on the couch and scrolling through his phone. Emma holds back a giggle at the sight of the almost 6 foot man stretched across an equally long couch. He looks up when she flips on the lamp next to the bed and gives her a tight smile before heading into the bathroom himself. When she hears the shower turn on, she takes a deep breath, thankful for at least a small moment of alone time. She looks at the couch where he’s set up and can’t help but feel a bit guilty– the queen sized bed suddenly feeling way too big for one person.

Shit.

Emma makes up her mind as Killian unlocks the bathroom door and turns out the light. She works up the nerve to actually say something, but is only convinced when she sees him try and situate himself on the couch again. With a deep breath, she tries to hint at her decision casually, “That cannot possibly be comfortable.”

Killian jumps a bit at the sound of her voice and she snorts. The blush rises in his cheeks before he answers, “It’s quite alright, lass. I’ve slept on worse; at least I have a pillow.” He winks and she can’t stop her eyes from rolling dramatically. She knows he’d probably sleep on the floor if that was the only option, but she’s not evil .

“We’re both adults. I’m sure we can handle sharing a bed.” She doesn’t look him in the eye, finding a chip in the paint just above his right shoulder a safer place to land. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the smirk drop off his face.

“You don’t have to–”

She waves him off, finally making eye contact (fully aware he won’t move unless she does), “It’s fine, Jones. You can’t sleep on that couch, Robin will kill me if I fuck up your back.”

He laughs at the mention of his trainer and seems to relax a bit. “If you’re sure?”

She scoots to the left and pats the bed next to her, solidifying her decision. Killian smiles tightly before grabbing the pillow and blanket off the couch and sliding in next to her. Ever the gentleman, he continues to scroll through his phone.

Even still, Emma is positive he can hear her heart beating at least 180bmp.

She knows he’s following her lead, he’d probably sit up straight all night if that’s what she did. With a soft sigh, she lays down, grabbing her phone to set an alarm for the morning. “I’m gonna get up around 7. I hope that’s not too early?”

“Seven is perfect, love. I’m an early riser.” Killian looks at her when he says it – love– and she swears all the oxygen leaves her body. There’s probably nothing actually intimate about the way he’s staring at her, but the situation has Emma’s nerves firing on all cylinders.

“Oh. Great. I just usually take my morning run…” She trails off, realizing Killian doesn’t need an explanation, turning her head back to her phone as a much needed reprieve from the intensity of his eyes. She’s grateful when he breaks the silence.

“Aye, Swan. Me as well. Maybe…” He pauses and she looks up at him again. He shakes his head and turns back to what looks like a Twitter feed.

He’s nervous.

“Maybe you can join me! I’m not familiar with the area so it’d probably be safer… for both of us.” She’s not sure where it came from but her invitation is genuine. The nerves leave his face and are replaced with a boy-ish grin.

“I’d like that.” She takes in his smile and is pretty sure Michaelangelo couldn’t have chiseled someone so stunning.

Get a grip, Emma.

“Awesome. 7 it is then. Goodnight, Killian.” She doesn’t realize she called him Killian until she hears his breath hitch slightly. She rolls over, facing away from him before she does something absolutely stupid. The click of his phone locking signals his decision to sleep as well, and she feels him shift on his side of the bed. As his movement stops, Emma is able to fully relax, beginning to doze off much quicker than she expected. Right before she falls asleep completely, she swears she hears him speak in a soft whisper. “Goodnight, love.”

When she wakes up to his legs entangled in hers, she pretends to sleep as long as she can, taking in every moment of the early morning peace before she inevitably has to wake up. She manages to keep her breath even and eyes closed long enough for Killian to wake up and slowly work his way out of the bed. Even though the loss of his body heat feels like being shoved in a freezer, she stays still until she hears the click of the hotel room door. It’s then that she sits up, running her fingers through her hair and catches a brief whiff of his scent he left behind. She misses it the moment it dissipates.

Emma Swan, you are fucked.

. . .

The sun streaming through the window is the first clue that Killian isn’t in his flat– room darkening curtains being his only hope of sleeping past 5am– the second is the bright white pillow reflecting said sun beneath his head, and the third is the feeling of soft legs entangled in his own. It takes every ounce of muscle control he has not to move. As he takes in his current situation, he smells the sweet scent of vanilla which he can only trace to the mop of blonde curls which seem to have taken up residence on his chest. He subtly pinches himself in the side, positive this is just one of the many dreams he’s had of this nature.

He’s both parts relieved and terrified to realize he doesn’t need to wake up because he’s already wide awake.

He knows if Emma gets up now, any chance he has at waking up this way ever again, will run (probably literally) out the door. Reluctantly, he moves out from underneath her, feeling the loss of connection instantly and missing it just as suddenly. Grabbing his phone he checks the time. 6:30. He has another half hour before she wakes up, but he can’t risk losing her already… not when he hasn’t even had the chance to have her. He gets up from the bed and quietly leaves the room to grab them some coffee from the continental breakfast.

When he makes it back to the room, Emma is scrolling through her phone, fully dressed for their run. He checks his watch and finds it’s still before seven so she must have woken up on her own. He’s not sure what to say, but she looks up at him and he can’t help but apologize, “Good morning, Swan. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Morning. I– uh– woke up and you were gone.” She eyes the coffee cup in his hand, “Is that for me?”  He smiles at her and nods before reaching out to give her the correct cup. Her “coffee” is basically milk and sugar with a splash of coffee, and she would probably be unpleasantly surprised to taste his black brew. As she returns to her phone, sipping carefully on the hot beverage, Killian grabs his workout clothes from his duffle and heads into the bathroom to change.

Going on a run with Emma was probably not his best idea. For one thing, she's insanely athletic, always three or four paces in front of him, but mostly it's the way she looks. Her heavy breaths up and down as the sweat drips down her sharp face… not to mention the yoga pants.

He’s going to need a very cold shower after this.

They ultimately run about 8 miles before ending up back at the hotel doubled over and trying to catch their breath. “Not bad, Jones… you know, for an old man.” He’s entirely out of oxygen but can’t help but laugh as she smirks at him and cracks a joke.

He wants forever to be like this. Has he said bloody hell? Because bloody hell.

They walk back into the hotel, grabbing water bottles from the small convenient store, and heading up to their room. The entire time Killian feels like he’s walking on air. Emma is chatty and smiling and he’s stunned that he has played even a small part in that. She walks into the room before him, turning around to ask him if she can jump in the shower first and all he can do is smile and nod. In his time alone, he realizes he’s entirely too infatuated with someone who is completely off limits. Since he picked her up at her apartment yesterday, they’ve felt more like friends than coworkers and after last night, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want even more than that.

He can’t.

It’s not that he’s worried about his career– fuck the UFC for all he cares– but Emma has Henry to worry about and she’s worked hard to get to where she’s at; he can’t ruin that for her. He vows to himself that he won’t let whatever feelings he’s grown for her affect her life. He watches how she moves about that life, determined and courageous, and he falls a little harder every single day. He can’t do anything to ruin that. Seeing her soft smile when she finally exits the bathroom only solidifies his determination to do right by her; keep things on the side of business casual and make sure her career kickstarts. By all means Emma doesn’t need his help, but an extremely successful client couldn’t hurt. He silently adds a resolution to train, fight, and promote to the absolute best of his ability to his vow. He’ll win that belt and he’ll do it for her. He’ll do it all for her.

As if there’s another option.

[incarnateirony]

I get blends of innocent beans confused with what queer coding is or isn’t, and malignant beans misappropriating points, so we’re gonna do a quick run through.

Queer coding started as a malignant thing. The truest use of the phrase “queer coding” came from stereotypes and villainizations that straight people found sCaRy. This is like, why Scar seemed classically flamboiyant, or a variety of Disney villains were long, lanky, gestured exaggeratedly, wore eyeliner, etc. There’s a million examples but I’m not going to cover them all because I think you get what I mean. At the time, straight culture was painting gays as bad so painting villains as how straights perceived gays was like, super useful, cuz it creeped the straights out oOOoooOOo.

When people talk about queer coding enforcing stereotypes, if you’re talking about the original form of queer coding, this is inherently true. However, coding reached other levels, and has adaptive forms.

For example, watching (as I’ve been mocked for saying 10,000 times, but because it’s needed) The Celluloid Closet will clear up a lot for you. Subversive queer coding is when queer creators use a great deal of things to communicate with a queer audience past censorship. The film documentary (if you can’t read the book -- which I understand, it’s difficult to find) clears a whole fuckton of this up.

There’s some things that, quite frankly, we as gays know as part of our language. It is what it is. While it’s not a stereotype, it’s quite literally a language I highly warn straights against stepping into, because then they flounder around confused on what’s our actual language and what’s a stereotype

A truly innocent bean asked of me yesterday, well why then is menthols fair subversive queer coding? How is that not a stereotype?

Well like, because it’s facts. And that’s really, really hard to wrap ones’ head around from an outsider straighty perspective or even someone who’s queer but trapped heavily in a hetnorm world outside of where this is visible and/or in the wrong demographic otherwise. A black person who hangs out with black people of all orientations is not going to blink at a media dude getting menthols generally, because it’s one of the cultures that statistically engages in it to the point of memes about Kools or whatever. That’s not my culture, I can’t comment on much beyond that, but it’s just something to take note of.

But even if you don’t want to take someone’s word on “no, seriously, white dudes smoking menthols is queer culture and literally like a great sign for a hookup to another queer white dude”, google the various intersections of gender and menthol, race and menthol, and sexuality and menthol.

This isn’t pulled out of thin air. These were populations quite literally heavily targeted by Big Tobacco and, by nature, are the ones that smoke it, whereas Big Tobacco put(s) on airs of masculinity and chick-magnetness to smoke good ol non-menthol shit. It’s literally marketing. Yes, it does literally impact who buys product and yes, it does after generations have a noticeable affect. Track the numbers I told you to google down and you’ll realize less than 3% of menthol smokers identify as straight white men (depending on the way the numbers sort out and the year of polling, often 1.x%, 3% is the liberal number).. Lemme tell you, on the street, that’s an “okay, honey :)” when you do find it. Maybe a little pat on the head. An invisible brochure for Welcome To The Gays.  Like, White Men make up more than 31% of America and they still refuse to tally more than 25% of the US as queer [some censuses as low as 6% and LOL] so like-- that should be like minimum 25% of dudes available and nope, 1-3%)

(that’s not to say all gays or even all white gays smoke menthol, but this is that rule of “not all fingers are thumbs, but all thumbs are fingers” in loose application.)

But understanding these things, these signals, from the outside is utterly flabbergasting to people.

No, someone making an immasculating joke is not subversive queer coding. No, a dude wearing a certain kind of shirt or eating a certain kind of food generally isn’t queer coding (Unless it’s a rainbow flag BITCH IM GAY shirt, or uh, maybe for food quiche or hummus? I mostly joke for the latter two, but that’s the kind of self ball punching queer community sometimes does to itself in awareness that yes, there ARE elements. No, eating hot dogs and burritos isn’t gay. Yes, we make make penis jokes. No, that isn’t itself queer coding.)

When a queer author codes a piece, it’s designed to communicate to the resonant audience. It also may not communicate to /all/ gays. The language of a middle aged cis gay man that lived through the AIDS crisis is a whole other fuckin adventure from the language of 17 year old trans gays squatting behind their Xbox, it’s just fact, it’s just what is. Completely different cultures and lives being lived, completely different experiences resulting. A few things here or there may connect across generations but some shit that’s written by a gen Z gay is gonna whiff by a boomer gay, sorry. Also just facts.

Explaining exactly what is and isn’t queer coding is almost impossible beyond the fact that “if you don’t get it, it’s probably not for you.” -- At the same time, that leaves the problematic room of people taking that grey area and packing in a bunch of shit and we’re back to ground zero on the original problematic queer coding.

I once read a meta of uh-- I’ll just say, [Fantasy Character]. The fantasy character had an addiction problem that gave them villain-like attributes. Someone implied the “villain coding” made it queer coding. Okay like. Fucking absolutely not. Because if the show in question WAS doing that, first off, that’s literally the kind to make mockeries of gay people so you literally shouldn’t be reaching for that and second off they’d be doing that lanky sassy bitch with eyeliner bullshit like Disney villains with it, give or take. You don’t apply this shit in reverse, “he has villain attributes and so he’s gay” is literally the worst possible angle to take a discussion while trying to slap fight in a representation arena. Like I can’t say enough DO NOT DO THIS SHIT. 

If you wanna write fic or headcanon whoever as gay or whatever have fun but like once people keep trying to talk about “coding” you’re talking about conscious elements inset by the authors. Does a character have a bunch of on the record sexual encounters that just happen to include dudes persistently even if we don’t exactly get the exact angle or Proof Of Dicking? That’s gay (also depending on the phrasing, as settled in older stuff, that’s just deadass queer text and settled long before this fandom ever had pissing matches about this shit in older cinema.) Does the character happen to be respectful and use like gender neutral pronouns on people? Sorry folks that unto itself isn’t gay, that’s gays writing allies at best, unless you can give specific and directly applicable situations relevant to the character rather than eternally vague blogging through and swearing up and down it’s just about their partners or some shit. Yelling it in general though, sorry, no. 

Does the character engage in things or events with non-het gendered partners that in the very least are heavily coded into the areas of relationships even if they’re unclear (eg, do they routinely go out with non-family people and hold deep or meaningful conversations in things that LOOK like a date, even if nobody SAYS it’s a date) -- congrats, you have coded text. Alone it could even be queerplat stuff, depending on the suprastructure of the plot, text, subtext and everything else around it (same way, gasp, a man and a woman can sit at a table and not necessarily be in a relationship, but if they’re trading courting gifts and having unique and powerful exchanges or have big like, “the heart is the thing that binds us together uwu” shit, we all figure out what the fuck is going on like grown assed adults.)

It’s easier to list things that are NOT subversive queer coding:

Insults against gay people

Immasculating commentary

Random foods short of it deadass being a gay author making fun of some gay meme shit in some gay equivalent of ‘right in front of my salad’

Favorite colors or clothing

---

We got it? Good. Rule of thumb though. Deadass unless you are involved in some thick-ass queer culture don’t try to queer code shit. I don’t even care if you’re queer yourself because that doesn’t mean you’ve actually been subject to the culture in a meaningful way. There’s 30 year old bis that grew up in white picket fence suburbias on top of trust funds with hovercraft parents guiding them through 17 degrees and keeping them out of party culture that married a het-passing relationship and settled down and started having babies and their grasp of queer culture ends at what they perceive out of memes online, if they even hover in actual queer crowds online at all as much as general ones. That person literally is not going to speak much of the language. They aren’t. At best they’ll speak the language of 30 year old trust fund het-married bisexual mothers which, I mean yeah, technically some queer language but that’s a very, very fucking niche experience path right there compared to street-dwelling club-goers that attend pride, hold D&D parties with all their coworkers they figured out are gay on the weekend, occasionally brick a window in a riot. The latter is gonna have a far more diverse queer experience. And by such, a far more diverse queer language.

That’s not even to gatekeep. 30 year old trust fund het-passing-marriage bi-mom is in fact bi. So yeah, they’re queer. But we’re talking about language and culture, which is related to but not something you inherit. It comes by lives and experiences.

And I think this is where a LOT of the fucked up early Queer Coding fuckery comes from in discourse. Yes we have a language. Hell, to some extent a few things might even kinda BE stereotypes but there’s a certain amount of living and being where you know the difference between “this is a stereotype made by straight people villainizing us that has no idea what we’re fucking like” or “this is a stereotype born out of mass marketing that targeted and victimized then imprinted on an entire population that we’ve come to recognize among ourselves.” Or even “this is a stereotype but FUCK YES it’s one we embrace, go get fucked, straights.” And it’s not NEARLY as ambiguous as fandom circle jerks try to make these things out to be in the interest of wanting every interpretation to be valid or every character to be gay or not wanting to admit some person may know what the fuck they’re talking about more than they do. 

Huge point on that last one though, because like. I’ve seen some angry straights that are pissy about the show try to throw wrenches in the gears by concern trolling as if in defense of the gays about “offensive queer coding” and most of the time they’re basically that “how do you do fellow kids gays” meme. “How do you do gays I am very concerned about *checks notes* the twitters talking about gay men walking fast” and half the time turn around like two tweets later like “besides the character doesn’t even have a lisp anyway” or some bullshit that is outright offensive ass stereotyping while they’re out here trolling over the fact that a gay man admits to diva worship as a cultural trait.

General rule of thumb: ask a queer culture immersed gay about queer coding.

Shipping culture in the blue hellsite is not queer culture, for the record. Even if a bunch of queerfolk are in it.

Thanks.

Sincerely,

A very tired gay

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 23 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 23 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 6: A Problem of Ship’s Business

Kurin sat in the shade of her small toy booth, as she had for every Gathering market since Cat had gone back to the sea with her mate, Dark Iren.  The wind fluttered the dagged edge of her awning, making the embroidered birds and fish seem to fly and swim.  In front of her were toy fishing boats and small sailing boats that would actually work.  There were also soft flexible Strong Skin fish and Glue Fish, Wing Rays, lobsters and crabs.  All the creatures were fashioned out of a modified form of glue and the Strong Skin scraping dust left over from boat building. Behind her, on prominent display, was a large model of the Longin under full sail, with all sails and rigging neatly done.   As usual, there was a knot of children and a few adults in front of her booth, and trade was brisk.

Quietly, the crowd parted.  Approaching her booth were the woman and man that she had seen come from the Dark Dragon and the Soaring Bird.  They stopped in front of her booth and seated themselves cross-legged, regarding her curiously.  The woman’s big scabbards were no longer empty.  The odd looking one on her right leg held an ax like none that Kurin had ever seen before.

“Are you not Kurin Behar Longin of the Naral fleet?” asked the Captain of the Dark Dragon, tilting her red-brown head curiously.  Her lively green eyes had taken in the toys on the board and she was studying them intently.

“I am.  May I get you something?” asked Kurin.  “I can send for food and water, if you wish it.”

The two Captains regarded each other a moment.  “That would be appreciated.  It is well past noon, and we have not yet had a chance to get food.  You are most courteous.”  The woman gestured towards herself, “Allow me to introduce us.  I am Captain Sula Corin Dark Dragon of Winternight, guest of the Corlis fleet and this is the Honored Captain Huld Barsan Soaring Bird of the Barant fleet.  We have come from the other side of the world to get news of a ship and crew favored by the presence of a Great Sea Dragon.  Every one that we speak to, says this or that and then adds speak to Kurin.  She knew the Dragon best.  So, we have come to speak to you.”

Just then, a large red haired man jostled Captain Sula aside and started to point at one of Kurin’s toys with a long knife with large jagged teeth down the cutting edge.  Kurin knew the style of weapon and thought little of it.  A show-off’s toy, prone to breakage.  “Give me that one,” he demanded.  “I know someone who wants it.”

“Mister Kotance,” she said sharply, “I would like you to meet Captain Sula Corin Dark Dragon.”  Meanwhile, Sula and Huld had risen to their feet.

Kotance turned to Captain Huld and said, “Sir, my apologies for bumping into your wife.”

Sula took Kotance’s knife hand, the front of his shirt and stamped across his instep as she pulled the startled Kotance from his feet. As he hit the raft face first, she wrapped his knife hand around behind him and pushed up, her knee in the middle of his back.  She wasn’t even breathing hard as she said, “I am Captain Sula.  Drop the knife or I break your arm.”

Kotance made an abortive attempt to break free of her hold then dropped the knife as Sula began to press his arm against the joint.  She immediately released him and stepped back, ready.

Sula smiled the coldest smile that Kurin had ever seen as she said, “You have interrupted the business of Captains.  Please put away your toy and leave us.”

Kotance, scowling and rubbing a sore shoulder, put the knife into its scabbard and left.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Kurin. “Just a moment while I get someone to watch the booth for me, then we can talk — — Hey! Roper!  Will you watch my booth for a bit?  I’ll give you lunch and a toy off the board.”

The boy that she called to came up and slid into place behind the counter.  “Done.  Can I get the lunch right away?  I’m starving.”

Laughing, Kurin went with the Captains to Marad’s food booth.  He and some apprentices were preparing fresh shellfish and other delicacies on the spot.  “Hi, Marad.  Would you send some water, a pair of fish cakes, a slice of crab cake and some redweed salad to Roper?  He’s watching my booth.”

“Sure, Dragon-hair.  What will you have?” he answered, turning to adjust the reflector of one of the solar heaters used for steaming and boiling crab, lobster and shrimp.  It was made of large, highly reflective, side-jumper scales, glued to a backing of Strong Skin.

“The same for me.  What will you have, Captain Sula, Captain Huld?” she asked turning to them.

She saw Captain Mord and Alor discussing the morning’s Council session at a nearby table.  She overheard Alor saying heatedly, “If the Captains can’t even make it illegal, we Pursers will have to do something!  It’s costing hundreds of Skins a Gathering!”  Kurin made a note to ask about it later.  For now she had another fish on her line.

They took their lunches and Sula and Huld led the way to the Council Pavilion.  Seating themselves in its shade, they began to eat.  

Sula asked, “What did your cook mean, calling you Dragon-hair?”

Kurin pulled her sea-foam white hair over her shoulder.  “This, Captain Sula.  It was my parting gift from Cat — — that is Blind Mecat. My hair used to be almost black.  It reminds me of her because now it’s the same color as hers was.”

“I see,” said Huld, writing in a blank book made of supple paperfish parchment.  “Know her how did you come to?”

“She was always a part of the Longin, as far back as my memory goes, Captain Huld.  We didn’t know that she was a Great Sea Dragon until the end.  The Longin picked her up from the open sea as an infant, drifting in a tiny boat, about twenty four Gatherings ago.  She was made the foster daughter of Alor, our Captain’s mother, who is also the Longin’s Purser.  About six and a half Gatherings ago, my father died, and my mother went mad from grief.  I was too filled with my own heartache even to cry.  

“Cat took care of me like a Wide Wing with a chick and helped me to get over it.  While she was at it, without trying to, she taught me that I could do anything.  Because of that teaching, I’m not an apprentice boat-builder anymore.  I’m a full journeyman and consequently a legal adult.  I also work in the rope-walk, the weaving shop, the net shop, the galley, and the Captain is teaching me how to navigate with instruments and arithmetic.

“Cat just did anything that needed doing anywhere on the ship.  She worked up in the rigging, and in every shop.  She fished and dove for shells.  Whatever she did, she showed me or shared with me.  She always had time for me.”

“Position in crew she had what?  Did she so much?” asked Huld with great interest.

“Oh, she wasn’t in the crew, Captain Huld.  Her name kept her out.  They were afraid of bad luck from her name, so they never gave her a position in the crew.”

“This Honored one, would find honor more if Huld you call him,” he said with a small bow.

“As always, Honored one, you lead me in courtesy.”  Turning to Kurin Sula added, “Please, call me Sula.”

“Name Cat unlucky how was?” asked Huld, critically inspecting his bone pen point

“It was short for Mecat.  Her name goes back to how the Longin found her. A storm blew the Longin off course, way north, to the Dragon Sea. There, they found a little boat,” Kurin gestured with her hands, about three feet apart, “with a baby in it.  On the boat, someone had written Mecat.  She told me that she always hoped that whoever wrote it there was asking the Dragon to look after her instead of wishing her ill.

“Everyone knows that it is bad luck to name someone with a Great Sea Dragon’s name, but fleet Law and naming Custom left no choice.  With no mother name first, and no father’s clan name second, all that was left to her was a ship name, and that was Mecat, the Dragon’s name. She contrived to make me feel sorry for her, with her crippled name.  That was the start of my healing.”

Just then, a few young deck-hands from the Fauline came up, raucously, they called, “Hey, White-hair!  Teach us to feel the bottom, too! Do you feel it with your own arse?  Do the crabs pinch?  I’ll bet that’s how you know where they are!”  One of them felt the other’s bottom and gave a pinch, in imitation of a crab.  They were near doubled over with laughter at their witticisms.

Without getting up, or seeming even to look, Sula reached up behind her and grabbed the shirt of the ringleader.  Before he could brace himself, he was slammed to the deck in front of her, on his back, stunned. She leaned over him, speaking venomously,  “You are rude.  You interrupt the talk of Captains.  If this were my command, I would hang you over the side of the Dark Dragon and feed you to a hungry Strong Skin, feet first.  Now, your name, your ship and your Captain!”

“Thelo, deck-hand of the Fauline, Captain Skua,” he replied in shock, struggling to get his wind back.

“You will be reported, Thelo,” Sula said grimly.  Effortlessly she picked him up as she rose to her feet.  She threw him into his cronies, knocking them down like nine-pins.

Kurin was startled at this display of skill and raw strength, though nowhere near as much as the young ruffians who were picking themselves up off the deck, and scrambling away.  What they said penetrated through her surprise.  Looking worried, she excused herself, “Sula, Huld, I must find my Captain.  Someone has been spreading Ship’s Business where it should not be.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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[jungstruly]

Velocity || Wong Yukhei

Biker!Lucas AU and Soulmate! AU

*Summary: In a world where in whatever markings (tattoos, scar, birthmark, etc.) your soulmate has would appear on your skin too. You were always curious about who he is. Whoever that may be, he has been ever so careful not to hurt himself. You were grateful for him, really.

Not until you almost deliver a speech on the entire university population with a massive dick sharpie drawing on your left cheek. That’s the time when you have never wanted to kill your soulmate so badly.

*Word count: Around 4.8k

*Warning/s: profanities here and there, cat calling, harassment, a bit of violence against women, yAnG yAnG being a side character and giving you a hEaRt AtTaCk

(p.s. I like the sound of Yukhei compared to Lucas so, I’ll use his Chinese name. Happy reading!)

“Not again,” Your best friend whines beside you and you can’t help but look up from your laptop. “This dude needs to bubble wrap himself up.”

She sighs as she run a hand on a new purple bruise on her wrist. You can’t help but snort, chomping on your croissant. Your eyes not leaving your laptop screen, reading what you just typed. “Your soulmate could either be a trouble magnet or just extremely clumsy.”

The quiet coffee shop starts to buzz with different conversations as university students start to come in groups. Your best friend gives a sigh of defeat. She crosses her arms and leans back on her chair.

“I just wish he would take care of himself more.” You hear her whisper. Your hands typing something quickly on your keyboard. “Hey Y/N, can I borrow your sharpie?”

You rest your chin on top of your palm. “It’s on my backpack’s small pocket and,”

A wide smile is in your face, turning your laptop to her. “Done! Now I want you to proof read my speech for me.”

There is no response from her so you look across the table. She was grinning wildly as she writes something on her palm. You chuckle in amusement.

“Wow,” You tease her. “Look at you being love sick and all.”

She looks up with small blush on her face, closing the sharpie marker. “So what if I am?”

You take a glimpse of what she has written on her palm. A ‘please be careful :( ‘ is written neatly on it. You can’t help but smile at her sweetness before scrunching your nose. “Too cheesy,”

Your best friend tries to hit you across the table. “Shut up. I’ll start to read your draft now. Happy?”

“Very,” Stretching your limbs before standing up, your hand grabs your purse from your bag. “I’ll buy something. Do you want anything?”

She waves you off, eyes glued to your laptop. “I’m good.”

 You stand at the end of the line. It was lunchtime already. The place is starting to fill up little by little. Your eyes squint at the menu above. As you silently debate on getting their Greek Salad or chicken pesto sandwich, you can’t help but to feel uneasy. The boisterous group of boys in front of you keep on throwing side glances. You try to give them a polite smile as you awkwardly cross your arms. The blonde boy looks at you from head to toe, obviously lingering on your legs before turning to his friends.

“Damn, I would do anything to get between her legs.” He says rather too loudly. “Fuckin’ look at those.”

You fume with anger. “I can hear you crystal clear dickhead.”

His friends turn their heads with wide eyes. He fakes a gasp before making his way towards you. His bicep flexes as he run a hand through his blonde locks.

“Oh you did?” You hold back the urge to roll his eyes at his extended hand. “I’m Wes by the way and you are?”

“Leaving,” You glare at him and his friends. “I have clearly lost my appetite because of you.”

A loud laugh escapes from him when you start to walk back towards your table. His large hand grabs a hold of your wrist tightly.

“You’re a feisty one. I like that.”

“Let go of my hand.” You demand, trying to break free from his tight grasp. “Please,”

He disregards your plea and starts to pull you towards the door. “We’re just going to have a lovely chat outside sweethe- “

“You heard the lady Langley.” A low voice piped up behind him. “Let go of her hand. You’re hurting her.”

“It’s none of your business Wong.” He spits back. “Mind your own fucking business.”

You look behind him to see the owner of the booming voice. Hooded brown eyes pierced back at your captor. His black hair glimmer whenever sunlight hits it. A couple of piercings can be spot on both of his rather large ears. The tall leathered jacket man towers before the both of you. He is tall however, Wes, the guy gripping your wrist is more buffy than him. Your eyes meet for a second and you can’t help but give him a pleading look.

He sips on his ice shaken tea. “I’ll mind my own fucking business if you start to respect women.”

The hand on your wrist stays the same. “You should watch your words Wong. Before you get beaten.”

Wes nods toward his friends and then back to the leathered jacket man. “Take care of this nosy asshole.”

“I still have business to take care off.” He starts to get drag you again.

“Why don’t we settle this outside then?” The both of you halt on your tracks, turning at the tall guy once again. “Like a real man,”

Wes chuckles darkly. “Are you challenging me to race against you? You have some great balls you got there.”

The man shrugs, stepping forward as he lazily takes another sip. “You have your bike with you, I assume?”

He seems to ponder first. You heave a sigh of relief when he lets go of your hand. You massage it, silently praying that it won’t leave a bruise. Your eyes not leaving the both of them.

“If I win,” Wes catches his white helmet from one of his friends. “I’ll take her and you piss off.”

The tall guy on the other hand lets go of his drink before grabbing his black helmet from his short friend beside him. “But if you lose, you stop bothering girls and keep your dick inside your pants.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving him a taunting look. “Deal?”

“But I never lose,” Wes brags. His friends wolf whistle as they head out.

A smug smirk is left on his opponent, walking pass you. “We’ll see about that.”

You are left standing in the middle of a crowded café with a dumbstruck look on your face. The tall guy’s friend waves his hands at you.

“I’m sorry about that. Wes is just an ass.” You snicker in approval. “I’m Yang Yang by the way.”

“Y/N,” You answer. The two of you walks toward the window where you can see them clearly. “Hey, how good is your friend? My ass kinda depends on him right now.”

Wes hops into his white Ducati before putting his helmet on. A bashful smirk never leaves his lips.

“Oh you mean Yukhei?” He proudly beams as the both of you watch him put his black helmet that perfectly matches his jet black Ducati. “Don’t worry,”

Yang Yang softly pats your shoulder. A glint of mischief can be seen on his large eyes. “Wes won’t bother you anymore.”

+++

“Y-you almost got what the other day?” Your best friend wipes her lips, coughing on her water after you finish telling her everything; from getting harassed by Wes to Yukhei beating his ass on a heart pounding race. You pat his back as you watch her helplessly.

“You heard me.” You twist your pen in boredom. Your professor is late, again.

She looks at you with wide eyes. “And why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why did I just heard about this just now?!”

“I did,” You defend yourself. “You’re just too pre-occupied with your soulmate. Didn’t you say he starts to write back on your palm?”

She smiles at you sheepishly. “Oh, fair enough.”

You wave the topic off. “Anyways, what do you think about my speech’s final draft that I sent you last night? Was it okay?”

“More than okay,” Your best friend reassures you. “You’ll do good on Monday. I just know it.”

“You think so?” You nervously smile. “What if I mess up in front of the whole student body? O-or what if I-“

Her hands engulf yours in a reassuring manner. “Sweetheart, you will smash it.”

She watches you flinch when she swipes her thumb on your knuckles. A frown is evident on her face as she sees your bruised knuckles.

“Oh my God, what happened?”

You shrug, caressing your bruises. “My soulmate seemed to have a rough day. Whatever it may be, it must’ve pissed him of that much cause this is actually a first.”

Your best friend pats your back sympathetically before sitting properly. Your business accounting teacher starts her class with a pop quiz and a long ass discussion. The thought of your soulmate drowns her voice. A long sigh comes from your lips, staring at your purple and red knuckles. You lost yourself in your train of thoughts as you mindlessly walk towards the campus gate after the class.

“I’m sorry,” You immediately apologize when you bump into someone, causing his books and binders to scatter on the ground. You pick up the loose paper sheets as fast as you can. “I’m so so sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

“It’s okay. I was actually rushing and i- hey, Y/N right?”

You immediately look up. Yang yang’s familiar smile greets you and you can’t help but sigh in relief.

“Yes,” You hand him a book. He places it on the ground before crouching. “Yang Yang right?”

He nods, stacking his book. “You look like you’re in a hurry. You can go if you want. I can handle this.”

You wave your hands, shaking your head. “No, helping you is the least I can do. If you don’t mind me asking, do you know where can I find your friend, Yukhei?”

You scratch the back of your neck. “I never thanked him properly the other day.”

“He’s still busy in class.” Yang Yang answers. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell him.”

You reach the paper near him. He stops on what he’s doing, eyes trailing on your hand.

“What happened to your hand?”

You wave it off by laughing. The both of you dusted yourself up as you give him the last stack of paper. “Soulmate problems,”

His knees weaken as he smiles weirdly. “S-soulmate?”

A nod is your only response as you try to study his face. Yang yang laughs before rushing towards his department, leaving you dumbfounded. He turns to you one last time while trying to balance the large pile of books and binders on his arms.

“Thank for the help Y/N and oh,” His grin is too wide. You worry about his cheeks. Hell, you worry about his sudden change of mood.  “Your soulmate is one lucky fella!”

He almost crash into someone again as he run like his pants are on fire. Shaking your head, you chuckle at his jolliness before spotting your chauffeur standing patiently beside a black sedan. Still thinking on how you can repay Yukhei’s kindness on the way home.

+++

Yukhei grabs Wes by his collar before taking one full swing on his jaw. His face hit the concrete. He spits a blob of blood beside him as he maniacally laughs. The adrenaline rush still in their veins after the match. Wes’ buffy exterior seems to not match Yukhei’s tactical approach. He doesn’t like fighting because he knows it’ll be messy. Besides, his soulmate would suffer the consequences too. Guilt washes over him as he glances at his knuckles. Wes suffers a lot of his jabs and swings. Yukhei thinks that’s enough for him to learn his lesson.

“Here you are crawling like a pathetic loser,” Yukhei runs a hand through his hair. “Can’t really accept the fact that I won the race that you really need to corner me here and play dirty. Huh?”

“You just got lucky pretty boy.” Wes tries to sit up, holding his abs. “You really think that’ll stop me from getting in her pants?”

“Why you little shi-“ Yukhei grits in his teeth as he strides to him. Yang Yang interferes between them as he places a hand on his heaving chest.

“We should go.” He tries to be calm. He’s too afraid of what his friend can do. “You know Wes is all bark, right? He wouldn’t touch a single strand of her hair. He doesn’t know her name. He won’t find her.”

Yukhei gives him a death glare, pointing at him. “Don’t fucking disrespect woman if you really want to keep your balls intact you asshole.”

The short boy drags his giant friend away before he kills the man.

+++

A Sunday night is the perfect time to study and prepare for the upcoming week. Not for Yukhei. For him, Sunday night is a party night. After his encounter with Wes the other day, he decides that it’s best for him to let go and let loose again. His dorm mate gives him a disapproving look while he checks his outfit on the mirror. He decides to just wear a simple black shirt paired with his favorite black jeans.

“You’re seriously going to sneak out on a Sunday night?” Yang Yang disbelievingly asks Yukhei. A white towel tied securely on his waist without any top. He rubs the foamy soap on his face. His cute yellow ducky headband pushes his hair off of his face. “We have to be present on the sports fest’s opening tomorrow morning for goodness sake.”

“I don’t think that’ll stop me from having fun.” He swings his legs on their window. His bike’s keys on his hands.

Yang Yang rolls his eyes before heading to the bathroom. “Don’t drink too much. You know you can’t really handle hard drinks or any alcohol for that matter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He waves his friend off. “Don’t wait up for me.”

And with that, Yukhei is off to the ‘Turf’, a famous race track beside a party house in town. In just one night, he wins race after race, victory after victory and drinks shots after shots. He passes out on the couch, surrounded by wild people intoxicated with alcohol.

+++

“I’m on my way.” You glance at your watch again. “Shit, I’m coming!”

You end your call with your best friend as you quickly drive with whatever car there is in your garage. It happened to be your grandad’s old and dying mustang. Your chauffeur is asked by your mother to take your little brother to pre-school, clearly forgetting you have an event today. It must’ve slip their minds for your mom was hurrying to meet an investor and your dad is called for a meeting in their department. You curse to yourself for waking up late. You woke up with just 20 minutes before the ceremony.

Because of that, you swiftly change into your baby blue dress and your white pumps. Brushing your knotted morning hair while driving. You sigh in relief when you realize that you are just in time.

“Hey,” You breathe out to your best friend. “How do I look?”

Her smile falters as she looks at your face. “Oh my God!”

“What?” You panic as she rummages through her make up bag.

“Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Oh my God, Oh my God…” She repeats.

“And now for the opening remarks.” Your eyes widen with her. “Our speaker is the President of the student government, the College of Business Administration’s representative…”

“Why?” You try to fix your hair. “Do I look bad?”

“Worse!” She screams in horror as she shows your reflection on her hand mirror. You almost feel like breaking down right there and then when you saw a humungous drawing of a dick on your cheek. The both of you start to rub the drawing off with some wipes.

“Why does my soulmate decided to act up? Why now? I’m just a minute away from delivering a damn speech!” You rub your cheek furiously. Your cheek is turning red because of the friction. Nevertheless, it’s working. Little by little, it’s working.

“-all welcome, Ms. Y/F/N.”

“Shit,” With one last glace on your reflection you walk towards the podium. The sharpie drawing on your cheek luckily fades because of your harsh cheek scrubbing session earlier. An obvious red mark is on your cheek. Still, you do not want it the other way. You smile before starting your speech that you practiced a couple of times. You spot a jumping Yang Yang in the crowd and you can’t help but give him a subtle smile. He waves at you before furiously pointing at the guy beside him. It is Yukhei. Except this time, his piercing stare is replaced by a shy gaze. His nervousness can be seen in his eyes as her try to avoid eye contact. Yukhei pushes Yang Yang’s body behind him. You shrug it off before completely focusing on your speech.

+++

The ceremony ends well that morning. The sharpie fiasco did not hold you back from getting your speech done. You rub your tired eyes, stretching your limbs. You have decided to volunteer and be a facilitator on a chess match. It is almost 10 in the evening. You aren’t aware that you have taken a nap that long. A warm hand touches your shoulder.

“Thank you for assisting me in today’s chess match love.” The old librarian softly says.

You place a hand on top of hers. “No worries Mrs. Potts. You go ahead to your grandson’s birthday party.”

“I’ll lock this room for you.” You sweetly smile before grabbing your sling bag. She waves her hand as she walks toward the door.

“Thank you Y/N and make sure you do.” She flies you a kiss. “The physics department are kind of strict with their classrooms.”

You watch her disappear from the hallway. You double check the room before you lock it up. Your heels click as you walk down when a faint light coming from another classroom near the exit catches your attention. You curiously peek from the door. A guy’s back is turn against you. His hands writing in lightning speed as he answers a complicated equation. The sound of chalkboard screeching bounce back on the empty classroom and you can’t help but marvel at his speed. You can see his muscle flex  through his white shirt.

“Yukhei always loves physics.” You almost have a heart attack when someone whispers behind you. You look behind and you see Yang Yang staring intently at his friend. “He basically sucks at every subject except physics. He literally breathes and eats physics. He solves it if he’s stress or if he’s bored or if he just wants to have some ‘fun’ as he says”

The both of you stare at his back as he continues to solve. “That’s mainly the reason why he’s the best at racing.”

“It’s his secret.” He whispers beside you. You are in awe as you watch him get lost in his own little world. Smiling to yourself, you walk towards the exit.

“Hey Y/N, don’t you want to go to Lucas?” He waves a paper bag. “I bought dinner. Maybe you can join us.”

“Thanks but I think I’ll pass for now.” You rummaged through your purse before handing a small box to him. “Hand this to Lucas. It’s a small token of gratitude.”

He nods before you head to the parking lot. You must’ve judged Lucas quickly to be surprised by his ability. You really thought that he’s just a black leathered jacket wearing guy with a bunch of piercings who rides his motorbike to escape his responsibilities and what not. It turns out, Yukhei is something more. Because of that, you get more drawn to him. You remember his shy gaze when you were at the podium. His deep ass voice and his dark brown eyes. If you look closely, he has a cute baby face behind his dark and strong façade.

Your cheeks blush as you hurriedly look for your car keys. “Cute? You think he’s cute? I m-mean yes he is but-“

You talk to yourself in the empty parking lot. You curse when you accidentally drop your keys.

“You really think that I’ll leave you that easily baby?” Blood runs out from your face and you freeze at your spot. “Nice speech by the way.”

You gulp, slowly turning your head. “What do you want this time dickhead?”

He shrugs slowly striding towards you. His blonde hair glistened under the parking’s light post. “I’m just here for the unfinished business and fucking Wong can’t stop me this time.”

+++

“How fast did you finish it this time?” Yang Yang places the paper bag’s contents on top of the teacher’s table before propping himself up.

Yukhei looks at his watch, popping a sushi on his mouth. He chews before answering. “3 minutes and half. A minute quicker than last time.”

His friend nods as they devour their meal. Yang Yang grabs the small box from his pocket before throwing it at him.

“Catch,” With fast reflexes, he did. “It��s from Y/N.”

Yukhei coughs out the stuck suchi rice from his throat. “What? How?”

He grins before putting his chopsticks down. “She saw you solving that. She asked me to give it to you before she heads out. I invited her to dinner actually but she declined.”

A soft smile is evident on Yukhei’s face as he carefully opens the small box. His cheeks blush furiously when he sees a silver key holder with a small motorbike charm. He immediately grabs his keys from his pocket.

“You’re blushing.” His friend teases. “Who would’ve thought that your freshie crush turned out to be your soulmate? This is like an early senior year gift. I’m jealous.”

“Shut up.” Yukhei tucks the new keyring back his pocket. His old one already in the trash bin. His friend laughs and he can’t help but be thankful for him. If it weren’t for Yang Yang’s clumsy ass back then, he would not know that his bruises on his knuckles from his fight with Wes are on yours too. He can’t help but feel extremely guilty because of his own carelessness the day before your speech. The faded dick drawing on your reddened cheek makes him frustrated and disappointed at himself. He made a mental promise to be more extra careful with everything. He does not want you to be hurt, ever again.

“Thanks bro,” Yang Yang makes a thumbs up at him.

He chomps on his sashimi. “When will you tell her this soulmate thingy? How are you going to tell her?”

Yukhei shrugs before walking towards the blackboard to start cleaning his mess. “As much as possible, I don’t want to tell her right away. I don’t want to rush her or put pressure on her just because we’re soulmates. I’ll make her fall in love with me.”

He dusts his hand before smirking at Yang Yang. Eyes wide, Yang Yang walk towards him.

“Shit!” He exclaims, “Yukhei, your cheek is bleeding.”

His hand immediately flies into his face. He hurriedly run towards the full sized mirror near the door to check his face. A scratch is evident on his cheekbones. It isn’t that big but it makes him worried and angry at the same time.

“Y/N,” He breathes out in realization before running towards his parked Ducati just outside the building, leaving his friend behind as he blindly searches your whereabouts.

+++

Wes pins you down on the ground. You hiss at the sudden impact. You wince when you feel a scrape on your cheekbone. Oh boy, he won’t get you that easily. Not without a fight. You flail your arms and legs, trying to throw a punch on his face. It lands on his jaw and it stuns him, giving you enough time to stand up.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He grits, pulling your leg down. A scream left your mouth as you come contact to the ground again. “We’re not finish yet!”

A mixture of sweat and tears is evident on your face. You plea, “Please don’t. Please,”

With one swift motion, he swipes you off the ground. Your upper body dangling on his back while your legs are securely lock on his arms. Your light blue dress already rag and dirty. Your sobs echo through the empty lot. “Let me go you dickhead!”

“Hey Langley,” A familiar deep voice echoes through the silence of the night. “Didn’t I fucking tell you to stop disrespecting woman if you want your balls intact?”

The blinding headlights of Yukhei’s Ducati blinds you for a second. Like a deer caught in headlights, Wes puts you down. Your heart sinks when your eyes meet Yukhei’s. His death glare is replace by a worried look. You bite your lips as tears threaten to fall from your cheek. He turns his attention back to Wes, striding towards the both of you.

“I called the cops so if you don’t want to be put behind bars then I suggest you scramble back home.”

“How about a fucking no Wong?” He hides you behind him. “How about we fight like men. Huh?

“Oh for Christ’s sake Langley!” Yukhei’s voice booms. “This is not pre-school anymore! Let her go before the cops come for your ass.”

“You’re bluffing,” He bluntly answers before he hears sirens coming from afar. His eyes widen before he runs away.

“This is not over yet!” Wes shouts before sprinting for his life. You watch him disappear out of your sight before turning back to Yukhei. He sprints towards you, engulfing you into a tight hug. The calming smell of musk and mint fills your senses. You melt in his arms, bursting into tears.

“I’m here, I’m here.” He cooes. His large warm arms pull you tighter to his chest. Pushing back your hair, he looks down at you. “Look at me darling,”

Your teary eyes meet his calming brown orbs. “You’re safe now. I’m here,”

This make you burst into tears, burying your face into his chest. “I-I thought no o-one will come a-and…”

“Nothing’s going to hurt you now, okay?” Your terrified sobs make Yukhei’s heart break into tiny little pieces as he strokes your hair.

“Darling, you’re safe here with me.”

+++

You sit inside the ambulance. A blanket drape on your shoulder as you chug down a glass of water given by the paramedics. The wound on your cheek has been taken care off by them. Your tear stained face searches for Yukhei. You find him being interviewed by the police. You hop out of the van. The blanket is obviously large for your figure. Yukhei walks towards you.

“Get back inside,” He places a hand on a small part of your back. You stay where you are.

“Thank you,” You smile before walking towards him. You place a warm hand on his cheek. He leans on it with a small smile. His large hand on top of your small ones.

A gasp leaves your lips. “Yukhei, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” He cough, slightly turning his head towards the opposite direction. “Your parents are almost here.”

“Yukhei,” You sternly says, grabbing his arm. “Let me see,”

“No! It’s not that serious”

You sigh, “Let me see. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

With a sigh of defeat, he looks at you. Your eyebrows furrow as you see an identical scratch near his cheekbone.

“Y-you,” You gasp. “You’re my soulmate?”

He awkwardly scratches his nape. “I guess I am,”

Yukhei looks at your unreadable impression before walking closer, face inches away from each other. He brushes your hair back before leaning closer. You gulp, completely nervous with his next step. You close your eyes, anticipating his warm lips on your lips. Your eyes flutter open when you feel a long kiss on your forehead.

“We don’t need to rush Y/N. No pressure though,” He gives you a boyish smirk as he pulls away. “We have all the time in the world.”

You smile at his words before scrunching your nose. “Too cheesy,”

You can’t help but melt in his arms again.

“I’ll take my time to make you fall in love with me.” He gives you a toothy grin before kissing your hairline. “And you’ll take your time to fall in love with me.”

[that-winged-rat]

Identity

Identity ~ Part 2

*not my gif*

Summary: A strange case leads the boys to a strange girl with a strange past.

No Pairing

Characters: OC Danielle Saunders, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Minor OCs

Warnings: Language, angst, mentions of death/violence, loss of parents

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: Part two of Identity! Enjoy :)

21 Years Later

“What’s with this case again?” Dean asked his brother, who sat in the passenger seat of his beloved Impala.

“So, this couple was found in their home, burnt to a crisp. Nothing else was burned, just them. No signs of forced entry either,” Sam said, reading from his phone.

“You thinking the Thule?” Dean suggested. “Wouldn’t be the first time they deep fried someone.”

“Yeah, could be.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for most of the journey, occasionally engaging in some banterful conversation. The drive wasn’t too far from the bunker so they managed to make it in one trip. They arrived at the motel and both decided it too late to do any work, so they hit the hay.

The next morning, they woke up, got food, got dressed into their fed suits, and headed out to work the case.

“So who are we heading to see first?” Dean asked as he got in his car, Sam doing the same a few seconds after.

“Well, their daughter was the one who found them, so we could probably start with her,” Sam answered, adjusting his tie.

“Sounds good,” Dean said as he stuck his key in the ignition and brought his baby to life.

They pulled up to an apartment building a few minutes later. After finding the correct room number, they knocked and waited.

The door opened a crack and the face of a woman peaked out. “Hello?”

“Miss Saunders?” Sam asked and she nodded lightly. “Hi, I’m agent Goss, this is my partner agent Campbell.” They flashed her their badges and she sighed, knowing why they were here. “Do you mind if we ask you a few question about your parents?”

“Look, agents, I’ve already spoken to the police and the local newspapers–”

“We get that, but we need to conduct our own separate investigation,” Dean said. She sighed and nodded, opening the door to let them in, guiding them into the living room.

“We are very sorry for your loss, Miss Saunders,” Sam said as he and his brother took a seat on her couch.

She scoffed. “Ms. Saunders sounds too fancy. Please, call me Dani,” she requested. “And thanks.” Sam and Dean nodded.

 “Now,” Dean started, “did you notice your parents acting differently recently?”

“Different how?”

“Like, paranoid, anxious, thinking that someone was following them?” Sam explained, leaning forward in his seat.

“They were a little paranoid. Kept asking me to stay with them for a while,” she said shaking her head slightly.

“Did they say why?”

“They just kept saying how they wanted to spend some time with me, but I knew there was something they weren’t telling me,” she started. “I said okay. And when I went over to the house, that’s... that’s when I found them.”

“When you went in the house, did you smell any rotten eggs?” Dean asked and Dani frowned in confusion. “Just some routine questions.”

“If there was anything that smelled like rotten eggs, I couldn’t smell it over the burnt corpses of my parents,” she said, sounding almost sarcastic. Sam sent a sympathetic smile her way.

“One more question: were your parents religious?” Sam asked.

“No, they were atheist.”

“Okay. Well, thank you for your time,” Dean said as the two of them stood up. “Again, we’re very sorry for your loss.” Dani smiled as she opened the door for them.

Sam took a small business card out of his pocket and held it out for Dani. “Here’s our number if you remember anything else.” She nodded, took the card and shut the door once they had left.

“Man, what the hell is this case?” Dean asked, walking down the hallway back to his car, along side his brother.

“I don’t know,” Sam replied. 

“I mean, no hex-bags, sulphur, nothing,” Dean huffed, throwing his hands in the air.

They got some food at a local diner and headed back to the motel, both nearly having a heart attack when they saw Castiel sitting on one of the beds.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean said once his heart rate had lowered. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Danielle Saunders.” Was all he said and the brothers looked at each other.

“The girl who’s parents just got fried?” Sam asked. “What about her?”

“She is being hunted by angels and demons,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I know that she’s powerful.”

“She seemed like a regular grieving human being when we spoke to her,” Dean said, taking off his jacket and throwing it on the bed.

“It’s most likely that she doesn’t know of her capabilities,” Cas explained.

“Do you know of her capabilities?” Sam asked.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t even know what she is. But she needs to be protected.”

“Alright, but what are we gonna tell her? ‘Oh hey, our angel friend says that there are demons and other angels hunting you and that you’re not human’. Yeah, that should go down well,” Dean said sarcastically.

“We could just tell her that whatever killed her parents are after her too. Which isn’t a complete lie,” Sam retorted. Dean agreed after a while and him and Sam headed back to her place.

“Agents. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Danielle said once she found the two men knocking at her door yet again.

“We think that wha–uh, whoever killed your parents might be after you now, so we think it would be safer if you come with us,” Sam told her.

“What? Why–why would they be after me?”

“Uh, we don’t know. But we would be able to protect you if you stayed at the motel with us,” Dean spoke up. “In your own room, of course.”

“Uhm, okay... let me just go pack some stuff. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes,” she said, walking away to her bedroom, leaving Sam and Dean in her doorway. She emerged a few minutes later with a backpack of her belongings.

They got to the motel and ordered another room, right next to theirs. Dani went into her room and unpacked some of her things. 

She scoffed. “What is my life right now?” She muttered to herself. “My parents are dead and apparently whoever killed them, is now trying to kill me.”

A knock sounded at her door, pulling her from her thoughts. She opened the door to see Sam.

“Hey, uh, me and Dean are just heading out to get some food,” he said. “Our buddy Cas is in our room so if you see a guy in a trench coat, it’s just him,” he smiled.

“Okay.” She smiled back. “Thanks for everything you’re doing.”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “We’ll be back soon.” He left and she watched as the muscle car roared to life and drove off.

She sat on her bed and looked through some of the pictures on her phone. Pictures of her parents that brought tears to her eyes. It happened four days ago but she still hadn’t processed. Or let herself grieve. She knew that once she allowed herself to mourn, it would be hard for her to stop.

Another knock at her door once again brought her attention back to reality. She wiped a few stray tears from her cheeks and opened the door, a trenchcoated man standing there.

“You must be Cas,” she said with a smile, but didn’t allow him into her room just yet.

“Yes that’s me,” he said in a gruff voice. Dani stepped aside and let him in. She went back to unpacking, while Cas just stared at her.

“Can I help you?” She asked, jokingly, a smile tugging at one side of her mouth.

“What are you?” Cas asked, making Dani’s face drop. She looked up at him, blue eyes staring into her soul.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you’re not human, but... I’ve never seen anything like you before,” he said, tilting his head to the side.

Dani was silent for a moment, looking to the ground. “I... I don’t know what I am, but... this is probably gonna sound crazy, but, there’s something inside of me,” she said, looking up to him with what Cas could only describe as fear in her eyes. “There's this... force, or whatever. I can feel it. I’ve always felt it and I don’t know what it is... and that scares the shit out of me.” She looked back down to the ground, a rogue tear rolling down her cheek.

“It doesn’t sound crazy,” he said and she lifted her head to look at him. “Whatever you feel inside of you, we can help you. I assure you.”

“How? You’re just FBI, right?” She asked. Cas was about to answer when someone knocked at the door. Dani got up to check who it was when Cas told her that he would do it. He opened the door wider to let in Sam and Dean.

“Hey,” Dean greeted. “Food’s in our room if you’re hungry.” Danielle nodded and followed them out of the room and next door, Cas not far behind.

The four of them sat at the small motel table in Sam and Dean’s room, all tucking into food, except for Cas of course.

“So, Dani,” Dean started. “How old are you?”

She scoffed. “Twenty-eight... I think.”

“You think?” Sam asked, his interest piqued.

“Yeah, I don’t actually know how old I am exactly.” The three men furrowed their brows, asking her to continue. “Uh, around twenty years ago, a couple found me on the side of the road. Bloodied and beaten. I don’t remember anything before that; the first thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. People thought I looked around seven, so yeah... I think I’m twenty-eight.”

“What about your records?” Sam asked before taking a bite of his salad.

“There wasn’t any. No birth certificate. No DNA match. No family. Nada,” she said and sipped her drink casually

“So, you’re parents aren’t your birth parents?” Cas asked.

Dani shook her head. “No, they took me in a few months after the couple found me.”

“What about the couple?” Dean questioned, a mouth full of food, muffling his voice a bit.

“Wow this is a fun round of twenty-questions,” she mumbled to herself, chuckling a bit. “Um... I don’t know. Nobody does.”

“Do you know their names? Maybe I can find something,” Sam offered.

“Uh, David and Michelle? I don’t know their last names, but it was near Rochester, New York. June ‘93.”

“Great.” He pushed his food away, making space for his laptop. Dani and Dean continued eating while Sam put his research skills to use and Cas awkwardly sat, doing nothing.

Five minutes later, and Sam found something. “Okay, so, get this, they were in the Hampton Inn the day after they found you. Then...” He trailed off.

“You gonna keep us in suspense? Then what?” Dean asked.

“Then... everyone in the hotel was found dead,” he said. “All burned to a crisp.”

She ran a hand over her mouth, fighting back tears. She could feel the sympathetic eyes of the three men on her. 

Dani furrowed her brows, realisation hitting her. All of those people were dead because of her; people who raised her, people who helped her and people who didn’t even know her. All of them dead. And all of them her fault.

She stood up hastily, drawing all attention to her. “Where you going?” Dean asked.

“Just need some air,” she said quietly, moving to the door.

“I don’t think that’s safe. We still don’t know if–” Cas started before she interrupted him.

“I just need some air, okay? I’m only going outside,” she snapped, leaving the dingy room.

She leaned against the motel wall and bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily. It couldn’t be a coincidence that people died wherever she was.

After a few minutes, Dani pulled herself together and walked back to her room, deciding to head to bed. But sleep wouldn’t come that night. She heard someone come into her room and leave; presumably Sam, Dean or Cas, making sure she was okay.

At some point in the night, she heard someone else enter her room. But they didn’t leave, causing Dani to worry. She was listening to the intruder walk around, too scared to move, when she felt a hand grabbed her arm, making her squeal.

She struggled against the man who was a lot stronger than her. She kicked and screamed as well as she could, the man’s hand covering her mouth. Just then, another man came in, assisting with her kidnapping.

She felt a heat building up inside of her. It felt... dangerous. But not to her. A sense of familiarity came with it, but she can’t remember ever feeling it before. She closed her eyes, the heat moving to her outer body. The hold the men had on her dropped and she opened her eyes a few seconds after. 

She stumbled back at the sight of the two corpses; both burnt beyond recognition. Just like her parents.

“Dani?” She heard a voice ask, but it sounded distant. “What the hell happened?” Dean asked, but didn’t get an answer as she just stood there, trembling slightly and staring at the bodies.

Sam stepped forward, placing a cautious hand on her arm, breaking her out of her trance. “Danielle,” he said gently. “What happened?”

“I–I–I don’t–I don’t know,” she stuttered, not taking her eyes off of the men. “They just–they just came in here and–and they tried to take me. I felt this... I dunno. And... And I closed my eyes, and when I opened them...” 

The three men all furrowed their brows and shared confused glances with each other. Sam and Dean having a silent conversation as Cas walked over to her.

“I did this,” she whispered, barely audible.

“These men. Did you notice anything strange about them, or their eyes?” He asked.

“Uh, I couldn’t see their eyes. It was too dark,” she said slowly, still in shock of what happened. “But they were really strong. The first man lifted me up like I was nothing.”

He turned to the brothers. “Demons,” he said quietly, but not quiet enough for Dani to not hear.

“Are you serious? Fucking demons? Is this a joke?”

“You wanna give her the talk?” Dean said to Sam, making the younger Winchester roll his eyes. He walked to her and gestured for her to sit down on the bed.

“Okay, um, there’s no easy way to say this really...” he said, more to himself. “Those men weren’t men, they were demons. And... we’re not FBI.”

“Yeah, I figured,” she said sarcastically.

Sam chuckled awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. My name is Sam Winchester, that’s Dean, my brother. And demons aren’t the only monsters. There’s vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, and angels... like Cas.”

“Okay, okay,” she started laughing. “Werewolves, vampire and shifters? Maybe with some persuasion and alcohol, I might believe that. But angels and demons? Not a fucking chance.” She stood up.

Dean looked to Cas and gave him a quick nod. His eyes glowed an ethereal blue and the shadow of a pair of wings were projected on the wall behind him. Dani’s eyes widened and her face dropped. She stumbled back and braced herself on the table.

“Okay... I think that... I think that is sufficient proof,” she said slowly. 

“Really? That’s it?” Dean asked, surprised that it didn’t take that long to convince her. Most people would claim that they were crazy. Or go crazy themselves.

“Well, I mean, I just killed two men who are apparently demons by accidentally setting them on fire and you’re friend who you say is an angel just put on a light show with no lights on in the room, so, yeah, that’s it.”

“Wow, that was... easier than I expected,” Dean said and shrugged.

“Okay, well, you should try and get some rest,” Sam said before Dean and Cas followed him out of the room.

She laid back in bed and closed her eyes, her mind racing with thoughts, yet again replacing sleep. Thoughts about what lurked in the dark. Thoughts about what she was, about how she burnt two demons with a feeling. Why were these things happening to her? She was no one.

[justcallmehitgirl]

Where Is My Love (Peter Parker x Female Reader)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Female Reader

Summary: Peter Parker has been gone for five years. But the girl he left behind still had to grow up. One-shot. AU. Takes place right after Endgame so spoilers.

Word Count: 4100

Warnings: Angst + minor fluff + older female/younger male (no physical relationship)

A/N: Flashbacks are in italics.

“Where do you see yourself after high school?”

You’re laying down on your bed and you turn to look at your best friend who is laying down beside you. This was a regular routine for you both on a Wednesday night after you’ve finished your Chemistry homework. Just sitting and reflecting.

“I don’t know, let me get through high school first and then I’ll tell you,” you respond cheekily.

“I want to go to MIT,” Peter says wistfully.

You smile and stare back up at the ceiling. “You’ll go, I know you will.”

Peter turns his head and gives you a small smile. He reaches over to put his hand on top of yours.

“I know for sure that I see myself growing old with you.”

You feel your cheeks reden. Even though he was your best friend, you still couldn’t stop the butterflies from fluttering in your stomach.

“What if we move far away from each other for college?” you inquire.

“I’ll visit you.”

“What if you meet a girl?”

“You’re my best girl.”

“What if you’re busy?”

“I’ll never be too busy for you.”

“You say that now, but you’re already busy with your Stark Internship.” You bite your lip.

You feel his hand tighten around yours. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be,” he says lowly.

“You don’t have to be sorry, I know you’re doing great things. Just don’t forget about me, yeah?”

He gives you a wide grin. “Never.”

--

Five Years Later

“Hey Amy, have you seen my green sweater?” you ask your roommate as you pass through the kitchen in a hurry. You’re about to be late to your Women in Lit class and you can’t find your favorite sweater anywhere. It was hunter green with dark blue stripes. It reminded you of winter.

“I don’t know, have you checked the hamper?” she calls out from the living room.

You roll your eyes. Hello Captain Obvious.

“I did!” you shout from the bathroom. You put your long hair up in a messy bun and are about to brush your teeth when you hear a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” you hear Amy call out. You hear the door open and then low mumbling in the background as you brush your teeth. You’re finishing up when you hear, “Y/N, can you come out here.”

You furrow your eyebrows and rinse your toothbrush before putting it back in its holder. You take a look at yourself in the mirror and grimace. Whoever was at the door shouldn’t be subjected to seeing you like this. You quickly pull the elastic from your hair and shake your hair out. You then walk out of the bathroom and head towards the front door.

“I’m kind of in a hurry, Aims, what’s up...”

That’s when you see him. You stop dead in your tracks. Your mouth drops slightly and your eyes widen. You had heard that people had come back. Family and friends being reunited. You had imagined him returning, but it was different seeing him in front of you after all this time. He hadn’t aged a bit since you last saw him, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart drop. It was the universe’s sick joke. He still looked 15, and you had visibly aged now that you were 20.

“Peter?”

“Hi Y/N,” he greets.

It’s dead silence and you can see Amy from the corner of your eye step away from the scene. “Hey Y/N, I’m going to head to class so I’ll see you later… nice to meet you, Peter,” she mumbles.

Both you and Peter don’t even flinch as Amy quickly gathers her belongings and exits from the small apartment.

A few moments pass after the door closes shut. It’s just you two now. You don’t know what to say. You’ve thought about this moment for years, ever since he disappeared without a trace. You weren’t there when it happened. You just heard from his Aunt that he was gone. Your heart was broken for years. Your best friend and your first love was gone. Years of planning your future together had slipped away the moment he disintegrated from the universe.

He clears his throat. “You grew up.”

“You disappeared.”

His mouth tightens and he quickly looks down at his feet. “Yeah, I did.”

You slowly take a step closer to him. You wish for nothing more than to touch him and hold him close. You want to bury your face in his chest and let him stroke your hair. Despite him being five years younger than you, he’s still a head taller than you and you just want him to lean down and press his lips against yours. There is so much wanting in this moment yet you restrain yourself. He’s practically still a child.

“How… when?” You stammer.

“Two weeks ago.”

And yes, it all made sense. That’s when they all came back.

“I went to your apartment,” he continues, “your mom almost had a heart attack when she saw me. She looks good by the way… she uh… told me that you were going to school in Connecticut so took a train here to see you. I… I wanted to see if you remembered me.”

You look at him incredulously. “Of course I remember you,” you say, your voice just above a whisper.

He takes a couple steps closer to you until he’s right in front of you. You look up and his eyes lock with yours. He hesitantly wraps his arms around you. You freeze in his embrace. No matter how many times you wished for this moment, you can’t help but feel your chest tighten. He was real, and he was here.

“This feels nice,” he says softly into your ear. You melt at his words and feel your body relax. You slowly wrap your arms around him and for a moment, everything seems okay.

--

“I failed,” you groan, as your head rests on the outside of your locker. You feel a hand soothingly rub your shoulder.

“Hey, don’t say that. I bet you did great.”

You sigh and look up. Peter was ever the optimist.

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re a genius.”

He chuckles, leaning against the locker next to yours. “Genius is quite the compliment.”

You lift your head from your locker. “You know it’s true.”

“And I know that you probably aced the exam. C’mon, you studied for weeks! Ten times more than me and Ned did.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and gives you a squeeze.

“Believe in yourself, Y/N. Life may surprise you.”

You smile, as he drops his arm and lets you go. He always knew what to say to make you feel better.

“Want to come over tonight for dinner? Mom’s making spaghetti, your favoriteeee,” you singsong.

His expression immediately changes as he furrows his brows. “Umm… I… I can’t tonight actually. I got this thing with the Stark Internship and I can’t get out of it.”

Your face falls slightly. “Oh… okay.”

“Next time for sure though!”

That’s what he said last time.

You give him a forced smile and nod in understanding. He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. He looks down at his watch.

“Oh shit, I gotta run… but I’ll see you later, Y/N!” he says as he scurries down the hallway, disappearing from sight.

--

You’re both sitting down at your small kitchen table. There’s not much space between you two, as the table is no longer than a couple feet wide. A mug of hot tea sits in front of you. Your Women in Lit class is long forgotten. You never missed a class before anyways. Peter quickly glances between his glass of water and you. After your embrace, you awkwardly showed him around your apartment and then settled on planting yourselves in the kitchen. Another bought of silence fills the room.

“What grade are you in now?” he asks, breaking the dead air.

“I’m a sophomore in college,” you respond before taking a sip of your tea.

“What do… what are you majoring in?”

“English Literature… I’m studying to be a teacher.”

He gives you a knowing smile.

“What happened to becoming a doctor like your parents wanted?”

“Decided life was too short to not follow your heart.”

He nods. “Did…,” he hesitates, “Did any of your family… disappear?”

You take another sip of your tea and shake your head. “No… we were one of the lucky ones.”

“Yeah, I was glad that Aunt May hadn’t… went away. But I’m sad she worried about me for all those years.”

“Do you remember anything during that time that you were gone?”

“No,” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, “I honestly just remember fading away and then just reappearing. It’s like time didn’t stop.”

You stroke the side of your mug with your thumb, the heat emanating through the ceramic. It feels warm, comforting. You close your eyes for a moment and picture what he must’ve felt. The feeling of turning into nothingness. You had seen people disappear with your own two eyes. The shock and pain you felt would haunt you for the rest of your life. You remember reaching out and trying to grasp at them and instead, they were dust in your fingertips. You shudder at the thought.

You reopen your eyes and see Peter looking at you intently. He reaches over and takes your hand into his.

“What happened while I was gone?”

It’s a loaded question. ‘Who are you now?’ is the question you know he’s trying to ask. Different snapshots of the last five years fill your mind.

“Where do I begin?”

--

You’re lazily reading your World History textbook and eating your lunch when you notice a shadow cast over you. You look up and sigh heavily before grumbling, “What do you want?”

Peter takes a seat next to you. You scoot over to put some distance between you and him.

“I came to apologize… I know I’ve been acting weird lately.”

“Weird? You’ve been nonexistent for the past month.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I know I’ve been a total jerk. Things with the Stark Internship got crazy, but I’ve straightened out my priorities.”

“Yeah, your priorities with Liz?” You scowl, stabbing a piece of lettuce with your fork. The memory of Peter ditching you and your friends to go to Homecoming with the pretty senior only to disappear for the rest of the night flashes in your mind.

“There’s nothing between me and Liz.”

“That’s hard to imagine,” you mutter, taking another bite of your salad.

“Please look me at, Y/N.”

You reluctantly put your fork down and turn your body to face Peter. His eyes are pleading with you and you can’t help but soften a bit.

“I’m truly sorry for how I’ve been acting lately. I’ll be better.”

You sigh again, but this time in defeat. It was hard staying mad at your best friend. “You don’t have to be better, Pete. You just have to be you.”

You take his hand into your yours and squeeze it gently.

“Are we good?” he asks, eyes staring into yours.

You nod and give him a small smile. “Yeah, we’re good.”

--

“And how was graduation?”

“Oh you would’ve hated it!” You lean back in your chair and continue, “it was super depressing. I think that after half the class disappeared, going to school just… wasn’t the same. It was just a reminder of all the things we had lost.”

“That must’ve been hard… seeing us disappear and then having to continue doing stuff.”

You look at him thoughtfully. “It was… but it got better eventually. It hurt less and less everyday. I made new friends, I went to therapy… life kept going and I began to move on.”

You see the pain in his eyes after the words come out of your mouth. Moving on? What did that even mean? It just meant that you weren’t going to dwell on the ‘what ifs’ anymore. You spent the year after he disappeared ridden with guilt and heartbreak. You wished you had disappeared too. You lost your only friends and you subsequently lost a piece of yourself. Your parents watched you become a hollow shell of who you once were. It was a time in your life that you want to forget. But it made you the person you are today, and you’re stronger because of it.

Peter blinks and the look in his eyes are gone. Instead he’s smiling haphazardly, trying to regain some composure. “What’s college like?” he asks, words laced with fake cheerfulness.

You force a smile.

“College is great, Pete. You have so much freedom and you’re learning things that you actually want to learn. Right now, I’m focusing on Renaissance Literature and Jane Austen. It’s amazing. You’ll really love it.”

He smiles genuinely and takes a sip of his water. He licks his lips and takes a deep breath. “Do you… uh… do you have a boyfriend?” he stutters, looking down at the table.

You tilt your head and look at him as he tries to avoid eye contact with you. You knew this question would come up eventually.

“I did… we… we broke up six months ago.”

He looks up at you. “What happened?”

“He just decided that things weren’t working out,” you say with a shrug.

“How long were you together?”

“About two years… we met during my senior year.”

“Did I know him?”

“No, he was a freshman in college when we started dating. We met at a college recruiting event.”

“Did you… did you love him?”

You nod your head slowly. “Yes… yes I did.”

“More than you loved me?” He looks at you in anticipation.

You breathe in deeply. “I could never.”

--

“My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!” Peter says along with the movie.

“Has to be one of the best lines in cinema,” you say, reaching into the bowl of popcorn in Peter’s lap.

You both are sitting on Peter’s bed watching The Princess Bride, one of your regulars.

“Second only to ‘Luke, I am your father,’” Peter says, voice deep, mimicking Darth Vader.

You laugh and lean your head on Peter’s shoulder. He instinctively leans into you. You are silent as you continue watching the movie. A few minutes pass before Peter starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“Hey Y/N?” he interrupts.

“Yeah?”

“We’ve been friends for a long time...”

“Since elementary school.”

“You know me better than anyone… even better than Ned.”

“I would hope so.”

“So you know I’m not the best with talking about my feelings… especially after Uncle Ben died… but I…”

He pauses and you patiently wait for him to continue.

“I…,” he stutters, “I love you.”

“Okay… I love you too,” you say nonchalantly. Of course you loved your best friend.

“No… I mean, while I do love you as a friend… I meant… I’m… I’m in love with you…”

You lift your head from his shoulder and look at him square in the face. You see him gulp and he moves the bowl of popcorn to the floor.

“What?”

A look of relief washes over Peter’s face. It’s like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. “I’m in love you, Y/N. I think I have been for a while. And I know, I know I’m only 15 and I don’t exactly know what it means to be in love, but there’s no other way to describe the way I feel about you.”

“When did this happen?” you ask, reaching out to stroke his arm gently.

“It just did. I feel like everyday could be my last… I mean, I could get hit by a schoolbus or get struck by lightning, and… and I don’t want to pass up the opportunity to tell my best friend that I’m in love with her.”

You look down at his bedsheets. It’s Star Wars themed with a pattern of lightsabers and planets. You remember when he got these sheets. You’re too young to know what love is, but you also know that you’re bound to Peter in ways that you can’t even describe yourself.

You don’t say anything. You just slowly reach out and wrap your arms around him. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, and he tentatively pulls you in closer. You don’t move, you both just hold each other, taking the moment in. A boy has never told you he was in love you before. You can’t help but feel content and elated. Maybe this is what love is.

You pull your face away from him and stare into his brown eyes.

“You don’t have to say it back…” he starts.

“I love you too, Pete,” you blurt, your face inches from his.

“Really?” He chokes out. You smile shyly and nod. Yes, you were in love with Peter Parker, the boy who’s battled bullies for you, cried with you, and has always been there for you.

His eyes dart between your eyes and your lips. “Can I… can I kiss you?” He asks nervously.

You smile even wider. “Okay,” you respond. You just stare at his lips for a moment. This is your first kiss. ‘Would you be bad at it?’ you think to yourself. You hesitantly lean in and gently brush your lips against his. It’s soft at first as he envelopes you deeper in his embrace.

You continue pressing your lips against his. He’s so warm and lips are soft. You become bolder by opening your mouth. You tentatively begin massaging your tongues together as you run your hands through his hair.

He moans and you reluctantly break away. You press your foreheads together as you pant heavily.

“Wow,” he breathes.

“Ditto.”

He smiles and nuzzles his nose against yours. You smile against his lips and stroke the back of his neck. Your lips are just barely touching and you’re breathing each other's air. You’ve never felt this close to someone before, and you never want this feeling to end.

--

“Your hair has gotten longer,” he comments. You look up from your mug of tea.

He tentatively reaches his hand over the table to brush a piece of your hair away from your face. His hand lingers a bit and you reluctantly pull away. He retreats his hand quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, as he runs a hand through his hair.

“We can’t,” you whisper, your heart twisting in your chest. You’re aching for him to get close to you again. But you know it’s wrong. He’s so young, and you’ve grown so much. You’ve gotten so much older than him in these last five years. You graduated high school, you started college, you fell in love and you fell out of love, and you lost your virginity to someone who wasn’t him.

“I know,” he nods sadly in understanding.

“What’s it like to be back?”

He bites his lip in thought. “It feels weird… but I’m readjusting. I’m back at school and just trying to keep moving forward.”

“Did… did Ned come back?”

You remember your other friend, your only other friend.

“He did… he’s doing well. A little shaken up, but he’s coping. Trying to catch up on all the movies we’ve missed,” he laughs softly. “We’re in the same classes too. Feels like how it used to be.”

You look down sadly. You feel so left out. Apart of you wishes you could go back so you could trade notes with Peter in between periods, whine about Calculus together, and dissect what the mystery meat was in the cafeteria. But you quickly scold yourself. You went to high school already. You didn’t disappear. They had five years stolen from them. They were stuck in time only to reappear and try to live a life that didn’t wait for them.

--

You’re sitting on a school bus with your head leaning on Peter’s shoulder as he quietly plays with his phone. You lean in closer and place a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Wake me up when we get there.”

He looks at you and nods before kissing your forehead. “Love you,” he says softly, and you smile a bit before your heavy eyelids close. You don’t say it back. You don’t know why but you tell yourself that you’ll tell him later.

You doze off for a few moments. In the background you think you hear Peter say, “Ned, hey. I need you to cause a distraction.”

You then wake up abruptly to the sound of Ned screaming, “Holy shit! We're all gonna die! There's a spaceship!”

You look around and see the rest of your peers scramble to the windows in the back to see what the commotion is. You feel Peter slip away from you. You turn back around and notice he is gone. You frantically look for him.

“Peter?” you shout, your voice drowned out by the shouts and hollers of the other students. “Peter!”

You notice his phone still laying on the seat beside you. You take it and clutch it close as you continue to look around the bus for him, but you know that he’s already gone.

--

“I’m sorry for dropping in on you like this, I just had to see you,” he says as you two walk towards the front door. It’s getting late and Peter needs to catch the train back to New York.

“Don’t be sorry at all… I’m glad you came,” you touch his arm gently.

He gives you a small smile.

“So what’s next for you now, Peter Parker?”

“Finish high school,” he chuckles.

Silence fills the air again. “I’m sorry for disappearing.”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry I disappeared… on the bus.”

You nod gently and bite your lip in thought. “Where did you go?”

“To save the world,” he says with a smile.

You squint your eyes at him in curiosity and then you laugh softly. “Alright, Parker.”

“So… can, can I visit you again?” He stammers.

“Yes… I’d like that,” you respond, even though you know he won’t. He’ll get caught up in homework, parties, applying for college, and... girls. And you secretly hope that he does. You want him to be happy, even if it’s not with you.

“Do you think that… maybe one day…”

“Who knows what the future holds,” you interrupt, “when you’re 20, I’ll be 25… doesn’t sound that bad, right?”

He nods and rubs the back of his neck.

“But for now,” you continue, “live your life, Pete. Enjoy being 15 and if you still feel the same way when you’re older, I’ll be here.”

“What if you don’t feel the same way?”

You sigh. “I never stopped, Pete.”

It sounds like a promise.

He takes a step toward you and cups your face in his hands. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my best girl.”

You give him a small smile, as your eyes slightly water. You think about him falling in love with someone else. You think about him going to prom, graduating high school, and starting college. You think about all the firsts that he’ll experience without you and all the things that he’ll do that you won’t do together. That time has past for you, and now it’s time for him to live his life and grow up… without you.

“Get home safe, okay?” you say, breaking the moment. “Tell May I said hello.”

He removes his hands from your face. “I will.”

You walk over to the front door and open it. He walks towards the doorway and lingers for a moment as he walks past you. You lean your head against the doorframe as you watch him walk away. He’s halfway down the hall when you remember something. That feeling of regret that had weighed you down for five years. You yell, “Peter!”

He turns around and gives you a curious look.

“I’m sorry…,” you start, “I’m sorry for not saying it back… on the bus that day.”

You don’t know if you needed to say it for him or for yourself. He looks confused for a moment before realization hits him. He gives you a crooked smile. “You never had to say it… I always knew.”

You nod and smile. He gives you a final wave before he continues down the hallway and you watch him until he disappears from sight.