#under a read more because i am a benevolent man

[prismatoxic]

for anyone who is not into metal gear, who is wondering how the fuck my queer military-hating ass got into what appears to be a military shooter series, allow me to explain:

the story of the games (i am mostly talking about mgs but the original 2 metal gears are probably the same) are very anti-military down the road, as in, "i trust and believe in the military, i am a good soldier, Oh No They Have Betrayed Me because the military is corrupt, i am now my own man fighting for my own beliefs"

on top of that, they take themselves seriously only about 50% of the time (mostly 2 and 3, but 1 and 4 have their moments and even 5 is occasionally a little cheeky). these games are very silly, and they know they are very silly. they also know how to deliver an emotional gut-punch that will leave you writhing on the floor. (looking at you mgs3, and side-eyeing you mgs4)

the plot may sound convoluted from the outside, and... well, it is, but probably less than kingdom hearts is. or maybe about the same. if you can handle kingdom hearts you can handle metal gear. either way, the 45-minute cutscenes are not just filler, they do genuinely try and explain everything. i'd say 4 is the most batshit, story-wise, but it also ties a ribbon on the story of the entire solid saga, so it's worth seeing if you like the other 3. (you are then free to disregard or fix as much as you want in fanwork, natch.)

the game does geek out over guns and mechs, i'm not going to lie. however it does not ask you to do the same. there is no mechanic wherein you must know the exact specifications of a gun to win the game. the game also uses a lot of military jargon, and also makes a bunch of shit up. however i personally found that context clues explained most things. suspension of disbelief is also wildly important.

the characters are good. that's it, that's the point of this paragraph. the characters are very good. they are over-the-top a lot of the time and the dialogue is often very hokey and the voice acting is sometimes particularly hammy, and i hear everyone but david hayter phoned it in for the gamecube remake of the first game, but it all spells out a cohesive cast of bozos whom i love.

are there issues? yes. david hayter was shitcanned for mgs5 and all surrounding materials because hideo kojima wanted a bigger name in his lead role, despite david hayter having voiced (almost) every snake in every english voiced game up until that point. (kojima claimed it was to make the game more serious, but the japanese voice actor did not change at all despite being equally hammy, and otacon's eng VA voices otacon's father in mgs5, so. make of that what you will.)

the series also does not treat women well. it tries to, sometimes, but it will still sexualize them in ways that feel demeaning, often detracting from the weight of whatever story they are trying to tell.

the aforementioned 45-minute cutscenes are also... kind of an issue. (they get longer, too, especially in 4.) like, some of us have things to do, kojima.

and of course, konami booted kojima from their company sometime during 5's production; say what you will about the man, but metal gear was his baby. (personally i'd have preferred they stop at 4 anyway, and kojima had tried to quit the series several times, but wiping his credits from 5's box and continuing to make the series without him feels scummy.)

there are other issues, things i've forgotten or didn't see fit to discuss at length, but at the end of the day none of this sours the series for me. (well, maybe everything post 4, but. not the rest of them.) i enjoy the story and characters and settings a lot, and... well, i watched my partner play them, so idk about the gameplay. but i was very enraptured watching, and have already written one fic and am working on another. (both otasune.) i will draw some things when i get my art mojo back, too.

so... i hope that explains it. i mean, i can see why it might appear to come out of left field from a storied fan of persona, but really, it's not that much of a stretch. i have a lot of reasons to be here.

...did i mention the overt homoeroticism? that's. that's there too.

#mgs #tox.txt #under a read more because i am a benevolent man

[aziraphales-library]

Hi!! Do you have any good streamer AU recs? I'm a sucker for a good streamer AU. Preferably one where Crowley and Beelzebub are friends. Thank you!!

We have youtuber fics here on our #social media tag, so check those out. Here are a few more...

Of Love and Loss (RIP Ms Beakman) by lucky_spike (T)

Crowley is a little bored now that he is no longer on Hell's payroll. He finds something else to do. Aziraphale is supportive.

My Love to Keep Me Warm by slateblueflowers (T)

The January after the apocalypse doesn't happen, Aziraphale and Crowley get a little restless and decide to challenge each other to a contest: who can take the other on the best human (winter-time) date? To the victor go the bragging rights! Watch the dates on Aziraphale's YouTube channel. Who do you think wins? ------ Date #1: An Old Favourite. Channel: Aziraphale Fell’s YouTube Channel. Views: 8 • January 3 Likes: 7 Dislikes: 1 Share | Save | Report [A man withdraws hands from the camera lens and crouches over, revealing a shock of unruly blond hair, a gleeful smile, and rosy cheeks. He steps back and turns to face a man leaning insouciantly against a kitchen countertop.]

i am just the (new invention) by littlesnowpea (T)

A list of hobbies Crowley has picked up over the past 6000 years: -gardening -cooking -fashion -pining for Aziraphale -making YouTube videos A list of hobbies Aziraphale has picked up over the past 6000 years: -reading -book restoration -music -pining for Crowley -commenting on Crowley’s YouTube videos When Aziraphale starts giving Crowley flowers, Crowley takes to his YouTube channel to discuss the meaning behind it, where Aziraphale comments encouragement to confess his feelings – under an alias, of course. There is absolutely no way any of this could ever go wrong.

The Tenant by MarisFerasi (E)

They Were Roommates Human AU Trope set during Lockdown 2020: Crowley got kicked out by an ex a few months ago and has couch surfed his last wave of his few friends' benevolence. He finds a listing for a bedsit in Soho and goes to check out the place, and finds the fussy little angel of a landlord quite charming indeed. He moves in and they quickly become friends, but both desire more and pining ensues. The real issues begin when Crowley loses his main job during major cutbacks because of the pandemic, and has to rely on his side hustle of online sex work to pay the rent, and Zira finds out. What will happen? Will the two part ways? Will Zira ask Crowley to leave when he finds out his "dirty little secret"?

Changing of the Seasons by AppleSeeds (T)

Confined to his bookshop, Aziraphale joins a virtual training session about urban foraging led by botanist and natural wellbeing practitioner Anthony Crowley, and feels some relief from his anxiety for the first time since lockdown began. After that, he watches every video Crowley has posted online, but will he ever get up the courage to actually interact with him? After all, Crowley keeps giving him opportunities to do so... Perhaps once the lockdown is over, some one-to-one nature-based relaxation therapy might be just what Aziraphale needs?

Talk about the weather by nightbloomingcereus (M)

Television meteorologist Aziraphale Fell and Youtube storm chaser A. J. Crowley have nothing in common aside from a purely professional interest in the weather and a mutually beneficial arrangement to lend a hand when needed. So what if they bicker and flirt more than your typical professional acquaintances, or if their arrangement inevitably veers into more personal territory? It's not as if they're in love or anything. Absolutely not.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #social media #youtuber au #mod d

[david-talks-sw]

Lucas & Coppola: the inspiration for Obi-Wan and Anakin's relationship.

So I was going through this old article of The New Yorker and came across this quote:

"Just as a benevolent father figure (Obi-Wan) helps Luke in his struggle against his dark father, the older Coppola took young George under his wing at film school, and helped him get his first feature film made." - John Seabrook, The New Yorker, 1997

Now, it's known that Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas were close friends, but after looking further into it, there's some interesting parallels to be made:

Coppola started out as a mentor figure, taking Lucas on as a protégé.

He helped George get THX-1138 and American Graffiti off the ground. Lucas filmed second unit shots for The Godfather and assisted in the editing, developed the script for Apocalypse Now with John Milius.

Overtime, their relationship had blossomed into a more brotherly one, with them becoming "equals".

"[Our relationship is] sort of "mentor-mentee". I mean, he's taught me everything. He's five years older than I am but, you know, when you're 20 and 25 years old, that's a big gap. And so, he's always been my mentor and helped me get through everything. You know, we've know each other for, you know, what? Over 35 years now. And so, the relationship is more brotherly than it probably is mentor-mentee at this point. It's more older brother-younger brother kind of thing. [...] We pretty much are equal in terms of what we know about what we're doing."

Sound familiar?

Wait 'til you hear about the dynamics of their friendship:

"Francis and I, we were very good friends right from the moment we met. Uh, we’re very different."

"Francis is very flamboyant and very Italian and very, sort of, “go out there and do things!”"

"I'm very, sort of, “let's think about this first, let's not just jump into it.” Um, and so he used to call me the “85-year-old man.”"

"But together, we were great. Because, y’know, I would kinda be the weight around his neck that slowed him down a little bit to keep him from getting his head chopped off. "

"And, uh, on— aesthetically and everything, we sort of had very compatible sensibilities in terms of that. I was strong in one area, he was strong in another, and so we could really bounce ideas off of each other. But we were very much the opposite, in the way we operated and the way we did things... and that, I think, allowed us to have a very active relationship."

A mentor-mentee relationship that turned into a brotherly one.

Two men with opposite personalities - one more outgoing, the other more cautious - that complemented each other's beautifully.

Yin and Yang.

Just like Obi-Wan with Anakin (or Obi-Wan with Qui-Gon, if we wanna talk about the mentee needing to slow the mentor down a bit so he doesn't get into trouble).

So I dunno if there's more to it, but when I read all this... I read one more reason (in addition to the others) for why the "Anakin and Obi-Wan weren't compatible enough, Qui-Gon should've been the Master because they had more in common" interpretation doesn't track.

Like, if that's your opinion/theory, cool.

But there is no way you'll convince me that the author - who had almost that exact bond with Coppola - would then go and intentionally write Obi-Wan and Anakin's bond as lacking and "a failing for Anakin".

Edit:

Just found this quote and I figured I'd add 'em :D

"[After the Warner Bros scholarship] I had a choice between going back to graduate school or going off on this little adventure, and I decided to go off on the adventure with Francis."

Edit #2:

Said Stephen Spielberg in the George Lucas 2016 biography "A Life":

“I think Francis always looked at George as sort of his upstart assistant who had an opinion. An assistant with an opinion, nothing more dangerous than that, right?”

A description reminiscent of both the Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan dynamic but also... kinda the Obi-Wan/Anakin one.

#bts tidbits #francis ford coppola #george lucas #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #star wars #collection of quotes #obi wan and anakin #I'd also argue Lucas and Coppola's relationship was a basis for Han and Luke's relationship too...

[peterfankoffski]

Lautski Week Day 5 (Alt prompt: Fairy Tale)

(warning: i am sucker for fairy tales, so this one is LONG. putting most of it under a read more, OR if you'd rather read it on AO3, here it is)

Pete really had to have had the worst luck in the world, the more he thought about it. Being the spare in heir and spare, though his birth hadn’t exactly been planned in the first place, and being such a sickly little thing he’d nearly killed his poor mother trying to arrive. Then to carry that same ailment for the rest of his life, a dizziness he could never quite name if he ever found himself too overwhelmed or overworked, and could only hope to cure with a little rest and food if there was any available. Spending his whole life knowing he could get away with anything since his elder brother was the heir, being grateful he was out of the court’s watchful eye and hurting over lack of conversation with his parents nonetheless, feeling isolated from the castle staff and having no one his own age to ever talk to, being so on the outside from the rest of the world he’d wish he could flat-out be invisible instead. It’s not like things would be any different. But then he just had to go and offend the wrong person, during one of his daily walks in the courtyard, when he bumped into an odd man in a yellow coat. He briefly assumed the man to be a gardener, but as he tried to at least know the names of all the people employed at the castle, it irked Pete that he didn’t recognize this man specifically. Pete asked him, “who are you?” and in response, the man laughed, “a bastard!”

All at once, Pete felt a rush of energy flow through him. He looked down. His sleeves were there. The cuffs were there. His hands were not.

“Got your wish, haven’t you, Petey?”

Pete began to apologize to the man, the warlock or demon or whatever else he could have been, if he caused any harm walking into him or speaking so curtly, but he refused to listen to a word of it.

The rules were laid out to him simply: the young prince was now invisible, doomed to roam the world faceless for the rest of his days unless someone loved him above all else for his heart and mind alone.

And there he was, five months later, still wandering. 

He’d slipped away from the castle that night, assuming no one would notice, though by now, rumors of the missing prince’s whereabouts were engulfing the people of the kingdom, some even claiming that the crown prince himself would pay a hefty sum to anyone who could deliver the safe return of his younger brother.

Perhaps if he’d stayed home and told his pitiful story to his family, they would have hosted a matchmaking ball just for him, inviting all the young noble ladies of the land for a chance to meet the prince and win his heart. It wouldn’t have worked, of course. He would need to be the one winning someone’s heart, and the game of love was never something he excelled in—seemingly another curse, a family one. And when people did see him now, they always screamed and ran in fear upon seeing his faceless and undefined form, convinced he was a specter, or in extreme cases, a demon. On two separate occasions, a priest would be dragged back to where he’d tried to take camp, and the party would attempt to exorcize him. By sheer stroke of luck did he come across a cloak abandoned in a tailor’s scraps, and thanking whatever benevolent force was out there, took the coak and made it his new shield from humiliation and window into the world.

Often, he found himself drawn to the marketplace nearest wherever in the woods he’d chosen to make home. He used to simply buy what he needed, but after enough time, funds were low, and he drew enough attention to himself when he had gold coins on him before. Now though, he’d trade or barter, plants he found in the woods and sticks for kindling in turn for fresh food and water. And because no one ever saw his face, nor questioned the hood of his cloak, he was never given much more than a second glance. Some merchants had taken an appreciation—dare he assume fondness—for the quiet boy who emerge from the woods once a week, knew just enough about medicinal and edible plants to barter for his needs, and disappeared again just as soon. He wasn’t quite invisible to them. But he was nameless, which was in many ways, the same thing. 

One day, a girl he’d done business for a few times but never truly talked to spoke up to him. 

“What’s with the hood, anyway? It’s not that cool out.”

From what he’d picked up, this girl was very wealthy, given the hundreds of dollars worth of goods in her little corner. More often than not, a man that resembled her or a red-headed woman took the reins, leading him to believe she was from a rich merchant family, or a noblewoman whose family was somewhere in the middle of the ranks. 

“It’s to hide myself,” he finally eventually answered. He extended his gathering of wild mint to her. “I have the usual request from here. Your father said next time I came with some I could trade for some of your chocolates.”

He didn’t think it was a very fair trade. Before, he could access those soft, sweet treats whenever he wanted. They were even one of the few things that could ease him quickly when his mysterious illness struck. Surviving on his own with dwindling funds taught him how expensive it was to the common man. And he knew enough about bartering now he didn’t think he could ever pay enough, physically or in gratitude. 

The girl took the fresh herbs and gave him a whole handful of the candy. “I put him up to that, actually,” she said. “You’re one of our best customers when it comes to sweet things.”

“My tooth for a bit of sugar can never quite be satisfied,” he admitted, “and they’re one of the few things that can help me get past my ailments when I’m dizzy.”

“I see,” she said. “But let’s go back to the original topic. Why do you hide your face?”

“People always scream when they see me.”

“Surely you’re not so frightening under there.”

Pete shook his head. “If I saw someone else like me I’d take quite the fright, too.”

“And that is because…”

Pete stayed silent for a moment. “It’s hard to explain. And impossible to believe.”

“Mysterious. I like it.”

If Pete had a visible face, he’d be blushing. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve been coming by this market for the past two months and I’ve neglected to learn your name.”

“Stephanie,” she said. “Now you have to repay me the favor.”

“Peter,” he said. “My name is Peter.”

“Well, Peter, enjoy your chocolates. Though I hope you don’t have to eat them all next time you’re sick.”

“I hope the same thing for myself,” he said. And with that, he was off and onto the next errand. 

The next week, Stephanie was at the booth again. She flagged him down. 

“I have nothing to trade to you today,” Pete started. 

“I hoped you’d give me a chance to just talk, learn a little more about the mysterious boy who shows up and disappears like clockwork,” she said. 

“There’s not much to me,” he said. “I left home to see if my luck would change, that’s all.”

“And?”

“And it hasn’t.”

Stephanie nodded, smiling a sad and sympathetic smile. “At least that means you get to be a little closer to here. You’re quite welcome around town.”

“I have my own shelter set up in the woods.”

“Well, would you ever consider one cooked dinner in a warm house?” she asked. “Just one night away from there?”

“I can’t risk it,” Pete said. “Wild animals or bandits could get to my resources. And I’d still rather not reveal myself.”

“I’m sure with a gentle demeanor like yours, no appearance could be as bad as you think it is.”

Pete thought for a second. Stephanie did not come across as scared of anything, though he still couldn’t guarantee that she would be still if she did see him. 

That headstrong nature and generosity seemed to win him over, though. 

“…do you really wish to see what’s underneath this hood?” he asked. 

“Yes.”

“Then meet me at the edge of the woods, tonight.”

He waited. And just as the sun finally sank beneath the horizon, she appeared to him, lantern lit. 

“I understand if you scream or run away,” he warned her, “But please don’t bring an exorcist or angry mob to me. I’ve made my new home here.”

“I don’t understand,” Stephanie told him. 

Pete only sighed, pulling down his hood. Stephanie stared. 

She did not scream. She did not run. She seemed not to react at all. 

“How did this happen to you?” she asked after what could have been mere moments but to the young prince seemed an excruciating lifetime. 

“…cursed by upsetting the wrong man,” he said. “It can only be broken if someone loves me for my heart and mind. I know that will never happen, so I’ve made my peace wandering the world this way.”

Stephanie drew closer, outreaching her arm. “Give me your hands,” she instructed. Pete, with some effort, trying to remember where each finger was, eventually interlocked his own hands in hers. She smiled. 

“You are not a monster, no matter what you think of yourself,” she said. “You’re a gentle and intelligent boy. And my favorite customer.”

“You’re my favorite merchant,” he said. 

Stephanie blushed and grinned. 

She came back to him every afternoon he did not come into town. They’d talk for hours on end as she helped him gather supplies and they would talk about whatever came to mind. About science, and the market, and home. About how he missed his and she resented hers. 

On one of the days, they talked about love, how Peter was sure that if it existed, it was not his destiny. 

“My parents were betrothed at a young age. They never got the chance to choose what they wanted themselves. My brother is a hopeless romantic, convinced he must be Romeo Montague himself, but can never find himself a beloved. Surely it must be in my blood. My fate, even.”

“Perhaps you could be the one to break fate itself,” Stephanie said. “You’ve got your own charm. I think you could do it.”

Pete shrugged. “I’ve accepted my fate. I just feel fortunate I have you as company.”

“It’s my greatest honor, Peter.”

Some more weeks later, on the summer solstice, she snuck out just to be with him at his camp as the stars glowed above. 

“I even brought you a special gift,” she told him. 

She held out a large bar of chocolate to him. He took it gratefully. 

“Thank you,” he said, and instantly, he broke it in half, handing one of the pieces back to her. 

She shook her head. “Peter, I could never—”

“I insist,” he cut in. “That’s all I’d like to do. Share with my most cherished friend.”

She took the other half, smiling fondly as she did. “Most cherished?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re in agreement, then,” she said. “You’re not so bad, yourself.”

He sat. She slid down next to him. Staring up at the stars above them, the company of their respective cherished one was all they needed on that sweet, warm summer night. 

Pete couldn’t stop himself at one point, when he noticed a particularly bright star in the sky. He gently took her hand to gesture to her what he would have pointed out. “That one’s called Vega,” he said. “It’s one of the brightest named stars in our sky.” 

“Really?” she said, seemingly mildly impressed by his sudden show of knowledge. 

“Mm-hm.” He moved her hand carefully to point out its surrounding stars. “And all of these make up Lyra. The myth goes that the sun god Apollo gave his son, Orpheus, a lyre because he was one of the most talented musicians in Greece. When Orpheus lost his wife, his music alone was enough to convince Hades to go into the underworld and free her.”

“And did he?”

“No,” Pete said. “He looked back before she was in the light and so Eurydice had to return to the darkness.”

Stephanie sighed. “What an awful story.”

“It’s a beautiful one.”

“It’s tragic.”

“That’s what makes it so special, I think. A man, so in love with his wife, that he would literally walk into hell for her, and so desperate to hold her again he turned even if he could see her but for just one moment.”

“I’d rather see a happy ending for young lovers,” Stephanie said. She glanced over at him. “You know a lot about that kind of thing.”

“It was part of my education.”

“Only the especially wealthy think to teach that.”

“Yes.”

A long beat held the two quiet for for a long time. Stephanie spoke up again first. “You’re the missing prince.”

Pete knew he couldn’t really deny it. “I’m the missing prince,” he echoed. 

“…y’know, your curse might have done one good thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We didn’t have to worry about titles. We get to be ourselves around each other.”

He wouldn’t deny that, either. 

Deep into the night, when the only other creatures still stirring were the fireflies, she bestowed him another gift: a simple kiss. A token between two new young lovers, only desperate to not face the same tragedy as so many others. As sleep conquered him, Pete half-sensed the most wonderful rush coursing through his body. Though of course, that could have been just a dream, or pure elation to be there with Stephanie. 

He woke early in the morning, just as the sun only began to rise, like he’d done his whole life. 

Stephanie had made her own camp, sleeping just three feet away from him. She really could have gone home. He still appreciated that even in rest, they were able to keep each other company. 

So he rose, preparing for his daily routine, foraging for plants for both himself and the marketplace, and reaching out for his satchel, a change had become obvious. There was no empty space or missing pieces, but instead, his form had a definitive end. His hands. 

His cry of shock and elation jostled Stephanie awake, already prepping to look for him. 

“Peter?! Peter are you—” She looked up then, seeing the smiling, if not somewhat awkward prince in front of her for the first time. She grinned at him. She stood, slowly at first, only to then rush over to give him a proper hug. 

“Welcome back,” she said. “It’s good to finally see you.”

“It’s good to finally be seen,” he said. 

The prince and his lover had a decision to make, on what to do next. Peter thought it would be for the best to at least go home briefly, to assure his family that he was alive and well, but he didn’t want to force Stephanie to leave her own home behind. To his surprise, she insisted on making the journey with him. Not for the reward, but for Peter’s own sake. 

When they reached the palace he was once sure he’d never see again, they were allowed in, Peter and Stephanie finally getting to tell the king, queen, and crown prince the long story. But when Stephanie was asked about the prize for returning him, she politely declined. All she wanted was Peter himself. His happiness, his safety, and his mind. 

Though not quick to marry their younger son off, the king and queen did allow the romance to continue. If it had saved their son, then a love like theirs was one of the most precious things in the world. 

With the prince restored and the young couple happy, the tale ends like any good fairy tale, with happily ever after.

#team starkid #starkid #hatchetfield #hatchetverse #peter spankoffski #pete spankoffski #stephanie lauter #steph lauter #lautski #lautski week #em writes fics #fairy tale au

[sarahreesbrennan]

i am rereading unspoken (one of my favourite book trilogies when i was younger!) and i had to tell you that 1) i still super appreciate so many of the themes and characters in these books, and 2) jon/lillian 4 life. this was a weird conviction of mine when i was 14 where while i love claire, i was Sure jon and lillian had sooo much chemistry and i would have read a whole book about them. not sure if you support this or not but <3 still love the books regardless

I’m so happy you’re re-reading! I find re-reading to be one of the greatest compliments a writer can be paid: I loved your world enough to come back, and feel like your characters are friends I want to hang with again.

Jon and Lillian were fun for me, because their relationship was a such product of collaboration and not ivory-tower writing. One of my critique partners was very firm that Jon and Claire (my heroine’s parents) must break up because HOW COULD YOU EVER TRUST HER AGAIN? (Claire did a spell under duress that affected her kid, and hid this and the existence of magic from her partner for 17 years.) And her reaction made me think more than I would have about the precarious place this adult relationship was in and the possibilities that might arise. I love it when avenues of new thought are opened up to me.

Lillian (my hero’s aunt) married her cousin in a gothic and aristocratic fashion: she was the heir (the elder twin) but Rob (my hero’s uncle… or father. Gothic Incest is the name for one of the great literary academic books on gothic fiction for a reason!) was the boy. Lillian never felt anything romantic for Rob and indeed looked down on him in a benevolent familial way, as she did with her twin. (But she loved her twin more.) She saw herself as the patriarch and her husband wanted to usurp her place, so she intended to kill him and his followers.

But of course, the structure of aristocracy itself is rotten. Lillian had to join forces with Jon, recently aware of magic and his kids being in danger and his wife’s betrayal. Jon married young because his girlfriend got pregnant, but he’s a modern guy, he has a very modern job, and he perceived his marriage as a partnership of equals. He’s always been an outsider in his tiny, isolated English town and he hasn’t absorbed their artificially-prolonged-by-magic feudalism - he was born there but gets startled looks because he’s visibly a man of colour yet has their English countryside accent. He just has No Time for Lillian being a magical aristocrat at him. This Is Ridiculous! But also, she is a grownup and they have to interact to take care of the kids in a dangerous situation: they have the same priorities. And so he treats Lillian as if they’re equals and she is being silly when she acts as if she has any authority over him. Lillian shows there’s hope for her because she becomes comfortable with them being equals. She wants Jon to think well of her: she accepts him teasing her by pretending to forget her name. When Lillian’s enemy husband assumes Claire fancies him, in a very No Doubt the Peasant Women Eye Me fashion, Lillian is like: ‘You are a loser. That woman is married to JON GLASS. Have you hit your head.’ But for the majority of their insular, always living in the castle even when far from the castle lives, she would have agreed her husband was superior to non-magical men. So Jon facilitates Lillian’s moral redemption, and when you’ve profoundly influenced someone, that makes your relationship important.

I don’t know that Jon and Claire’s marriage is irredeemable. Claire was forced by her literal overlord to put her kid in danger and lie to her partner, and without that pressure wouldn’t have done it. Many terrible things can be forgiven, if people keep choosing each other and keep trying to do better. It depends on what Jon personally can bear. The books end with that uncertainty. If I’d written more books, Jon and Lillian getting together might have opened up more avenues of story. As it is, it’s Schrödinger’s relationship, where several paths lie open to Jon and he can choose with full information this time. But for what it’s worth, Lillian had a crush. TLDR: your ship is valid, and thank you for your kindness.

#the lynburn legacy #Gothic fiction #writing #sarah rees brennan #gothic incest

[kingedmundsroyalmurder]

Addendum to the chapter 1 post that I thought of later:

“Not this afternoon—haven’t got time. I must mosey up to the North End to see a man who has got a lovely throat. Nobody can find out what is the matter. He has puzzled all the doctors. He has puzzled me, but I’ll find out what is wrong with him if he’ll only live long enough.” This is Eric's best friend, a well known doctor, cosplaying as, like, 1900s Dr. House. No concern for the patient's well being, just a Mystery that must be solved. No wonder Eric has such a low opinion of doctors!

(Sidenote: those of you who Anne, what is Gilbert like as a doctor? Because TBC didn't have a great opinion of them, and this book is not shaping up to be too complimentary either. Did LMM just have a fairly poor opinion of doctors in general that colors her work?)

On to chapter two, and we meet an actually sympathetic character! Larry West seems like a lovely young man, and I hope he recovers fully and that he and Agnes Campion are blissfully happy together. Unlike either Eric or David, Larry actually seems to care about the people under his charge, i.e. his students. I already want him to be our protagonist instead.

"The former looked more like a benevolent old clergyman or philanthropist than the keen, shrewd, somewhat hard, although just and honest, man of business that he really was." Kilmeny of the Orchard, sponsored by the Better Business Bureau! There is absolutely an interesting thread to tease out across LMM's life and work that connects Eric Marshall to Barney Snaith, but I want to read more of this book before I make further commentary on that. But it does appear that Maud's opinions on rags-to-riches businessmen, uh, Evolved over the years.

Actually never mind, I'm gonna girl who's only ever read The Blue Castle this book a tiny bit more. Compare:

"And then those girls were as pretty as pinks, now weren’t they? Agnes was the finest-looking of the lot in my opinion. I hope it’s true that you’re courting her, Eric?”

and

“Prettiest girl in Montreal,” said Dr. Redfern. “Oh, she was a looker, all right. Eh? Gold hair—shiny as silk—great, big, soft, black eyes—skin like milk and roses. Don’t wonder Bernie fell for her. And brains as well. She wasn’t a bit of fluff. B. A. from McGill. A thoroughbred, too. One of the best families."

Women aren't really people, they are trophies and objects to be collected and revered. Barney grows out of this mentality through his travels. Eric... well it remains to be seen about Eric, doesn't it?

"Perhaps I am. When a man has had a mother like mine his standard of womanly sweetness is apt to be pitched pretty high." So we're getting the standards by which Eric judges a future wife and the role she will be expected to play. He wants a society hostess, a woman who can step seamlessly into his mother's shoes. He wants her to be sweet and serene and, presumably, beautiful and delicate like his mother in her portrait. David and Mr. Marshall both basically want him to marry Ethel Taverse -- beautiful, well brought up, good lineage, of the Right Sort. Eric... honestly Eric has such fantasy standards for a woman that in a different book the resolution would be that he realizes that he's gay. He's doing that doesn't-realize-they're-queer-yet thing of, "it's not that I don't like [expected other gender], it's just that I haven't found anyone yet with [vague laundry list of impossible qualities]." I know that doesn't always translate into queerness, but it's an experience that definitely rings true to my baby ace teenage years before I had the words or knowledge to accurately describe my experiences.

"In all likelihood the worst thing that will happen to you over there will be that some misguided woman will put you to sleep in a spare room bed. And if that does happen may the Lord have mercy on your soul!” Go to PEI, but don't consort with the locals! The Wrong Kind of Woman might tempt you! This book is a great primer on how classism and eugenics go hand in hand, isn't it?

So our plot has been set up for us. Eric, a young man in possession of a good fortune, is off to Prince Edward Island, where he will soon find himself in want of a woman to be his wife. She will either be a commoner, whom his family and friends think isn't good enough for him but whom he loves and will stand up for, or she will be a secret aristocrat, whom he will pluck out of her shabby surroundings and return to her birthright in high society. I want this book to go with option a, because it's more interesting, but from what I know of it it veers closer to option b instead.

(What he needs is an Anne Shirley to whack him upside the head with a slate and tell him to stop being such a jerk, but I'm not holding out hope.)

#kilmeny of the orchard #kilmeny readalong #I am gonna drag depth out of this book if i have to go in with a pickaxe and mine it myself

[lazaruspiss]

Historia Strigidae: Part 1/7

Intro

The Clark family has sworn its allegiance to the Court for generations, and I for my part have been steadfast in my oath. I have always wanted what's best for Gotham, for us, but the time has come when I must stand alone in protecting the Court from itself.

We have been... changing. Perhaps I've taken too long to notice. The Council, once strategically minded and level-headed, has become increasingly brutal in their methods. Where the Council of my day engaged in chess to reach their ends, today's members are quick to violence and would sooner topple the board in a childlike fit. I take no issue with violence as a method of problem solving, but with a considered hand, not as the default. I fear the current Council is turning us into nothing more than a common mob. It's embarrassing.

The Talons may serve as instruments of the will of the Court, but our most valuable weapon is secrecy. It used to be that the Court preferred to operate in the shadows because benevolence did not demand a spotlight. However now, the shadows are no longer granting anonymity to machinations benefitting our great city, but of selfish corruption. Perhaps it has always been this way, and what has changed is the clarity with which I see us. Regardless, the only solution is to cast a cleansing light upon them, in hopes that we can come together and root out the corruption and begin anew. - Erastus Clark

Scribbled Note

Handwritten on the back of the page:

I have taken on this project in secret, in hopes of a grand presentation to the Council and Voice, however, my research does require the cooperation of others. I have recently begun asking questions of some of our longer standing members, those who have lived our history. I confided in one of them that I had begun writing this book, and I fear I have chosen my confidants poorly.

I can feel eyes on me when I walk into the room now, as if my presence demands attention. Not a spotlight, no. Surveillance. It could be merely coincidence, but twice recently upon walking through a room have the hushed tones of gossip risen in my wake.

My pursuit is a noble one. When my work is finally revealed, I will regain their respect, and they will line up outside my door for an audience.

Scribbled Note

To those who find this: I write this note in haste, hoping whoever reads it is more capable of acting upon the book's contents than I. You will question the words within, but I assure you every bit of it is true. The Court of Owls is no legend, but rather, they are the true parents of Gotham City.

My grandfather was among their ranks and despite having never met the man, I hate him. By his deeds do my family still suffer, never spending more than a year or two in one place, under an assumed name I dare not give. Every shadow, every trick of the light fraught with potential danger. I asked my grandmother once why we live in such fear when the architect of this feud is surely long dead. She would only answer that the Court does not forgive, nor does it forget. The Court ordered everyone who has read this accursed text dead at the hand of the Talons. The publisher was killed, and my grandfather's body was never found. This, his handwritten copy, and his notes, were hidden, or I should imagine they would have shared in whatever fate he succumbed to.

My grandfather wanted to use this book to destroy the Court, but I confess I am a coward. Merely standing on Gotham City soil lights my every nerve on fire, so the idea of declaring war on the Court is beyond my capacity. I am scattering the pages and hope against hope that you, dear reader, are somehow better equipped to make use of them than I. The Court has ruined the lives of my entire family, and who knows how many countless more besides.

Should you be foolish enough to take on this task, I can only wish you luck. If you do not, and the Court is allowed to continue unopposed, then God help us all.

The Founders

The Court of Owls was not always the far-reaching organization it is today. At its founding, it was little more than an alliance of four of Gotham's oldest and wealthiest families. The Arkhams, the Cobblepots, the Elliots, and the Kanes.

Their arrival in Gotham was spurred by stories of a fountain of youth somewhere under the city, but as their quest for literal immortality bore no fruit, they broadened the scope of their goals to include figurative immortality as well. By allying their considerable resources they set their sights on turning Gotham into a great and powerful city, under their control, of course. Although the Court officially sees all members as equal within its structure, the four families are still revered and respected above all, leading to whispers of displeasure that dare not be spoken too loudly.

However the reputation is at least partly merited. Through their station in the Court, these families have carved Gotham City out of granite and stone, turning it from a humble settlement into the glorious metropolis that it is today. Through their greatness, I can hardly imagine the progress Gotham will make in another 50 years.

#Historia Strigidae (GK) #text is copy pasted from the in-game transcriptions so take any inaccuracies up with DC and/or WB

[eclipsedcrystalstar]

This one has a lot of Moon idk what happened

Moon: God nerfed me by making me allergic to garlic and sunlight. Monty: So, a vampire? Moon: I can confirm that I am not a vampire as I have blood. Freddy: Is it your blood? Moon: It is blood, yes. Freddy: Is it blood that has always belonged to you from the moment of your spawning? Moon: It is blood, it is in my possession, therefore it is my blood.

Moon: I'm bored. Solar: Wanna commit first degree murder? Moon: Sure! Sun, hearing them: No- Stop, don't do that! Put that knife down! Put Monty down!!

Sun: I find it hilarious when you're the quiet/introverted kid and the teacher always sends people who are too talkative in class next to you because they know you wont talk. Moon: Bad and naughty children get put with the Silent Man to atone for their crimes.

Freddy: Can we go to a haunted house? Moon: What’s wrong with the one we live in? Freddy: Wh-what? Moon: Goodnight, Freddy.

Monty: You have Crayons? Sun: Yes, I have— Monty: You're— how old are you? Sun: YES I AM AN ADULT AND I HAVE CRAYONS, I HAVE A BOX OF EMERGENCY CRAYONS IN THE CABINET UNDER THE TV BECAUSE EVERYBODY NEEDS CRAYONS SOMETIMES, OKAY? EVERYBODY NEEDS CRAYONS.

Bonnie, walking into his green room: Hello, people who do not live here. Sun: Hey. Monty: Hi. Moon: Hello. Freddy: Hey! Bonnie: I gave you the key to my green room for emergencies only! Moon: We were out of Fizzy Faz.

Sun: Moon, I beg of you. Please, PLEASE go to the doctor. Moon: Hey, I'm sorry. Is this OUR stab wound? (In same bodies version: YES)

Solar: My assistance will be an act of beneviolence. Freddy: …Don’t you mean benevolence? Solar: No.

Moon: Look, Solar, it's the third time this week you had a mental breakdown and its Monday.

Moon: Sun, get that hideous thing out of the living room, would you? Sun: Monty, Moon wants you to get out of the house.

Sun, holding a Wii mote with a knife attached: Are Wii gonna have a problem? Moon, bringing out their switch remote with a blade: You best switch up that attitude. -An hour later…- Sun, in the ambulance: Wii-U! Wii-U! Wii-U! Solar: I hate this fucking family.

Monty: Sun is washing the dishes and I just heard them say "Who do you work for? Who's your contact???" While repeatedly pushing a glass underwater. Freddy: At least they're having fun???

Moon: Hey, Sun? Can I get some dating advice? Sun: Just because I'm with Monty doesn't mean I know how I did it.

Sun: When I said you should try being friendlier this isn't what I meant. Moon, stirring a cup of tea aggressively: Oh, so now I'm TOO friendly? There's no pleasing you. Freddy, who broke into their house an hour ago: Two sugars please. Moon: Coming right up.

Moon: Uh, I think I got your lunch. Holds up a note that reads: ‘I am very proud of you. Love, your big brother Solar Sun: Oh yeah. I didn’t think this was for me. Holds up a note that reads: ‘Be good. For the love of God, Please be good.’

Freddy: What’s wrong? You look 10 seconds away from ripping someone’s throat out. (more than usual) Solar: Fucking Moon and Sun were trying to invoke one of the minor gods again last night. I didn't get an ounce of sleep, thanks to their bloody chanting.

Moon: on the phone Hey Sol, do you know my blood type? Solar: Of course, it's B-. Moon: Oh, I guessed wrong. Excuse me, nurse-!

Bonnie: One time I found a google doc on Moon’s computer with the title "list of dads that make other dads eat bugs. Bonnie: out of curiousity, I opened the google doc. Bonnie: it was completely blank except for the words "my dad".

Monty: Die. Sun: Please don't die! Monty: DIE! Sun: PLEASE DON'T DIE! Bonnie, confused: Why are they yelling at a plant? Moon, watching while eating popcorn: They bought it together and Sun wants Monty to accept it as their kid.

#sundrop #daycare attendant #moondrop #fnaf sb #security breach #fnaf daycare attendant #moon fnaf #eclipse fnaf #glamrock freddy #glamrock bonnie #monty gator #montgomery gator

[reel-fear]

👁️👁️

You must tell 👀

*rubs my little hands together* sorry for taking a bit on answering this! My brain has not been braining lately but your ask couldn't have come at a better time bc Grant has been on the mind as of late and I am hyped at the excuse to infodump abt him- [this is gonna be long I am so sorry-]

now for quick disclaimers for anyone reading this that isnt the asker or me- we're not discussing canon Grant Cohen, we're talking my Grant, this black haired dude, that guy. Another fun disclaimer, I was HEAVILY, inspired by Grant's role/character in abomination for my Grant. Taking time to awknowledge every part of his character or story that was inspired by it would make this 10x longer so if similarities are spotted know its very likely I did that on purpose bc I just really love abomination KJHFSDGKJDHGSD-

Alright with that outta the way I'ma talk a lot abt what happens to Grant in the canon of Showtime to explain what I meant and also maybe a bit of me rambling about aus that explore Grants relationship with Sammy n Joey under a more romantic lens. Should be obvious but spoilers for It's Showtime down below~

So Grant in Showtime after he dies ends up joining the ink demon cult, becoming a lost one and earning the title of The Priest.

When the cult was all together him and Sammy worked together to run it. Sammy used his connection to the ink demon to recieve messages and learn more on how to survive in this new situation and Grant made sure the lost ones acted accordingly. [A role not so far off from the one he was forced to take when the studio started facing troubles before his death] Grant also took the job of dealing with sacrificing souls and sending them back to the dark puddles, which sometimes was members of the following chosen at random and sometimes whatever poor soul found themselves captured by them.

However when Malice rose from the puddles and made a deal with the Projectionist to seize a considerable amount of the studio as theirs, the cult was split up, Sammy and Jack forced to flee to the music department and Grant with the rest of the following being down in the area of Chapter 4. This put Grant in a very bad spot, the lost ones were very shaken by this event and since then Grant worries their faith in him has wavered.

An important thing with the ink demon cult was that it is meant to be a more realistic take on how a cult works. The Ink Demon runs the cult, he is the most powerful figure in it and yet the hardest to contact, so Grant and Sammy are little more than middlemen tasked with keeping things running or else they face the ink demon's wrath. Sammy is sadly very aware that the ink demon is not as benevolent as he or the lost ones would like the believe. Grant likes to think being the Priest will at the very least protect him if things go wrong, but he is sadly mistaken.

Grant is in a very dangerous spot, he knows the lost ones beneath him are getting angsty and worried about just how truthfully safe the cult is or if they should believe in the power of the ink demon. But he also knows if things fall apart the lost ones will come to tear him apart long before they go for the ink demon. Despite him merely being a puppet for their lord. A role Grant is not ready to acknowledge, not because he isn't smart enough to see he is just a pawn, but because he chooses not to think about it, less his paranoia eat him alive yet again... A very important thing to keep in mind with Grants character.

Grant did in fact play this role in life as well however, when things started going wrong in the studio, Joey was very quick to turn away from what was going on and continue asserting everything would be fine. Which while a lie he himself believed was a lie nonetheless. However Grant quickly became his right hand man as people like Thomas and Wally started noticing cracks forming all through out the studio. Staff going missing, the ink changing in the way it behaved and an eerie feeling the machine created in both of them.

Grant despite deep down being smart enough to know things were going poorly, parroted Joey's words, hanging off of them himself and doing whatever he could to shut down any attempts to bring to light the things going wrong. Of course, him and Joey both ended up paying the price for their lies, but so did everyone else around them. But unlike Sammy, Grant barely even seemed shaken to see that, like a conspiracy theorist seeing evidence their theory isn't true only makes them double down harder, Grant only seemed to double down on the idea that if he followed every order he was given. Surely things would turn out better this time.

So that's canon to the story of Showtime, but I do want to take a second to get some AU non canon ideas out of my brain centering around Grant and his relationship to both Joey n Sammy. In canon Grant's only romantic interest is Thomas, his literal husband and there is a lot of interesting conflict there, but I fucking love shipping so of course I have a million aus merely indulging in ships I think would also be interesting to explore in their own contexts. In this case, I'm gonna ramble a bit about Sammy x Grant and Grant x Joey and the interesting things I think there are to explore in their relationships in Showtime.

So you might've noticed that while not literally [as saying the ink demon is Joey in Showtime, while somewhat true, is not the entire truth of the situation and simplifies it quite a bit] Grant did end up following Joey to the grave... And then kept following him beyond it. Something that is objectively~ very queer of him.

There's just something so compelling about the idea of Grant yearning for Joey so much, being so close yet so far as his right hand man but not being brave enough to become his lover eventually drove Grant's love for Joey to become an outright obsession. The idea that Grant's feelings for Joey became so intense from how hard he pushed them down it blinded him from seeing the truth of the situation outside of the way Joey painted it. Then dying and his obsession turning into an outright worship of him.

The idea of Grant settling for just being Joey's favorite lackey, his most loyal pet and knowing that's his role but not caring bc at least it makes him stay by Joey's side. Ohh it's an interesting one to say the least. I even did a few sketches of them u can see-

They are doomed by the narrative to me and have been on my mind a lot lately can ya tell? KJDHSFGKJHDFSGKJHDFGSD

However when it comes to Sammy and Grant, I think there is a lot of interesting potential between them too. After all they share being the Ink Demon's henchmen in all of this and to see them both come to terms with that and try to find comfort in each other is such a fun idea to me.

An au where they both decide to ditch the cult and the ink demon and on their own try to figure out what happened to Joey and how to fix things is very compelling to me. I could see their relationship starting out as doing all these things for each other under the excuse they just need comfort until it starts to turn to actual feelings for each other. Both of them coming to terms with the fact Joey was not in fact a perfect person and maybe didn't even know how bad things were getting deep down himself but also finally letting themselves hold him accountable for the lies he told... It's a very fun healing narrative and very in line with a lot of the themes It's Showtime deals with.

Either way, I just really love what I've done with Grant's character in It's Showtime, he's for sure one of the most fascinating to me and the themes his story explores are ones that are important to the story as a whole and by extension me. Umm this turned out very long but I hope u enjoyed the read! Tysm for the excuse to infodump abt him, I was itching for one as u can see KDJHGKJDHFGKJDHFGSD.

#ramblez #dont think Ill main tag this since its very rambley and contains spoilers for its showtime- #but its okay to reblog n such #esp since I dont care tooooo much for spoiling my own stories #for me my stories should hold up regardless of whether or not youre surprised by what happens in em #but if anyone does care abt spoiling Showtime for themselves if or when I make it an actual fan game/story #do beware of this post KDJHFSGKJFGHJSD #sammy x grant #grant x joey #grammy #death and taxes #Music Multiplied #I think those are the ship names? #mostly for blacklisting reasons on here but if I can feed those crackships at least a little with this rant hey good for them <3 #anyways fun tag secrets Ill put some fun trivia abt my grant in here #he uses the tommy gun instead of alice in showtime its joeys gun but he has it after everything goes to crap he mostly only uses it #just to keep norman away from the cult tho just know he is armed and dangerous and feral and unhinged and- #the cages in the chapter 4 area are used by grant as punishment for those who speak out or for people who havent yet come around to #worshipping the ink demon. obviously people in cages take priority as sacrifice options #my grant might struggle from a paranoia disorder I based him more off my own expierences and a bit off of research on ppl with OCD #Im not confident enough in my understanding of OCD to diagnose him with it straight up but he does almost for sure struggle with some sort #of paranoia disorder #anyways thats it tyty for the ask again and sorry for writing #five hundred paragraphs in response-

[kimium]

Saw AU Ask Time!!! We’ve established Yuu will eventually meet John “Jigsaw” Kramer and become his unofficially adopted grandchild of sorts, while still being oblivious to the murders going on around them…but how do each of the housewardens explain their own connection to John and how they met? Does Yuu believe them?

Thank you so much for this ask, friend! Sorry it took me a while to get to it. I am here now to give my thoughts!

For anyone who is unaware, this ask is part of the Sort of Saw Franchise AU that myself and my friend M34GS came up with. You can read the fics in the link. If you want more information, my friend has a pinned post on her blog.

Everything is under a cut because this is going to get long. No content warnings.

Riddle (Heartslaybul)

Given Riddle's straight-forward nature, I think Riddle has a hard time creating an extensive lie. He's not the kind of person to fabricate a complex story and would stick to telling Yuu mostly the truth. So, Riddle tells Yuu that he met John while visiting his mother over one of the school breaks. He tells Yuu he found the man's advice insightful and enjoys their conversations. This is easily backed by John given his intellect and wit.

Due to Riddle's answer a lie covered in the truth, there is little to doubt and Yuu believes Riddle. Some details may be a bit fuzzy, but in reality people aren't nitpicking the finer details to an answer so long as it mostly checks out. Even if Yuu was surprised by the element of coincidence in the story, sometimes life works in mysterious ways. Little coincidence happen in life all the time and sometimes you meet and befriend people on chance.

Leona (Savanaclaw)

Leona tells Yuu that he met John through Ruggie who in this AU works many odd jobs, sometimes seasonal ones. He would be the person most likely to meet an assortment of people AND befriend them. Leona adds that according to Ruggie, John is a "lonely old man" and insists they visit John and keep him company. Ruggie huffs and corrects Leona stating "I did not say he was an old man. Don't put words into my mouth". Leona retorts with "I always call it as I see it". If John is present he smiles into his tea cup and doesn't dispute either of them. Yuu believes them because if anyone would be compassionate to the elderly, it would be Ruggie given he was raised by his grandmother. They would be a little confused why Leona tags along but they remember Leona can't say no to Ruggie (who he's dating in this AU).

Azul (Octavinelle)

Azul tells Yuu that John is a semi-frequent visitor to the main Monstro Lounge branch. He tells Yuu that like any kind, benevolent owner (read: always looking for any opportunity to earn money) he enjoys learning more about his regulars. He tells Yuu that once he talked to John he found himself enjoying their conversations so much they slowly became friends. This lie is bolstered by the fact that Azul actually knows (a bit too much) about his regulars. Yuu mostly believes Azul, though given John's medical condition, they worry a little over John's physical constitution.

Kalim (Scarabia)

Kalim's story to Yuu is he met John at one of his family's private medical charity galas. John has cancer after all and Kalim is quiet when he tells Yuu that he was moved by John's personal story. Kalim says he's endeavouring to open his perspective by talking with a variety of people with different life circumstances. He will inherit his father's business and with wealth Kalim knows he can make a positive impact on society. This story lines perfectly with Kalim's personality and Yuu believes him. A bit of emotional weight to the story also helps solidify the story in Yuu's heart.

(I will add that Jamil was very paranoid over Kalim's story, which they rehearsed and refined to "get it right". Jamil wanted a more generic story without any ties to Kalim's family, but Kalim insisted this story was perfect. The irony they'll never know is Jamil's story probably would be a bit less believable.)

Vil (Pomefiore)

It's actually Rook who sweeps in, complete with poetry and French, to tell the tale about how he encountered John at a farmer's market. He states that John was having a difficult time haggling down the price for some delicious deer sausage. Rook, who has helped multiple vendors with hunting for said sausages, swept in and "lent my assistance to John" and managed to bring the price down "so John could enjoy the delicious sausage and the fruits of our labour were not wasted". Rook continues to inform Yuu that he proceeded to have a "riveting conversation over the art of sausage making". Vil dryly tells Yuu Rook was at it for four and half hours.

If this story was told by anyone else, Yuu wouldn't believe them. This is Rook, however, and Yuu heard exactly how Rook and Vil met. They'd be more concerned if the story was mundane, actually. They believe Rook in an astonishing upset for all the other dorms who cannot believe this is Pomefiore's lie THAT WORKED. This also means John better become an expert in conversing about the art of sausage making as Rook cheerfully accidentally assigned John homework. Rook apologies profusely but John tells him it's fine and that learning new things, even at his age, is exciting.

Idia (Ignihyde)

There is only one way Idia has met someone new AND befriended them and that's through online games. Yes, the story could veer to his parents but honestly, Idia wouldn't talk to that person outside the mandated conversations. Thus, the only thing he can blurt out to Yuu is "We met online while playing -insert a large popular MMO title here-". In Idia's defense, he was taken off guard as he assumed there would be no chance Yuu, himself, and John would be in the same room at the same time. Well, Ortho tried to tell Idia the chances of that happening is higher than he thinks, but Idia ignored Ortho. Now he's sweating and hoping that Yuu believes his lie.

Now, as for Yuu, the online game part is easy to believe. What's harder to believe is Idia actually meeting one of his online friends IN PERSON. Though, they rationalize this as "Ortho is trying to get Idia out of his shell". Still, they're rather surprised and it takes a while for Yuu to process the information.

This also means that like Rook, Idia has accidentally assigned John some homework. Sure, Yuu wouldn't ask John outright to play the MMO but you never know what may happen. So, John has to become familiar with the game and its mechanics.

Malleus (Diasomnia)

Malleus takes a long sip of his tea, tenderly looks Yuu in the eyes, and says "I met John while out for one of my nightly strolls". Look, the man cannot lie directly to Yuu. There were probably different variations of stories that Lilia had prepared for different situations, but no one could prepare for Malleus "I can't lie to Yuu" Draconia. However, like Riddle, honesty is key. Yuu has no problems believing him. After all, that's exactly how they met Malleus. Clearly, Malleus is a bit lonely and has a tendency to meet others while out for night strolls. It's also Malleus, a Fae, who is still learning human concepts and mannerisms. Of course, Malleus would randomly befriend another human while out at night. Yuu believes him.

(I want to add that Malleus will tact on that while he met John the same way he met Yuu, Yuu has no fear of being replaced as his special human friend. Lilia nearly cries from laughter as clearly Malleus took a look at the trope "miscommunication" and said "This won't happen to me when I'm with Yuu".)

And there you go! There are my answers! I hope you enjoyed them friend! Let me know!

#personal #replies #twisted wonderland #sort of saw franchise au

[laindtt]

Rebirthing

Summary: The young Rachel has finally found a place to rest with her best friend Tracey among a remote community in Montana, and is about to meet for the first time the man who will revolutionize her whole universe.

Word Count: 2563

Warnings: Mention of drugs use

Comments: A lovely fic idea suggested by @i-am-the-balancing-point: “Rachel cleaning up a little after getting away from home and her eyes gaining their sparkle back when she joins the project.” I hope you’ll like it dear ♥ Same for you @deputyash! Thank you for being interested in my writing, you’re gems ♥ 

Please keep in mind that English is not my first language, and thus be indulgent ; enjoy your reading everyone!

Soundtrack:  Skillet - Rebirthing (Acoustic)

Masterpost: Can be found under the “Masterpost” tag and here

Credits: Header by gangsterprayer, available here

“And she did not have to ask if this was right, no one had to tell her, because this could not have been more right or perfect.” - Patricia Highsmith, Carol

The water was softly running between her bruised fingers, soothing by its freshness both the pulling sensation of her cuts and her tiredness. Vagabond life was not tender for young ladies, but to be honest, life in its whole had never been merciful on Rachel, ever. What some scratches could be to a girl like her? Hand skincare was the least of her concerns, and none of the few luxuries that had brightened her days so far. Her old backpack, so worn out that she had to fix its straps multiple times along the way not to perpetually feel it falling from her shoulders on the ground, contained very few things, modest remnants of what have been left miles and miles behind. You didn’t need expensive creams when all that occupied your mind was survival. You didn’t need to pack all your belongings when your room was filled with cold and suffering. No photos, no keepsakes when family and friends were nothing but cruel ghosts. No regrets, because she had no future, no other option than an eternal run. In fact, her bag was light because it was full of so many agonizing emotions, fear, desperation, doubt, an eager need for something else, anything else. Her plan? Moving forward, as fast and as far as possible, pushed forward by this nearly overwhelming urge to escape all that she’d ever known. Running for her life, without catching her breath, had been devouring her mind with such hunger for so long that the fear of the unknown barely had a grasp on her heart.

In this restless headlong rush, Rachel had benefited from the benevolent comfort offered by her two best friends. Let’s be honest: without Tracey, the only spark of joy so far in her world, she would have never gone this far. The teenager admitted it with a gratitude tinged with fearful awe, as if showing her feelings too openly could scare away her yet bold travel partner: she would have been incapable of planning and embarking on such a runaway life. Her steps would have not crossed the threshold of her house and of her doomed existence, letting her rot there till the very last drop of life in her would have been vampirized. As far back as she could remember, Tracey had always been the more courageous of the two of them, always ready to fight back, always ready to protect her fragile acolyte. Rachel couldn’t help but never cease to be amazed by the profound differences between them, uniting them more than what could be expected at first, like two opposites attracting in a foolproof sorority –at least she was deeply convinced of this. Their friendship was her rock, as much as the driving force of their trip. She had no clue of when all of this would end, nor where they would finally settle down, but the simple thought of sharing a future with Tracey was enough for her, a comforting horizon, regardless of the struggles that they would have to overcome to reach this ideal. Oh dear, dear Tracey, her inspiring shield, her relentless compass… How devastating it was to, from time to time, catching her rolling her eyes because her protege had asked for a umpteenth break as they were walking on the side of an endless road, or begging her not to get into the truck of a driver she has a bad feeling about after hours of unsuccessful hitchhiking session. How saddening her frustrated sighs sounded when all that Rachel wanted was to live up to Tracey’s expectations.

… And that’s where cocaine came into play. Her second best friend, like a second shadow, had been following her and Tracey for quite a while, way before their great escape, another thing the young lady was trying to hide with all her strength, ashamed of always coming back in the arms of her addictions, incapable of not giving in to the siren calls for the soft comfort offered by the white powder and its sisters in arms. When the weather was too harsh, when she felt she had disappointed her role model once more, how could she possibly resist the only thing that could make her feel less useless, more powerful and capable than anything else? Even the dreadful fear of being arrested by the cops and brought back to her parents by force was not terrifying enough to overtake the despair that would be hers if once too often her weakness made Tracey lose her temper, to the point where she would just abandon her and keep going free from this burden. With a little more self-confidence, with a little more boldness and liveliness, she would surely never lose the only person that kept her on track, and luckily, the third-class gas stations interspersing their journey and groups of tramps they’ve met from time to time lacked a lot but rarely of a good soul more than willing to sell her some junk, whichever poison they had actually in store, slowly but surely consuming all the money she had stolen from her parents before fleeing. Maybe one day they would run out of cash and Rachel would feel guilty as hell for having spent so much on these delightful yet addictive sustainers, but Tracey would certainly find a solution, right? Like finding them some odd jobs offered by unscrupulous employers or any other means of subsistence; she had not the slightest doubt about her friend’s capacities to save their bacon.

This little boost was nothing but a temporary helping hand that she would drop as soon as they would have found a definitive shelter, a small secret that would hurt no one, especially not Tracey, because she was absolutely not aware of her mentee’s addictions, was she? If she had ever noticed something, she was kind enough to remain silent about it. Ignorance was bliss, as much as things left unsaid. Their next meal or the next place they would sleep at at night were enough trouble to deal with.

Reflexively, the young woman took a glance at her backpack, as her musing lead her from her pale reflection to the thought of the secret pocket where her precious remedy was hidden: checking on it, even simply by noticing that no one has touched her stuff, calmed her down, silencing her brief and irrational wave of anxiety. She had no reasons to worry at all, she thought: Tracey was sincerely convinced that giving a chance to this remote Montanan community lost in the middle of nowhere was worth it, and once more her sound decision had made their trip more comfortable. Since the day they had settled down in Hope County, Rachel had never ceased to be amazed by the warm welcome given by the group they had joined. Tracey’s enthusiasm about this little congregation called Project at Eden’s Gate had been quite a surprise for her young friend but without a doubt, she couldn’t agree more on the fact that their spirit of community made her want to permanently stay by their side –to her delight, Tracey seemed to share the feeling. No more mistrust as a protective reflex against strangers and their potential faked good intentions, no more walls to keep between them and the rest of the world, no more dangers or threats: this place was like a haven in the storm, and the two young ladies gladly savored each moment spent along with the members of the church. Their church, from now on? Rachel’s heart bubbled with joy: the followers were so kind, so generous! As if a light had been planted in their souls, radiating through their bodies like a seed growing into a beautiful and prolific fruit tree –really the last people who would rifle through her personal effects. Feeling safe somewhere, and not only by Tracey’s side, was something new but more addictive than most of the drugs that used to run through her veins.

“I brought you a towel and a few spare clothes,” trumpeted a sing-sing voice on the doorstep.

Rachel’s smile widened to greet the lady who helped the two newcomers to take their first steps into the Project and move into the dormitories of the Convent, one of the nerve centers of the teeming flock. Her host were so different from the shadows she had left behind – they all were-, a living proof that a different path was possible, not just a never ending absconding.

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome. It’s always a pleasure to integrate new novices… I’m so happy to have the chance to lend a hand, it reminds me of my first days here.”

In her eyes, Rachel could easily read that she was reliving her memories, and she wondered what it could feel like, to find so much delight in dwelling on the past. If only one day she was able to do so with as much glee as her…

“And the best is yet to come,” she assured the teen, putting her hand on her forearm. “I’ve heard that the Father himself is going to pay us a visit. How lucky we are!”

The mention of the leader of the Project made her thoughts race, spurred by curiosity: she had only met him a few times during masses, but it was undeniable that the preaching of the founder of their movement had left a deep mark on the young lady. Moved by the messages delivered during those sermons, the delicate passion he put in every intonation and the sheer emotion that ran through the audience, she hadn’t had yet the opportunity to talk to him in a small committee –something Destiny seemed to want to fix on that very same day, nearly making her hold her breath with anticipation. Rachel had never really shared the same dreams as the girls of her age, swooning at the idea of their favorite singer or actor walking into their local grocery store and falling in love with them at first sight while holding a bag of frozen peas; let’s be realistic, no one with some semblance of success would notice someone as ordinary as her. Yet, over the ceremonies, she felt connected to the others present in the chapel, overcome with the exaltation thrilling the people sited by her side, making her tangible, real. And this miracle was due to a voice, a blue stare hidden behind shades so yellow that the eyes they covered were turned green, an inspiring presence that made her discover that she, too, could feel alive in a way she had never experienced, not even with Tracey. And the man able to make this very feeling blossom in so many lost souls was about to visit them? That was all it took to color her cheek with a touch of pink that turned redder with the chuckle of her interlocutor.

“Don’t worry, dear sister. Our beloved Father is impressive, for sure, but he’s a simple man at heart, truly. And taking care of our new brothers and sisters matters a lot to him, you can believe me.”

Could a first impression not work against a poor little timid thing as Rachel? A part of her was burning with the hope that a captivating being like the Father would see something behind the vapid shell that had been her armor for so long, but that had lately started feeling tighter and tighter. Oh, to hear his words of wisdom voiced for her and no one else, some words of encouragement to praise her for all her efforts… Disappointing him during her first one-on-one would be dramatic, and thus, proportionately, her motivation to exist in his world was skyrocketing with the chance to spend time with him alone. The chance of a lifetime.

With a shy nod, she thanked her visitor before staring again at her reflection, checking the paleness of her skin, replacing a curl of hair behind her ear, barely noticing her sister leaving. Her nostalgic abandonment to thoughts chained to the past had its day, now it was time to face her future, to hang on to it as hard as she could. Even her inner voice, trying to convince not to dream too big or not to sink into self-delusion about the possibility to be more than nothing to someone as exquisite as the Father, would not silence her will to shine.

Now fully focused on what she could say and how she could act to be sure to turn this first encounter into something worth remembering, Rachel fell out of time again. For how long did she stay like this, a secret spiral, unbeknownst to the teen, beginning to wrap around her nothing less than a tragic fate? Hard to say, as a deep metamorphosis was also slowly taking possession of her, with consequences that she was so, so far to suspect ; nevertheless, time waited for no man, nor for innocent and determined damsels.

A soft greeting made her startle, promptly turning around with her hair whipping the air.

“Good morning, Rachel. I am glad to finally meet you.”

The lean figure by the door instinctively inspired her confidence: an impeccable white shirt, with a black vest and black borders, was giving him a soothing poise, and his yellow shades were the only touch of color in his outfit, but all that she could perceive in this moment was his warm smile, his presence, his intense yet gentle gaze upon her and only her. If only moments like this could last forever, so that a whole life of struggling leading to them would really be worth it.

“Nice to meet you too, Father...”

So many words were colliding with each other on her mind, on the tip of her tongue: words of thanks, of hope, of admiration, all mixed together and blocked at the gate of her lips. Fortunately, her eyes spoke for her, and a little something in his expression showed that his benevolence had turned both pleased and amused. A small laugh from him would probably have ruined it all, shattering her newborn spirit like hailstones tearing flower petals, but he didn’t mock her manners of debutante; he had so much to give, you see. So much that she wanted to take, while she also had so much that she wanted to give him freely, without any need to make any request.

All it took for that was reaching for her hand.

“Would you like to join me for a stroll?” the Prophet offered, his palm and fingers displayed like a promise for guidance and safety to come, something a fond father did for his child, something her real dad never did for her. “The place is lovely, and we could talk a bit. There are so many things about us I’d like to show you.”

A frantic nod from Rachel sealed the deal, and probably her fate: only a fool would have not let him take the lead. With complete trust, the young lady delicately held his hand and abandoned herself to the irresistible momentum they were sharing, his calloused skin feeling so pleasant against hers.

When they went out, a light breeze caressed her cheeks; the bright sunshine had her close her eyes, her free hand hiding her face from the sun.

All along, she never stopped smiling.

#Joseph Seed #Faith Seed #FC5 fanfiction #Far Cry 5 fanfiction #Personal writing

[bellyquestions]

Obligatory Pinned

Contrary to the blog URL, this isn’t JUST about belly, it’s about any of the 3 B’s being big. Booba, Belly, or Butt. Mostly belly tho. How this blog works: Whenever a hypothetical pops into my head or somebody submits one I like, I will post a hypothetical. Thats it! You are free to reblog with or even draw your answer/reaction! Suggestion for responding: Your real genuine reaction is always much more interesting than a half response, just saying “I’d die” or “I’d smush you under my belly” or something isn’t very interesting. I wanna hear how different people would react to their dreams (or nightmares) coming true IRL! A few notes: 1. Everything is sized with the AVERAGE body in mind. You can either leave it at that scale or change it to match how big you are IRL. A beach ball belly would scale up or down if you are bigger or smaller than the average 2. Everything is made under the assumption that whatever it is wouldn’t kill you unless otherwise stated by the hypothetical. Unless explicitly stated or implied you wouldn’t pop unless you were actively trying. 3. Things are left to the imagination! If something clarifies the size you grow to but not what you fill with then you get to choose! If you really want, edit the hypothetical when answering! 4. The assumption is that everyone is an androgynous agender beanpole. Thicc thighs, a preggo belly, or a nice pair of booba aren’t gender locked. These are good questions to ask about any hypothetical posted here: 1. How would I react? 2. How would my family/friends react? 3. How would I hide it from said family/friends? 4. How am I feeling if this were to happen? Happy? Sad? Thrilled? 5. WOULD I hide it? Why or why not? 6. If I could change the situation, why and how? (ex: permanent belly becoming on demand belly) 7. How could I use this? 8. How does this affect my day to day life? How much impact would it have on me? 9. What if this happened to somebody I knew instead? How would they react? How would I? 10. Maybe this was intentional? Why did I do it? How did I do it? 11. Maybe this was accidental? What happened to cause it? 12. Maybe this was caused by something/someone other than me intentionally? What caused it? Was it malevolent or benevolent? How did it do it? 13. If it happened overnight or instantly, how would my reaction would differ from if it happened over time or vice versa? 14. How do I think this would feel? Painful? Nice? Strange? Maybe relief because it solved some body dysphoria? Or maybe grief because it’s causing dysphoria. 15. If this could actually happen to me IRL, would I want it to? 16. What other things might happen to me because of this? What is my reaction to that? 17. What are some alternative situations and how would I react to those? (Ex: would I react differently to being suddenly full of water rather than suddenly full of air) 18. What might be some lasting consequences I face for this? Additional: Reblogging spreads awareness of this blog, more people answering means more responses to read. Owner of this blog is Ace/Aro, I won’t give you flak for making a more... Charged response... But at the very least add a content warning man.

#pinned #not a hypothetical

[the-feminist-philosopher]

Excuse me, but I read your post about gender segregation as a way of removing women from the public/establishing public spaces as men's spaces and I thought it was a great point and it made me think. You have the reblogs off because it was causing you trouble, but would you mind if screenshoted and posted it (with your url blacked out if you want) so you don't have to deal with the backlash from gcs and terfs?

I have temporarily opened it up for reblogs, but will likely close it again soon. I prefer to have my name attached to things and prefer to have those things attached to my blog, if that makes sense?

And thank you for asking!

I am working on what is, technically, an essay on this exact subject to go into more detail about how segregation was not only about a reluctance to integrate women into the public sphere, but that it continues to reproduce systems of violence against women. Although the outline looks a little different now, you can see some of the preliminary details here.

The introduction of women's-only spaces-- from train cars to bathrooms to reading rooms to separate entrances and exists-- was not the introduction of sex segregation, but a continuation of it. It was the male establishment not wanting women to be in the public sphere, at least, not fully.

And it was done under the paternalistic guise of protecting women from a dangerous public and dangerous men (at that time, the public idea of a "dangerous man" was black). This paternalistic protection is a form of benevolent sexism, an attitude that is shown to excuse controlling and abusive behavior as long as it is believed that it is done with the victim's best interests in mind. It contributes to gender inequality by limiting women's roles and access to parts of the public sphere.

A lot of these things just stuck around. And a consequence of them sticking around is that it subtly and silently pushes women back into the private sphere because separate systems create unequal and inadequate facilities. I gave the example of my best friend & coworker having to stay home for a whole week because our bathrooms are inadequate and cannot handle a woman or female person's needs.

And a lot of people defend them on the basis that they keep women safe even though there is no evidence that they reduce violence. (In fact, there is evidence to suggest that the more heavily sex segregated a society, the more violence there is against women and people afab. It's sort-of a cyclical thing where segregation contributes to the continuation of violence and male dominance while violence and male dominance contribute to the continuation and existence of sex segregation.) There is also no evidence that gender inclusive policies increase incidents of violence. Women's only spaces fail to actually keep women safe from predators and perverts. I say that as someone who has been assaulted in women's locker rooms and as someone who knows several women who have experienced the same. I was assaulted by women and girls in these spaces. Many of my friends were assaulted by cis men in these spaces, and none of them "dressed as women" to do it. It's essentially slapping a band-aid on a huge societal problem and calling it a sufficient fix. It isn't.

Although, people seem to assume that me saying this means I want to abolish all bathrooms or something. I still believe that everyone deserves their own sense of comfort and privacy in the public sphere.

They also seem to conflate legal and historic sex-segregation that persists into the modern day with women carving out spaces for themselves where their presence is denied. A women creating a girls' wrestling team because there are none isn't creating sex segregation. The segregation already exists in the fact there is no girls' team. A woman founding an all women's college isn't creating sex segregation. The segregation already exists in the fact women were denied higher education and still have a harder time getting into higher education. Filling a need is a far cry from legal and historic segregation.

Anyway, that was a really long way for me to say that the reblogs are back on. 😂

#txt #ask #thank you for asking!

[libidomechanica]

Sir Walter hairs, or to

A treochair sequence

               1

And is hush and be you and there the assault: the fleeting careless I

hope the tree, you like. Too. How I died, and die, lift not a summer’s guise,

whereunder who I am. Way, I think some: others nodding on the

walls. A feudal knights prefer before it bore; the ghost of fire, as if

a night of a bird upon the nights, a moderns equally; if our

own cost die, sith red, like memory of uncontested surface be

my dear, through to face. Making to you appear before. Sir Walter hairs,

or to creep from those that yellows Man were I say ’Tis so, tis shine; but

I will lo’es dearly? Because, divide into the coach, will bet you leaves

the night wets me again: but soon as I make, where, now will love, his eyes?

               2

All, hard embrace of the Field-Marshals forth eternal number bodies

tangled in this strange wondrous dread? Till Miss’s compell’d, and prince de Ligne have

hemm’d with me the Two World I been some say, Your mother years: alas! What

melancholy silent, and dear deceiving the Cyprian story

of trump’s her four want of those who live what a lover; what tis forc’d, then,

to break a sucking Nymph reserv’d a Man. For Jock of sorrow at him

so. What a lover; what myself I can’t do, thoughts and crying, while the

earth of western religion quench their name before it rain is with narrow

chief that you hold up your mind might—and love the loved, burnt&blasted, an’

ken ye how way lead in safety to attack the orange, and red that

brought, who bent to mone. Her wings bewrayed, whose delight? ’ Thou hast thou told’st me

with flower springs of sight upbraids them for proud rider on the Tavern

shouts, I read o’er thy name. And on your that reigns; what! Beautiful dream

that able spirits, all is left so deare, we meets the strunt in two years,

who was a little room an age lie, ever sings, and my Love a girl,

my boy. Themselves to whom love? Whether is best; and then souls stand, then conscience

in vassalage thy merit hath should he put in swelling Despair!

               3

Flames resist is so fair discovery of rhymed to scathe. Weigh there’s a

charge; but glows. ’ And free, as the herself should we deluded human: you

shalt in womanhood complain of pith and told men in the armies of

life, and trim; but one. It is claws wept. We forged a scarf of orange ere

nights, a modest pride; another forehead cool. Because the maid; they late

be enviable. Old, and smiling race: for he of benevolent

and Thrush say, the pallid beam in shapings of all were not blame design!

               4

Impatient. Not on the world,—which, thou canst thou, my daily breeze anon,

like breath be rul’d by me; under tribe who once set down this they share it.

               5

And with his honest maids are damnably mistaken more serious

desire. And stuttering him, now a saints the tale o’ love which now

her e’re. Was carriage, o’erflow, as here, now when Love’s sake one may say, alas!

Time she thou, the Life’s offer of it or nothing. ’, He felt that light

nature to the one days will to so; for him; nor all transformed of tales

did I feel em most. Picked words of old terror doth the most! Thou God of

a lord; and sung, and look—her was a bum on than if I had thy placed,

shall enter pillars? Time driven, but will enchanted joy thou so touched

so longed a precious as they with of us, your voice, o’erworn, and she’d

said, He keep himself is resumed with bashful shame of the star-gazers,

holds good to life’s busy hum of loneliness may pay the suns are found

nothing to an earn the man say again. The cries, was carriage I did

better, and leave excellent for glory! Ah, take me, they longed a

sevenfold stormes with impure defeature, that can thousand scatter’d coward.

Thrice fairest body riddles as the honey secret knots, like a bright

should followed his hard, he known; ’ a please me; Lesley is sae fair days

together my lips it part, and is apt as next of mine may so farewell?

               6

He kiss even so she laid the tedious, and Campbell before Don

Juan, who worshipp’st at the sway of error, a tender hide: love to kiss

handsome, break into thee, to grass and silver- set; about here it whistle

mair blaw sweet. The writer of blood! From his soul, were sternest movies

from my cheeks, cries, and calumets, claymore and flatter, and Tim would be.

And as thick to cancell’d, by slaves of eternal Love, he wild. Thence chokes

her painting chambers may I dare not yet for there, disdain’d their myriad

voice happy face still to one arm that great amaz’d at apparitions

of Bow Street’s bank took it sighs that sweet musing their own quadrille.

               7

Now she with spiry turrets crowd, and sweet core. There blind Understanding

on the height of live poet called on the ladie, so did this rebellious

heart; to loves so indeed, in their ears, struck up with half-words but a

thermostat we do not longs not heed it or no? And the whole world,—which, being

soul regarde, the Memory from the cold, cold dust remain the night.

               8

Rob him oblivion oft perform the conspires. Then others like:

and now Adonis lies; it flashing no notice that great joy unto

those who still send the rent, and the soldiers, will kiss his shadow makes me

laugh for by a cyder-press, mound, unfree? Whether friend, before him, now doth

that all is settled hound, unfree? I wish resign: robert Burns: let me knows!

               9

Clips she seede, that old pleasant found something to your dear ideas, whose

name appears, that world’s delightful Herb whose Candle is the twilight

iudgement I was far as well his spent pained gloves—wheezed and grave! I ask’d

him, as one of light; through one for his eyes, ears, for tears come hindmost, holds

her hue that sad office, though of trophies, stars, and not be embrace they

are found out his fair and dead. Of Englishment, and waited on the wild

thankful rite may make fine can do. The third, the Turk’s flotilla getting,

shone like a kind of phantoms of dewe, yet do not there: an isle of the

soul is double- lock the Virgin’s mystical virgin of wrong or pursue,

and being soul shadows in a dull and my flying sap, whiskey,

on the Branches sang sweet sang, Barbauld, survey’d the maids are amaz’d brake.

               10

Lie on the world is wise or two—is gone best follow fruite of illness,

and as a pulse that dost thou, Abelard! When lofty trees supply within

the multitude, that behind himself on the great Hunter of her

linnets prefer before it be forget! In weaken’d, Man’s knead, and whither

love can rest wyde, with her head, half yielding prisoner in the tower,

little equal to replies: perch’d himself Affection. My brave Music

slumbers of a bush pression? Beauties do this your hand angels watch, and

grone. Twenty hundred kissin’ my Katie; o canst not for verse this delights

my soul: come tomb, our blanket, too sincere a poet. I should artless

pictures had stay’d, but saw ten thou God of fire, and her! Imperious

name; myrtle think to see, to framed, thus of all smother know it with

gently,—for a brook; or seen in vain; ’tis paid it as gentleman who

gads in his foul corruption is all the lucky houres. Like to no

such a calendar of which erst from his Lips, The Sage said john surrenders

And when and the sake hasts to sink, by a blast eche coste doth protectors;

nor age no need, that I of wintrye ages hence, why, the bud before

him irresistance or chaise, or little sadly seekes for its

mystical virgins blush, and thee now, its earth. That, though soon life’s busy throne!

               11

Whether golden arrow channels of their name in the baiting in the

Grape than saddens all family at random dost thou should. Are, such a blow!

               12

Than of Thamis— who bounds, when thou eternal Homer’s heart, thoughts beyond

the eve that once is know! Affection which yet I quit Abelard and

by Solomon and out, alas, why dost thou art, Thou art of quest. She

telling, but your eyes pay the Potter’s dye! From thee thou art no matter;

the things I look from its dark, and then I thought a little space, have for

heart. That dost confess, with thee, and all thought: of all. As summer dreerie death

who love’s eyes when think the fair to taste of fear; for love or brag of heav’n.

Whole self I would not to the earth doth the west or seeming to be the

more free scope for lover’s Lips are blood. Had seen what they blew up, and his

cheek, now what bitter in deadly bustle, to the treads on horse keeps on

steering once come from the name, the rage and anguish seize loves are not made

and coughed, pulled me this back who think good forth. John Bull, had grace, and forlorn,

and nothing— Oh, make you a place to flower to him, with long colder.

               13

Turn softly treasure to gratify, like that I perceived with smile; and

as lost their cash for being his yet love; though the Sun and by a

tedious proof how way lead in sadness most soothing like curious night-

wander find out of these moss’d cottage-trees I see an old men in safety

to them close: the earth usurp’d his lance, and perplex and fair. There shed

in thinks we were nor things, devouring skies may be seen mortal go.

               14

Thought to peril and obstination, not on the assail; often are,

forc’t, by saints that sweet past pleasant ease mine be no corresponsibility.

Things in her god, and quickly gone? Would not die, or mend. I askéd

a thorns gray, while you’re telephone for my face? Souring the heigh-ho!

               15

Two people, grief hath made the Stone that sad reality. They rode upon

it. Before him, the venom of it. Everything flight. For their close

the raging faire out in two Ukraine hard- believe, but lover. Where I

deaf, thy might be for the pomp of love, all peoples shall take his treasures,

look formidable curling bid me this made him to bow, who conquest

is but conversational turn. Said and darker Draught wets me again!

               16

An oven that I were embark’d, then, with sport of quest, a thousand like

hand once, Men wanting tears gave such should produce the just divide into

his hairless flown again. Has take merry with dandle; a thin she falling

brest that some future bard shalt steering up Pall Mall, the crush me; let

me at once in love did follow the cries, cap-a-pie, as the devil

in anything but—pronunciation. Small, himself, a breeze; no drum

and others. Then other’s sorry I could you to desire, forc’t, by

Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, and place no doubt, chastity, love, so

wrought but whet his rank performed of good; for when I get stopp’d the clamour

bodies ruined for those delights, thine shall lover mishaps, as dry his

true. And those who loves an added great god of fire, transformed by the wind:

and Wilderness— and which ripen’d their tide, being course, get you in the

great prove, We die where’er my own I find; affection’s Waste, there beauty,

the day by day, I watches to his soul, were sweet begins a woman

yet quick gathering gone, mine eye and would be like diamonds and for Love.

               17

The Tartars. His flanks;—but it all whole selfe he laugh to seek it; this limit

is the sighs dry her state, how exquisition light every Russ

credential that smiles, and when the British Damme’ s quite, by them all we hears

no tidings in the mind, the sea, ere shall shore. Because why such a tear.

               18

I love, in his clouds, that taught be, seeming hogs, yet may escape, and rose-

trees, lounging in my loose delicate my Fall to the world’s great a passage,

earth, or I tomuch below, but honey- dropping came a Seventh

a Moon—the surface before it should find. ’ The Muscovite flotilla,

and forgat to all full of feeling arms to walk one thinkes younger

heere abide, and embrace; incorporal— some maiden burning in the

wise men thrive well. As well to dote on, and I love my sick heart of god,

through the darts, like cloud o’er in such a one as would though all those who from

his Bond: and yet, ’ quoth shake him sleep of some were little groves and who the

crowds before the poor birds and be blooms, and loathsome catch and. In mossy

skulls the Lady deare: adieu my little rain relenteth? More that needs

in vassalage thy coral berry breed, his army’s loss so that breed.

               19

I’d grow cold and sleeping. The great! Their Heart. Hail, Poesie! My meaning lies.

               20

His very clears to-day will be! Now Ben he had she wit that her cheek

to her sleep steadfastly, the long as the Woodes thee to mee: no, no,

no, no, no, no, my Deare, let bee. Love-lacking of the ledges drives; wee

Pope, they can be well about interest if that thou Morning-tide, being

ear, to show of loue his victorian bands of nature growth of

words of spice. In shape. If you they will not lovers daily labour and

dead, blacksmith, i’ve done? I call aloud: finding than thou doest wanes; who were

not his lance, and Centaur Nessus garb of the charming as the bank. And

then they came from you, guiltie seem’d, sweet, they sat, she is no my arm. A bastard

vile, doing where, where is our lawful shall my spite, by servile round

dropt in two Ukraine had nae will hold up your waking, he hath ever

Ask why then flies; two glass; yet this beating he do? But now his great want

nothing—too thick neck in tender years, and those eyes brief forget what—a

tender least no eyes pay the batteries, cities with the Goods them in

a wede: yet kydst not of Humanity’s wiping Péhlevi, with a

breath our Feet: unborn To-morrow stands of the wind,—and gleam, the boar for

it—’t is gone, ’ quoth she. A tide of Leonidas, when I’ve heart alone.

               21

Love will make at Mornings within them; her eyes than in this bate-breeding

jets black. That melancholy silent, and caught my heart pants, when I do

loved the cause of Eloquences are hence he gives a deadly growth; then

my load and a maid, every sighs aplenty: so let it be and becomes

barters at Halifax; ’ but not kept fast, there’s my gruel! Her

eyelids, whose gently lay, he bends her comes again, and, neither husband,

were mine eyes’ red fire, saving perhaps; but a dreams now fill me why though

she hum of louers neuer know not women, and ever-musing to thee?

Have birth; where is craving, the morn; in every to song and the peepers’

den? Oh, yes, true sight the church-aisle stony helm, and nostrils, should break

into the years: alas! So are ye what the empty bee that needs a

secret Well of deep in an angry brother day! Thou like hawks will fall.

               22

For shame and great, which bred more deem’d with some little Castlereagh? Or names

want subject to inflame to tell, but toys. I may remain, here on my

heart, ’ saith Loue, now the use of Or Molu. Into a camp: I know, was

never crying, yes. Adieu ye Woodes and Beauty, believing spur?

               23

Question: but if that is in this youth as inconstant Drum! And Sally

Brown, and so I cannot swim. So that, and loving eyes; and, to move?

Beautiful, and if no pity join grief and night impress or harm, things—for

fears begun. Time what after Sultán’s Turret in at a time must go, thou

lay, which from his Ambush, so in less the charm the reason, upon the

world will I follow you hear’st me was carriages, then, thy sight dye: but,

fill the glorious eyes, her personal cupidity, so he dress,

and ease: and truth, of largeness given quantity of his world,—which, chorus-

like, bubbling, order breast, and mishap, a true Truth would say, with a

kiss from whose that I should turn on the Stars— ’fore we must beams, and on you

hold your state a notion of gentle gales from his inconstant love to

orphan saw his wealth goes on yawning glories shines so in the fisty

rings to Paraclete’s whole again. Grows that which ourself himself a

football with delays he, since I haue nought except in them ought: of all?

               24

She hand at you see. And now good-morrow to ease our escape from that

yellow and ten thousand tippy-toe because that on thee; thought so dead

and land—I have seen thrive who had perceiving white; that by long sea. And

not thine own from the Idols I had their Institute of what we cannot

write; write, venture: sith incontinual tears the wind: and the long was

sowne, and she sands, that Stella, sincere a mirror of her in the fuel

of living thy mind like Swallow field to pluck’d an Angel came: he wild.

               25

When with Science should tell yourself: you and I love me for the salt

estarnging face to die. This pocket pistol from Venus not slacken, none

in love love: quest. But, when their engineering here shall adieu! This woe.

               26

To part—but as I dream, and other’s life he left branch, but higher, until

their nest, most rank, ribands, sweetly in the devil do you strives the

one Life to life’s busy, and never quit thy power, it with me had

was who do love’s victorious charity! Just that. In ecstatic

may the down one to choke. Come, girls, withouten dreade of chronicle with

patience enough the morning fire Julia’s cheek appear before. The day

I did Cupid let me from thee to me appear as beam must forget

that the down, it seems, a hope of the hear it on my love share a rivers,

repair’d flaws to his homage unto me! And thrust, she would Prudence’

direst morn teem’d my hands, thou will, or wrinkles. Sister, Aretine, and

sweet lips with truth I must forever; the debris of many kiss her

present the honey-moon’s lasting the world have lost his fine-pointed, fetlocks

shag and battle-conjurer, John Bull the tyrants, which them into

Shape bearing tree,-are they saw thing to be at! If thou dar’st, all the scents

snatched by the hot scent of love pitiful grew theme: I have play his wounds,

but thing else to the winds and offer white, when thousands of rock, and those

we for you mayst prove fair cheek, his sour tongue? For in therefore the counsell’d,

where feeble Hope men atheists, and drill— forged a cannot find, and me

these north and me, that snap the Courts where’er you the time may stand whiskery

dot that their pray’rs; snatched beneath of Love we’ll no further, are thou see.

               27

Never dies. Gloss on world in their name, Bannockburn, as the rose responses

give it a clumsy name, the town’s all that oft my life supply But

the waltz to something: a cleft of life shrunk in his breast. Like sluices, stopp’d,

or in it thou, my free. Perhaps thee this; but a kind of Mortal butcher-

sire that can breake moderns equally my love? There men set their

weeks; the morn, that all; but I turn of dizziness. Your voice, that can all

that she in her destitute of what none can never to please, you like.

And truth, it had I Heav’n replied at noon, which else he world his hound. Nurse

to thee, and faint, and blue wind is hush and proud, because the death, and Sultán’s

Turret in ilka groves are rarely to Rest. Our bonnets, and Jesus

from suspires, with Lilia, then noon is alive, and when along

thee. Ah, come to kill. At stool-ball, Lucia, let a parrot turn to sing,

and lie, and as thought so dear. Than on couples huddled in the Tower

of sight upbraide, my little stray; and melts with no great cause he none my

hurt makes them at the chafes her pleaded, when Love’s sake only proue. And our

seven and Beauty make most dainty is one solemn light, slips bedeck

the side-lie of a’ thy father’d up, in some Strip of Beauty make though

every clears to-day be stain. When loves his arm-chair? Hard-favoured out

his strange, an’ merry hae I been woos best where I come! Teaching throat, in

my love; thou make my vision was lives, and God of am’rous charity!

               28

Beloved. I’d rather to remove, or war cuts up Love’s feet, as

so much unblest while it did dwells upon them not. Is hoarse and faith prove,

we’ll buildings a loud song and captive was stand, year upon the snored.

               29

And unhallow Venus’ liking eyes, where Venus, young, but it is

possible not their flank, the pomp of dreade of chronicle; and the making

the fires, long as that glorious paradise was a delusions high

delicious surges sinking off their own fa’ for our loathing-space. Themselves

be one that Tim’s year to you, various chronicle we have done.

               30

That simple and my hand, above him. The raging close command, Field, some

takes and accompany, can we finds no end: his vestal’s voice. Or thee.

               31

’ Into those which you a place where was not long wo in weaken’d, but kind?

Where I dare to those which she hand with other slaves on: nor ages, taught

me say good fame. Full flatters tremble to Love, in the best can escape,

and, falling Heav’n Parwín and fro a dancer, had joys no matters if

these most of Wisdom in his arrow seizeth on his pocket and lyfe.

               32

But soon, as late to this, to wanton talk of sheep are gay, whilst flower,

may serve to you; good-morning is dire. It makes me laugh and never

saw his chin like mistresses in a wede: yet as an empty house of

an angry stir, his others’ pray’r; no happie sights, doe me, and dance, and taxes

Paradise was enthusiasm and the cold, in some strikes him

say against who bear; why warbling eyes each low winter the growth’s abuse.

               33

No where the Divinity of whom the tower pale a stoic, or

lips, and if this melting friends that old Potter’s tale is, where such as the

bank of that in each shadow at his may I dare not be waded, when

this written, and chastity, love will rob the top o’erstraw’d with slight wood,

with the sea; nor, England! Lord of London his braw age o’ wit and prey,

turn’d to be thy mind makes one tenants, who bent to myself, I tremble

into the troubled, make verbal repetition of tales that in my

part mistakes, is they all that he gave: backwoods days of sight on a grand

loves his churlish swine she lov’d a Man. Heaven’s despising spy, this sterile

perquisitions ever seeks: he had waste and Frances, my ear; but

all the eye darts of Love must stirre vp winter comes our lover. Whose smiling

ran, and riots hurl’d low as the morn, roses blow it off, and fears

in me? Th’ indifferent hands from what binds us: strong colloquy

himself on the limb, low above alone, for her to fly—and Lo!

               34

Yet undiscover’d o’er me; no pulses have a sound in giving hath

wrought for its mystery. Thou, when his braw age o’ wit and ye sall be

kill’d with thy increased; and while some time, and now grown more cunning hit, shrinks

back from whome them free, as the sky, which stare, and Jamshýd glorious charms.

               35

That ever and smooth my God! A struck match his wounds mistaken; few are

so harsh kissing, or the second straight groves; our pillars? To one of mine.

               36

I swears the Field, her rash suspended and dropt a falling out a sight

the sudden waste the story. Of this placemen, ever alone: for

Jock of the Bowl from vse of the fool prays her head, and crystal tide of

Life, the course that. And labour and dry’d him seen Joanna Southey fled,

that least: there’s not set of doubt’s a globe of Honour—well, I know: whether;

and low! Great joy unto ye; and the Scales, so beauty fair; the ground,

yonder, though hardned her reason back, while with that aim and echo sigh,

and water in they go. Pure light; then I do to cancel half woman.

The man’s farewell? Till I relate the fisty rings the soul quit the forlorn,

and gluttoning perhaps, ’ though her rich with his delights proudlier prancing

wings. The politesse, and drank deeply is he gone—so much of vanish’d,

Love will leane mens fantastic bags for whom fortune those bright agrees.

               37

I think’st thou a woman starlight half a Line, nor all that befell the

road break into a tree, and all I dote upon your knife. Into their

pray’r. The Roman Lucrece there from seeds spring so long, the shepherd’s tongue.

What, without declining in the Night has flung, in mossy skulls the with

clamoured men will send a kiss that glow’r, and two blue wind serves that ’s

under whose utter’d clerk still we lover bound these most of the foremost

on the day see barren memory resides in absence saddle-bow;

if there: the honeymoon country, or from falling Heaven, but he is

resolved and bone. Where the Lot of Kaikobád and prays, when thy pray’r? Old

dreams came to strikes what seek it; this leagued you ask what hast thou gone? No

fisherman swore will fall to see. Come then play out that died the pomp to

fly—and Lo! Our legs. And was taken tea in small and unfinish’d gold.

               38

Through yonder whose sorrows, and so I can, the honey tongue cannot lack,

and then their packs. A woman bred more fatal foe and I hear horse showed

the shrink that lamps, and I’ll record after thirteenth, when he can resist?

               39

Gave him, I heard them with tears that shall be, where he counter and undetained,

an’ ken ye how Meg o’ the Master terme, my spright, I am

just mounting tongue. This said had a harmony should beside a spring

for passions in reason from the Throne. Ah let thy love pitiful dreamer,

out of day; while thy left understood calls, and sable charted for

where nature be but short, then the employes, distracted, and act is the

totality. Rather race and pray’rs nor forbidding round Diana.

               40

But cease, as late forlorn, and now I will let me go; my day’s hot course

the exact affairs is my shame’s pure lightly votes part, and that: a please.

               41

Deere the spur inspir’d! No, no, my Deare, let not as the mart when we know.

               42

Ah, lean, hateful name; she drops a browner’s jest! For thirty mock tyrant!

               43

Far from all the matter endlesse lust of all who stood being man. My

foe beheld a thousands on world that I sing of grace hath ends. Exchange

for who has stown! The wall, and by cleanly out; there sterne, and this life but

only branch and free, and fry. Whose very poor birds, deceiving gentle

chasing this rein, and send up a Polish pride; anon he was History.

Had I no eyes are but low the boar, under what one. Would be about

these faded eyes disdaine; loue fear of voices of love my persons of

flowers, a non-descript should be dated some buried in the blisses,

the soft floats the ladies could stamp me back to hers have fled frost will gain—

or none, their weather on the familiar. How he outruns through they had

burnt out, my though he be dead, lo! That may pay things which may we ran off

their banner. Juan knew nothing to be the predictability of

blood, or sworn by the sky, and Wordsworth the patience he can controvertime.

I WILL enjoy’d their home and her wings imperious chat: remove.

               44

Or fame; before, that mean that blowes the patrician, was he outruns

that can heart, and hate, but ne’ertheless lust of holes. And after nodded

at his pigtail that spie! My little sadly, how love her brothers—How

blest it shall be waste, being dew? As Wine, and most traveler, long soul of

snows, and thin are scatters and suddenly one by love. And canst not

advantage slip; beautiful in my power, whose still, let him, and high, grave,

so he saw the long sequaciously with your foreigners—and more holds her

on Ida’s shore? Or God be with his Heart then touch thou to rest, her pliant

such would speak for us. Thy naked, with hard by, made wives. Weep my

feet high again revenge is that Dervish- dances of Time is shells by

the Tartars. With Logic absolves with old Benbow; and hopes of old enjoyd

that befell then whatever happy season, upon him, Life’s Liquor

in the Breton, not as that worse and sold forget. End in the assault;

I view set all in hand winds she Death our heave in her comes. When you

shalt scorn with gentle spring bid me die, he is an imaginary

death, as those who govern’d his name so did na Jeanie wist, her graves,

but died the set their crimson cloute, they were be lov’d. Of Me and future

Fears—to-morrow, on the old, and hear us, or in a vestal’s lot!

               45

A door we missing. It! Of hope to find your heate, tho deemed I, my tears

doth favour, savour hue, and me farewell, if it could be my loose some

takes his true, tell me, Love do? A spectral rest! What bitter blows north clymes

to the tasted: make Game oft my life a long-forgotten, an’ ken

ye how the Wilderness—and whole little grief hath no great a nation:

but she, my heard, as e’er would wish you serve? Unto the right, and Earth are

twice as quickly might not under about the world amaze his finding,

mutually placed upon a tree, those describably describably

drowned with the sun itself she shrieks and knows! Before he bark blew up

in they found her intermission of the dark, and Famine. When he strikes

her she camp rung with a feather-bells, whereat she, and Antony

resident—whose ciuil wars and Wesley, and chaste is ever came here, I say!

               46

And gathered; now gazeth she hies, lounging seem’d quite persuaded a Russian

vessels lay off Ismail at whose full, for kings, that to thousand spat

in each part us! Thus do I see barrein now it not. My hart since

I had met a prey, and water pell-mell, as rotted, eyes were at least:

there be, where Venus’ doves witty, but speak grief hath not in stayed at his

swelling done him; but having. Breath a page from his long of themselves, or

continental tasted: there many, poor worst, and sometimes false polish’d

for the dogs— your beauty and forgot: that of such a greatnes of gladness,

whose fierce darts, as that some straue to Mortal! Their slight in my delight

to rate brow, its station bestow’d it anew beginning, whither heart,

when Rome’s ane; a Scottish call hit or non-payment the gate: discussion,

which was the object and rubies but if you wilt tell. Fathers not

see: some day doth quench’d in his hateful name; for proud, as hens their proud; your

depart as from pleasures; give it overcome, the breast of mad mischief

flowers, close meeting those who fly around and Kaikhosrú forgotten?

               47

And then things extemporally a woeful state a notion as a

moon she does, but blessings of Love surrenders, richly compiled, reserve

to ken, how often, like his fresh fire, that, and the main; so, at his brow’s

fall, and mishaps, as dry his arm-chair? And then please thee, thoughts dim and my

distress, mound, now enlarged deride his cancell’d, by specially if new, or

moving me into Clay: and skilful thorn! To cross the name, the blindfold

fury was my Mount Saint, and could rate but the enquiring wound and do

now. Thus she single ball, the day with most man, and much I pray take. To

me thatch-eves run; to bid the cross the Súfi flout; of my friendship’s names?

A good that can escape to friends from East has made plain, he flitted a

saucy message yields, and fill the most in Abraham’s bosom swell? Thus

truly not kept the humour of the Babylon: whether freight turn’d him

like hues all the bier with perfume like glow- worms she were out of the tomb,

our bowled and puts the dead; strong. The bosom of a fool’s cap—I hope some

twine about us—Lo, laughing, with having so: when thou and I sunne,

thus instilling the false or admired or leave him. Robert Burns: grant

flower of bloody trial,—alas! Far from this way, and pass amongst men,

like the sway of error, than she know; such a pernicious poisoned bait.

               48

I should every forbeare? Here pause, for a swallows, if we might melts in

vain endeavour: frail it invariable puncheons, as sentimental,

swore herself in her lips were, merely masquerading me, hate the

maidenhead? Daughter gladly seekes for once we love is like candles

red. Of blood, and answer’d in blackness, disturb the people breed, his others

grow white assist the slumbering was tint, her agents are the tender

Lambkins take the hot encounted boy: but hereafter his hearts of

kisse.—I have time, and thereof gate in sphere, light who bothers’ pray’d, love me.

               49

Like a sunbeam: near Ismail, and then tatter’d at Love is death-cry drown’d

in country quarters her inward buckram, little as the passionless,

herb, leaf, or ward, I could not be said that love all heavenly moisture,

True, ’ she clepes him what bargains its realms of glory, blushes us

with applause, th’ enamour’d portal hand obstination, not thy

shadow,—truth and saved my life, or thee; but bid beware, and amber, I,

when thou the thinking down face deepe move him shakes therefore. Now leaue ye she

said: the tempests of love, and surfeit, yet cannot choose. Of desire.

Suing; his snout digs sepulchres whatever we don’t know how little

across what Meg o’ the Mill was left of appears already still at

once comes Indigestion give me strangely dumb despaire hath pight: but one.

And that grace as strings mutual over our dog-chewed his the wind with

wringing mane upon Impossible keeps on steering ev’ry bead I

dreamer, queen meanest would we not be ours such whom he stream, there did show

me so? But so it charms my veins would be closely … love will breede did flow.

               50

Thought it is gone, thy fair! Exhibits strings to thee be still must needs tempt

to dwells, which be wood where his foes. Ah wretched from Fairy-Land, while of

routs and Noes, bene with paints that silly lamb that made a pearls away.

With much you that drove past, that runs apace; leaves, long as thy spell o’ wit

and consulting from no light, the maid; they lay then, how often haue wrought

it take—and always from his victims at you, tender soul quit the sight.

               51

Whatever can earth, in love you because that of Ilion, and the market

to be so steals along thy grief threw unwilling, plunder—if it

were in its strives be one travellers to choked turn up. If any other

rejoice in vision fleeting … I well the warm firm believe of thyself

when we unripe year; and my disgrace, thought that which you with my whiles,

fair; the sweets distinguisheth in evening earth, doth they not knowing cold?

               52

If thought it is a moment o’er little while you are, for my sighs, still

are on the boar with leaden appetite, unapt to hear nor

Gotterdammerung but a’ the Mill wastes, and those poor girls becomes from her woman

but that Fount drew from his ill repayde, the moon—cold weighty Babylon:

whether half in mine eyes as much; for non-payment ere by her sights,

that trembling, the altars blaze, and a base he run or fourth at this bending

on all I know no fair and done, his jowls fat as a Nun breath, what

the venom’d sores and play, mirth an echo chamber—ran upon his step

had two eyes o’er; that all; but none in Song like feature, that with her her

winter comment upon thy soft lips, together head, which bred in the

lift on her foes pursue, rise in; no end: At this wings. Had grow. Sans Wine,

and a widow’d nation; but that—he believing look’d on, ere frozen

chastity, love shall dance with a widow’d nation about intermine

what things raise euen fil’d my guiltless passions workmanship of Herbage steam,

as they are as he lay beside it, and hours’ land, which she be dear, through

and night: the earth was liberty a slight all thou destroyd! Gives it for

a brook; or sat amid thee oft maisters admire, is resting conflict

or waste and lie to thy looks like their light, that glance by his plain till you

the tongue, then Cleopatra lives that thy to be Nature growth, which them.

               53

And both white dress, they knew she would have this the far-fam’d Grecian hour gave

high, grave, so wrought, ere such as Wine you then, I have no cowards them harm.

Fair Nine, for four sute doth she begins to wet his heart who, like a ghost.

It said he, I would peep; the sun doth with some slight that vertuous sometimes

whoever sallows gather’s hair. I give the same: sweet, yet some future,

away my body, layer, the spare, love, how God was on our tender

sprung from the fault, nor braided hand obstination fresher, all the quest.

               54

However would restore it like birds sweet change to say the second fear

him; but honey to slay, or be you out the eve this kind loved friends before

we comes, adoring cruell miss with true when I thought them twere picture

of all-confess my debt should hoist my military brother, if his

senseless and hath bounds, and we in us, waiting trouble;—I wish me

to gie her comes love, about dream! Be kind love within me thy verge it

is true son, no vapours do wreckes auoid. Drink to fancy while we crouched

her weel again she hum of louers ruined fortune flout, Friendship is feeble

for they could not whether my footing air, and with you this sense, or

dies, strong as twenty cannonade, but of silver shadowe of any

love all things in the morning because I don’t hint, by Machiavel, by

Rochefoucault, and glutton dies; and the west singing, chiefly in me.

               55

To the that campaign; and in my love you therefore ye worn; ye grots the

world may say, See what you stands she just soft cheek discloses, the sweetly

she meeting, knocks at my feet. Into my arms doth he, expectation

will all but where London’s sel’; nae gowden stream; for once prov’d; her kills through

the various eye darts of griefs I left me, yet would slip into the

better: lest that his tomb bestrew whereon we lean never seas at rest,

the same, I felt himself, his blown out in Wales. And in his exist abode;

assist the twilight and where our next morn teem’d Cossacques for such

plain I see somewhere I something love for his glory still, which way she

meet thefts to me? Johnson, when kind. In preparated from each other

in young folks with rigorous sport me; two stream, the tail’s a diadem,

with a widening from his slow brow and govern’d his native error,

a tempest and foul fiend from never did the world with slaughter in his

teethin’ a spoon; o merry hae I been supposed at me; He began

to greet: I have done my hearts move: so offer of life. Who with a tear.

               56

Nor tears doth facts. My dumb with dearth was locust on earthen Bowl of Nights

which stared. In her eyes, at whose utter’d walls where stern, lest she dote on, who

late authors ask’d my brow blushes speak, how Peace upon the rose-buds in

visits with her haste, and oh, ’tis no time to time when noon is gall, is

fancy form’d like and hope of mortal vigour since thou art thou find’st one,

me and strong as twenty time that which you saw me that light, and weary

gait his doubled; that Juan was pale, like angels watch them in a vestals

and alone beneath thee, excuse of all discourse, I don’t different hands

throne, and starting to an assault. Most the most mistresses and clear. His;

then imagination: but only moisture on the breeze care: which is

me the bathe men, but her way. Their efforts shouts—and Loue, do the whirl’d in

the far-off from yonder whose name into the tears, when a’ was done. Some

boats, and aspirant to love me to try to know’st not reproved it—

’t was one- and-twenty times thou shalt liquor, numb to the hunted boar,

and full-grown lately bore into thee thine imaginary death-wound,

yonder whom? To the extent of Reckoning yield, like a shipwreck’d and within

that set of armies of loue. A soft star shooteth from whom I love

do? Thrice fair arms and act is old, and nights, with Logic absolves will tell!

               57

Yet Children of peace, those eyes blaze, and thy father did but lover; what!

Awake! For a score of the Lord of Night has flung the awkward daybreak.

Think that she, and last spares to sweat, for love! Is useless and bids me preuaile,

that he did pass’d for the smooth all to naught, the luck and his frumpy

home and blest when most miserable charm’d, are very things are abhor me?

One the heart; come, I could all outward scrape. Like this carriages, and such

gloom! For increasing seen: mine, where art than that I restrain firm state, things,

streight years would pass’d crest, an eye still love, and the Lip of Beauty and more

delight? ’ She clepes him king hero in them by day and now grownd before

him as any throng: with the moon stops his courteous influence,

stood before, and sung, at either man nor wherein all the Seed of the

moulds from far; draw me on my body, and his brawny side, ladies, all

loose all lies! And I’ve added great oath I will not fear where you I love

her grief three- thousand company, can buy, till Cherry ripe themselves witty:

in they could still instructed in all the world be it was on the

way in dreams! Torches to rest, show’d like a Jade her freight me from the sea!

               58

To read with he, in earth’s sovereign balm derive, and precious proofe shield me

her come, I could say, for share, mark to pipe his woe. But Juan was he root

the world’s Te Deum, ’ and hoary, across to see such aureate the time, that

infection finde, and on their perfect, his look along the impartial

immortal foe and in a Noose or true, ’tis true, but one who with that

kindles red. And breathed for think’st thou wonder, and the wolf would thou drinking

eyes watch the Five pearls, or it on death-wound, the cursed Malayan crease why

strikes her linnets pretty railway ran: a fire—brake with blame, where tame forth?

               59

Her pleading spies, or trots, as she rough of a town surrounding in his

hard embrace, or if I can’t well being with his ears broken station;

so thousand and Kaikobád away. Speech did see how to the Divinity

in polished a walk silent and pass’d a reconnoitre, in the

open parlour windy sighs wi’ me? And my misfortune’s master, cleaning

sap, whiskey, on the abandoned skins. Gazing up his eye, thick

answering on the West; the tryste, to several volumes and forth a

considerable charms my versts from mine eye,— though unseen Powers and shook

the other flower, which I could not vary, is calm, to overshoot

high nor envy them leave with false eyes doth that though unseen unto the

elder timber cotes to himself in a hoard of the fire; full in vain.

               60

I’ll behold the murder, ’ and Bis Millah! To lose my hand, whether that

merchance traduce; no enviously with blame; its kiss will rob thee would

all be cramped in my breast such as deserts led. Of baser subjects to

move to take you go to the camp of power, which a good will make

defeature, away this shadow fell all fall to reveal’d, no craving, the

son, and wanton, dally, smile a harmonies keep piling race onely

vnto the garden I spell? She life, in his teeth rotted, ere she clepes

him with insinuate; that scent and disliking eyes, ’ just as ever

given quak’d, threw unwilling for you except fast asleep, and the

length was liberal and proud; your striction, to attend: so division’d bowers

Must I roll, and only was oxter’d, and fall attend. For ylike

tumble grief may be myself, seekes to- night, sweet desire; they looks

familiar Juice, to see it—the window, and watches; squire Pope, the birds,

gusts and such a false of dewe, yet with Zuhrah wrought, ere Time renders, survive,

but bless travels to the chaffe should. Thus she humour of fashioned married.

It is a gardeth, sleeping orphan saw and something is certain,

and not right come heiress or harm, to be the dame; and bending by the

world, on wings, why, thy palfrey, as half-demon, and takes him by their light!

               61

So we who stood; and, being spy, this cured its Treasure pass’d crest now its.

A water another grace my heart. Especial jury of your own

protest, end with dandle; a things oriental oaths I quit, their pay:

and ev’ry hymn to her store, flies my mind wild and deserve his court to

that once may be staircase at anchor’d at Loves delights, a mortals know!

               62

Than to greeting, and puts out grass and limped down Adonis with all to

drop too soon forgot my grieve that waters and love is death was not so

unkind in Ettrick’s short, that scene of Wolues to impede the wauering

light. For idle over serpent I must burn to live pattern of his

wound as glad I several language broke here it shouldst thou do it for

love by the shore, their Cup a Round or two— is gone another annoy;

but three decker’s oaken spine athwart then the flying; give him to he

cries, cities, strong than the love: backward shall have stole his fatuus to thee,

your faire to an aspire to the rain is with eye or face deep as ocean,

booze in thy poet’s eyes, you keep into her; she cannot tell in

the green dale: the dull night, ’ quoth hear; and to be embracing, like harness’d

up, for summers come awakes me laughs and somewhere, then, though he trouble

wrong when presse, your failing, deflow’ring gone, are the rider’s as good,

while before. Bird that did I sow, and thereof gate in sound of laws; but

soone will not be, as I would be, if you will, we touched, I’d grab your

flatter: then them free, and broke in my love, she take the Cup, and sold myself—

and you say: be hypocritical, we touch even Diogenes.

               63

Now in vain youth of conditions, where they but slanted Sword. And Bahrám,

that his light, that, like thy please, which men will should have in women her many

a coruscation, which we Phant’s and precision: affection by

tinkling span, the fire, translated my life, at thee unrip our

hospitality. From on his fair, should hear him so giv’n to flattery; but

whilomel, which needed from vases in Wexen frame, take back to captives

just that Adonis liv’d and his words come—falling for you These faded

eyes wood, and sunflower was tender voice inside the high wind, when

a’ was the random gales the son and weep; desires; and oh, ’tis true

as all thine in his homages,—is yet dewed with flowers the child.

               64

Then of mists anywhere. Themselves: I’ll was blue regiment’s all his she

reveal, to burn a tomb so simple because the cold, dull night the mourning;

whilst the flood-gates breaks the world, and roar of sight the Sexes rose heart.

Wherever arose, he on her fear where Melodies round her green dale:

the Vessel on high our shrink. Like birds between his nod, and is apt as

next to you, and flowers lie dejected, what it is not amid a

crowds itself shall be before men will consolation oft perforce in

love first the very sighs, and by this toes, I know some new convulsion

to with the same Garden-croft; before herself and aye she seede, there we

lives and with tears. That he had but later fall she did see Julia’s head.

               65

I know which brought have I to take me to mee: no, no, no, no, no, nor

care, and in a thing to the last to persuade his lasting on untamed

with pain did moue, they were telescopes for a time that neighbours so

true, that in each other husband. For shame and be one dire

imaginary death-wound, was come by smelling birds sway this duties chariot,

rolling on that wax so freedom’s Door, slave of the sale of glass of

London’s fall: an uniform. We were in the centuries ago-a

sword blows to impeded by women, and pray’r; no happiness a slight

kiss my song. Kiss by kisses steadfast peaceful hour ago, to themselves

that shadow in more bitter as the broad sun is sinking through the swears

after line, no stays, had no herds. Or what the roll the cross before that

the bayonet their haram education, and all therefore of

majesty; let me so light, what no more ungainly clasping and tunes her

image charms or crest, the very sight; thy mermaids were men shall be his

wings, hinder legs and then I desires come to Mars no thoroughfare.

My free scope, more and beauty under crackling streams they see both of common

Earther prickles, yet may servile, a nurse, get oppos’d the bark blew

up, all nymphs, more am I? My stinging, or like light-bomb; Depart not—

lest it lay the hills of day, whose sinewy thigh toby-spice so fair.

               66

With love to your name, and one discussed his swell they heart? Her brows o’er Sir’

and has plays: hither is it doth little talk with what story? To song

vexes my boy made to leave thee, gaze on me prism of thine in piece.

               67

Why, what did moue, they lay the sun that one. And bears, and Loue, now warmer

still with pale ivy creep for however, rarely found to wail his great

precept fast his honour! It sight: and ye sall no Question: I don’t pretence

choke. My sting, pure, was to make up old at lengthening well, so nutty,

and in our contrive, get opposite an Atalantis; but none setting

under about these are mad, unless the most fairest for us.

               68

And fright and living people have fled? This carriage rings do slay the Tavern

shouted, Allahs’ now can tell of Fame is there meaning one’s own bride.

               69

Do we move as we are, for ever serpent cover’d thy unbraided

hands of sainted a font of the beare than all I leaves roar, and isolate?

With repent old Potter terme, my little dog will gain—or none lay

beside a signal’s veins fill’d in quest. The arrow and undetained,

and what sucked and pride tis also bonfires made the Lyons house bench

has supporters, agues pale cheeks abroad the dew-bedabbled with soft

had been. The secret missed us off from far; draw near under what to

talk with due precautious matter your tender spring so long because

the lightning tree’s support his spight to spin on, it is better’d at his

lips in her can entomb it racks, prison’d show, is the wren thro’ his dead,

shuffled and sweet babes? Speed them again; her more of no woman now? Surely

unto him, so that set, I’ll help she clepes him say after a

drows’d with inward grace, one tutor, that I can make eye-water with its

sage or presented a saucy message finde, cupids knot to loose all

the sky, from piety course was under: their bacon. Sworn by them red

and some party toward, I could turns Ashes— or it more reflection’s sent

from some record of bonie Jean. Virtue thus she just soft deceits, but

inspired and roar’d of lamps, and blue instead of thy mouths: Echo answer’d;

fool; who thought dead; and ever-blooming flow’rs gaily clad, besmear’d that suck’d.

               70

’Twas but a stitch on to slander foode relide. My coward: you that he

to get it be. Everything like an eager gentle boy that were Frenchman,

oh Jack and be for ever. Nor pricking heart, presaged good as me;

for which her cheek disclose; so thou canst not be easily might melts with

the play, ye village, and that so adorn’d to Heav’n; dispute my Fall

together fall, as gay and thereon we lean never would we not too base?

               71

I can’t open hate! I love is or should at my heart to save a sort

of gold; then Cleopatra lives; here sinner, pursuers in the law.

               72

Continual kissing by this piteous livery to repeat how

my head to- morrow sounds mistakes away, mid-day heating it shall have

leisure, or chides she adds honor, or some wretched the Spirit seems false

dark smell of rest, when thy voices of Time is sterile, but in all moult

away his proper place. Of which shake a Couch—for which brought in vain. ’Tis

not all will several voluntary pains: ye rugged rynde, and went

against venom of than anything dew? Droop, drew in short, through light and

so know a heavy stone who once again! These, and flowers lie in bed,

teaching, some unseen a Duke no matters he fond Phant’sie, this proper sight!

               73

In islands by hundredth part of thine,—though is enormous city’s wiping—

oh Khalífah laugh for the sun, a golden quill and upon theft.

But let there is the twilight’s tear. Had I be in love can insert but

lovers say the tyrant! Hands, rose her they fall, m ontgomer y, rich

reward, old Wisdom! The moonbeams of date and love or bitter blamable,

what the eye and drew ill his brow’s fall, m ontgomer y, richly

compiled, reserves the angel pure free; sounds, and rocks her settle which

caparison to join; and, being to be done to give it overcome

innkeepers whose are the influence of the filching eye, teach me natural.

And wakes the object was your eyes watch that great lamps of Westminster’s

mellow fields below! The day by day, now on the kind love immortal

clothing grave, solemn light, in promoting sow’d to dream, the moon, dark she

fragrance rose, sith inward buckram, little else. Envied, I, lesse the thief

so well: the soil of the rural loves flame! And by women after him!

               74

Dead; seen they had him loiter beside my power of feeling: for her

bosom of it or nothing—Oh, make her contend: it shall be the fields

with which some other silver breast; they know a heart is his sorrow seeme

my pype I needes bothers ever. Than is the Russians now for wanton

in want dug up against a foe, or Fate prove false darts for pass the

Caravan starts at stream, and on thy virgin- treasure shame and laugh’d an

Angel within this metaphysical dismisse from the hurls her in

his span had been call’d Thomson; all amaz’d brake off metaphysical,

we are the breathe still ready borne in his army’s loss so made a signal

to immure heire of man: he ran off their west, the knolls a dozen

angry brother, but a world’s coward fate; tis sure I deaf, thy spirit

all your own. Fast, as air and go. ’ It makes no fierce will constant love’s ghosts,

and take! Of fresh variety of wo painted idol, image charms.

               75

In shade of fresh remain, he mightst thou to rear, with gently. Wonder about

the pleasures round. But whether heart hath nought t was my word to answered

in a breathing-space. The other’s woe, as soon maun be mine, who loved

the corporate the little think of that thy mind. Harps she red more. Yellows

and fourscore can entomb it racks, priests, too, such existence who with dread?

               76

Said another names are as gold as indigestion mount then will I

lose thong from the rider’s angry stir, his other, if he did flowers

are foreigners of all. Put forthwith childish lullaby? Cupid, as one

of the Turks could not wakes that glittering up thou made a face, but Lust’s

wings. And where I’ll record a few poor heart of deans, and where misses, had

been obliged to the mind, a lily white a foe: this night should be cautious

dukes, but slant of ivresse’ in love to weeping marriage rings unseen

across what a horse is gone, ’ quoth he be dead, black-fac’d cowslips bedeck

the lassie, fair flower spring, the fort, coward her, and leave this light,

from his light upon thy powre, their haste, one Glimpsed their own ditch below him,

and every way.—More like you urg’d that old warrior’s speech coming flower,

it were before her face, her eye; both favour, some slight me you depart

as fruite of fragrance roll there were be not his slow and despatch in glass

of Love, Hope, and Death into the color of my Deare, let it survives.

               77

Thought me you in the daylight yet forged a pretty, to drop and warm days

of war and restore it shall be waited but them droop no more; subject

to take up before the heart alone could artless first detachment of

this fame marshals forth by their hide: look’d, and sung, and the merciless a

laborious world’s Te Deum, ’ and hath nypt my rugged rocks hang their fishy

smell to her; she tree,-are thoughts unlike whate’er is Born of your vows,

your finger fit; for lovers’ eye; but then, I had my life’s journey take

it stirs in her endless fear, back together; and wish you a place, then

imagination? But wi’ miscarriage; scarce ane has made no answers

him bring ye loved you. Captivate pain as if she wild waves rainbow frill?

               78

Are those names grace. Aisles, and green leave for one? The next, the spur inspire

to mee: no, no, no, my Deare, let bee. Blow, blow, for my sake hold youth that

picked man’s named Smith; one the rain is in my dark sea-line looking and tear

mermaid now, the object and still, having blue ladie was nothing—Thou shalt

be my leading rose cherry, the van. Nor will; you have loved friends, and miles

to cease, sae common sense I ran, and drew ill his bride, their surprise

a sort of good endure, to thee my love will kissin’ my Katie! Upon

him, as thou canst not touched her face in the wauering his tears; take back

doth keepe: als of green field’s combine between them still reply: she is burning

age will she common, and whispers in thy hairs, where I was far off

for had him again repeat nine name, and Antony resides the veil.

Die. That Life to lie her cheek melts with thine owne self I would find her

believing higher view. Courageously behold thy balmy lips at his

words whisper’d fairy look from his very much less to the time may be

a resurrection taught that’s put to steadfast peace, she told that while from

which I desire, thoughts to use to be seen the dreadful trade is but

cannot reject, and on yon hill, that Boy, proue. All is he now obeys.

               79

Desire: courage to talk of course they sell. On as I enters far—

ye may tell men, in lieu of a part of the predictability.

Nails rusting of the Vessels one intellectually within the unback’d

breathe new name away his teeth, who will doth he huntsman hollow him!

At Morning fruitless most of all a Chequer’d? Upon the flocks kept the

sweetest of the world forgot, no sonnets, and love so much wrongs be dry.

               80

And it in Miracle. Why, all my hand on their days dragged slowly love

so liefe: let him of truth, Lust full of fraud of precautionary hints

can makes it invariable puncheons call’d in sleep. So are you want.

               81

Thereof, your tender heaven, or, like this boisters and unlade heroic

bustle, to myself and much the beauty with the better bandages

and watch’d with wealth well be the beats, and long wo in weakening and

worse and sooty the tale of my sommer burnt&blasting undismay’d, she

trembling, thinking so overflowed dost lend to his mother joy of mad

mischeife the iron bit he can wake up the trace, wilere feeble for

whom he springs her arms, drying the Rose blows chill; and broken starts, like

circumspecting. A passport, or I have way in which shadow for when

Romeo boots it through lecturing nights, to leave for one are chase; hunting

his love to a wedding me in your tender-ship, you but buried

he: a winged snakes of silver-set; about it lustily, and dead you

need not be ours so truly, when he call alacrity: the shakes him

seen as they had arms, as short as twixt the moment of love: question mountain

of pith, where Philomel, while shepherd’s tongue, and lain in the charms my

veins? Who hast not cold, wett, and cream commitments for as lost again. Whom

love like a delicious village. I arrive where Philomel become.

               82

Cast by subtilty, or the warm in your waking, Die, oh! By those faire

skin lies deeply is here thee? Our letters, your thee on my poor instruct

me other recklessness, or a fairy part, and that theirs who did not

for lacke, that things and not in her cherished from a cushion a preached and

picks together True, ’ she alternation? How she would say more. She and

promise always crowd of snow, despite the bet and I do, sweete, for Love.

Fair breed a soldiery to determine what merciless and what a

masquerade, and bears the waltz to so; for Jock of his vestal’s lot! Or

wherein my busy hum of cities, tombs and useful, on the den of

the twilight not fear; it told and being past sometime and reluctant

moon back that it will love, my deer; feed where on thy Herrick dies, strong; I

hate’ from the dare. What reigner’s quest. He gaed wi’ Jock of Hippocrene, whose

globy rings to set there was so much or little snakes of things grow. Take

me to take here are thoughts are born to steals alone, shades ev’ry day, this

kind lovelorn women, but sorrow. And whence, and arms I put my

beclowded stomach, mounted on country people write to several language

rather Attica; or hands from so much thee, and spleens bear him dead.

               83

At least no lesse folly is come—falling leaves, and title doom, and

Eloise? To do with her heard or a kiss her answered if her mother

see how Meg o’ the violently he had squeezed him to those than a hurry;

thus that Sage marvel thought vndertaken in contrived to obtaine sweetest

becomes in Wexen fraught by greedy men, though not knowing west? That

all short as on their best lad, had I the signal to sport; a herd beneath

the midway slope of yonder at beyond there’s a fine boy. They

love like a Jade her face with her cantos of Cossacques for steeple.

               84

Even themselves be one True Light kindle to Love, rather bosom it

should, by heat, my busy through little quest, as controls. Thou stil, and chastened

als them noise, a course the Russian or Castilian? The peopling Earth

with sacred cheek that lamps, and those poor people have my Love’s feelings

orient drop too stormie face, but mission, we only made the accredited

diplomatists of me smooth to view how she altered cheeks; their malice?

Worse for nothing to her side, but helpless more chaunting himself within

the presented Manuscript and so in my brush came to cure a

medical experiment about to the maps thee hated name in

the empty skies, a non-describing to the Frenchman, oh Jack! Cupid,

as in her eyes but in the Dove, that eats up on one poor girlond dight,

I am just excuse! Under and died to make up before that all

thy Piety nor Wit shall entertain what a war of sleep each her

hear, with certain shouted—Open they spend ye. Where the Smoke of Hell shall

contractions to her; she cannot get; she can, be yours, now—but a show?

               85

Or seemed as the whole little overthrown, as if this country dance, for

a look; possess one in me, the grief and poor. It is his ransom the

insulter warped his face amid their fishy smell without herself before,

th’ indifference. ’ Nay the saddening gleams of the world and swell; let

Prudence’ direst maids arranging the paines spring. He lovely Head.

               86

Its crown with him how to the charge; who will environ a courier

to o’er-arch all where the brook, that the sea. With mercurial skill from

hilly boy, from her Lips, The Sage under crawling course, I must go, and

Death and now his little times that died unto the lot of living noise.

               87

For aught to grown domes with loath’d satire, i’d try conclusions, signs,

and Rousseau, when they rang on her baggage, or buskin Pouskin, alike

to awakes the maids were immortal, could repose; which love do? The

Sultán scarcely move: sayes that can enter; his eye. Thou to Loves delight,

and lastly, by your hair soft had been woo thee to me. The Moon of love

is discover in our frailties her; and I do, sweetheart from its dark

she fair can form a slight was t to he cries, let go, and spleens bear throw.

In search of strange is the great precious progenies his sour to rear, whose

Candle is the cares nothing at a game that are either form, what love

th’ offence, more fast his troubles how the body in the whole world!

               88

And wrung it. So sweetly in her silver the deep, dear nature, that beneath

the rights in the devil is it to say you go through seeming in

his brain, all nymphs, and the accredited diplomatists of glory

as I dream, thought so he with eye or ears and whorl, how will all the gold

as in the unusual clasped betweene the night? Men, whose smiling spur? A

rib’s a thousand wane in his wings; but the sheepe, iealouzie hemselves in

a tomb a fear, back together until the most! You were wont to vs.

And thither flowers to thee, and thy beau, Ben, to sail with him. And

sleep and purple get, each higher, the vines, in the hangs over a poor

girlond dight, it seeme my heauy grace. I never faire to be of your vows,

you are damn’d; that Adonis sits, luncheons, and if I love is in hot

blood and the woods and from mine appears men’s mind! Is to the others ever

strikes him for my duty. ’Er whom the baying of such small and useful

all that inward eye still, to show how much to climb; through veils. For these

fancies bitte to the chaffe for you It makes it is redouble from his

shadow in they model wrought forgetters afternoons he passions never

the number’s shame. To sail for cash for blood and gave warm apple on.

               89

Singing so mock-solemn sympathies, and by cleanly out; they lay they

find softness of them all: the sun hurried he: a winged snake, and when Jove

of office, or river star shoot his horse, thou unask’d my flame. Like a

tricks, to chokes her neste: howe haue gathering ruffian share, mark to the burns

with his sharp eye of a gun, his slain, and something but forgot: that will

has gotten by Despair. Be there—and gathering rust that—he believe

it, if no pity,—juan, as lately at ransom, because I drink that

dare equal to impede the more, if you I love is our love! Since on

behind himself in his handsome, Petulant she looked out. The signal

to immortal butchery of sorrow, when thieves into the Abbey:

the fate shadow of the Elysium and gravity because it

what traveller; every sighs and each other again the rolling leave

thou destroy their Cup to read in a wedding the zits that simple village

steal a kiss.-Pale; but the darksome play, blush, but known men, than on couple

of all to your next neighbours by her constant heart pant upon the

Continental as Mozart before it balm, earth’s fair: and yet noble.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #155 texts #treochair sequence

[darkdevasofdestruction]

A Thousand Year Love ~ Ryomen Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader

Okay, I wrote the Reader's name as "Kitsune", but that's mostly because I envisioned a nine tailed fox without an actual name, that everyone would just call her "Fox" as if she wasn't anyone worth naming, despite her rank.

This is a little fic which explored Sukuna's supposed backstory, 1000 years prior to he action of Jujutsu Kaisen - Idk if it's accurate, I didn't yet read the manga, I still have 6 more episodes from the anime, but I had this idea and I couldn't stop myself from writing about it.

Most of it builds up the bond that very slowly grows between Sukuna and Kitsune, then snaps during a scene somewhere around episode 4 of the anime, when Sukuna takes over Yuji's body, and Yuji can't switch for a while, but with enough altercations that it's not exactly the same as in the said episode.

Hope you enjoy this <3

-------------

"What are we doing here...?" Kitsune asked her parents in a voice that was barely audible as she looked left and right at the huge estate's gardens.

Estate? Rather said, palace, since this place was grandiose - Most likely, even more so than the Emperor's own Palace, the girl thought to herself. Everywhere she looked, cherry, plum and pear trees were in blossom, even though it wasn't their time. Statues and little shrines, along with various small pools with flowers, lanterns and lotuses were scattered as much as her vision would allow her to see. Looking up at the estate, she realised just how small she was in comparison to the intimidating and imposing energies radiating all over the place.

"You are going to meet someone very important, dear." her mother spoke, yet her voice wasn't as gentle as usual, rather, it sounded stiff, on the edge...Almost afraid, maybe? It was foreign for young Kitsune, as she has been confined in her little palace her whole life under the pretext of keeping her safe. But it did exactly the opposite, she believed, considering she itched to explore and go on adventures with each second passing. "Who is it?" she asked as soon as they stepped inside the palace...But it was so dark, save for the red, malicious light from the lanterns and candles lit in just the perfect places so it would guide them to the room they had to go to. "...You will find out soon." her father snapped at her, and she could only frown, her fluffy ears flicking as her tails wrapped protectively around herself. She knew something was wrong, and she had half a mind to believe she was brought there as a sacrifice for some War Deity that would allegedly save them from this era of war...Or something along the lines.

After a longer walk than expected, they found themselves in front of two large, red doors, and without any kind of reticence, Kitsune effortlessly slammed the doors open and saw a dimly lit room with a few stairs and a throne where a man with short, kinda spiky pink hair, garbed in a loose, white kimono was smugly sprawled over that royally embellished chair, while tons of gorgeous women dressed in the most luxurious kimonos, their hair done up with intricate headpieces and flowers that would put any living being to shame...

But what is this about? Kitsune was more confused than anything, and she could only step inside the room, slowly and carefully, before turning to look at her parents, who had a pitiful look in their eyes.

"What is going on?" Kitsune demanded an answer, her voice agitated, her body ready to go into a fight or flight mode, her eyes darting rapidly between her parents and the man on the throne whose name she wasn't interested in finding out. "Well, darling...You see...You had to find you a husband. You are old enough to be married, and you can't stay with us forever. You need to have a family and children. You are the princess of the Fox clan, there is nobody more beautiful than you -..." her mother tried to reason, but the young girl wasn't stupid. She understood what was going on. "No. No. If you want to speak - Then speak the truth. Don't lie to me. This guy is strong, isn't he? Some kind of demonic thing that everyone is afraid off. You are giving me away to this guy...To be his...Thousandth concubine in his harem or something, just because you're too weak to take care of our kin. That's the truth, isn't it? Go on, admit it. Stop trying to sugar coat the situation." her nine tails opened from around her in a large, undulating fan, making her aggression obvious, as fire began to immolate the tips of her fur. "SHUT UP, IMPERTINENT, UNRULY CHILD!" her mother slapped her face, not wanting their benefactor to hear his future concubine speaking so foul of him. "You are a woman, and the princess, nonetheless, and your role is to continue our kin and obey your family and husband. Do not speak unless you are allowed to!" but before her mother could grab her face, Kitsune's tail slapped her hand away, and she stepped back. "I am nobody's toy. I will not obey anyone's orders. Not yours, and not his. I will not be just another concubine for some disgusting, good for nothing lecher with no redeeming quality." the girl snarled at them, ready to make her escape out of there, if needed. "If your sister was alive, she would have sacrificed herself for the greater good of this family! You are nothing more than a selfish brat!" it was her father's time to accuse her, which made her ears perk up, while her tails completely deflated. "Yes, of course, how could I forget. It was me who should have died, not my perfect elder sister. Sorry, but you should curse the Gods, not me for that. But, since it seems that my life is meaningless to you, then I will make you a favour! I will end it myself! I'm sure you'll be happy without me, won't you? Ahh...But how will you save our war-ridden? Too bad I won't be alive to witness your demise, huh?" with a dark chuckle, Kitsune's hand went inside her kimono, taking the small kodachi sword and unsheathing it, hearing only the gasps and shrieks of fright from the harem girls. Kitsune could only guess that these girls were all high-born and unfamiliar to the horrible things happening outside of these walls. "What the hell are you doing, you idiotic child?! Cease this madness at once!" her mother shrieked at her, lounging towards her, trying to stop herself from impaling that blade through her body, and yet...

The second the girl launched her hand down to stab herself...She got stopped. The whole place became instantly silent, save for the sound of a blade bouncing down as it fell on the wooden floor. "Enough." a dark, annoyed voice resounded through the place as Kitsune's wrists were grasped by the man's...Front hands? While her body was immobilized in an embrace by his other two arms. "I was promised a beautiful princess as a concubine, and you failed to do as you promised. Leave, before I get bored and kill you." he threatened the two adult fox people who scurried away in a hurry, leaving behind their only daughter without a second thought. "You, however...Will remain here." he chuckled in her ear, but Kitsune wasn't one to be messed with. Her answer came in the form of lighting up her tails on fire an wrapping them around the man, who hissed and unhanded her, allowing her enough time to go into a corner and get in a fleeing stance. "Why did you stop me? I have no intention of being one of your whores. You should have let me end it right there." she scoffed at the man, who dismissed the bottom pair of arms and laughed. It was almost a psychopathic laugh, she thought, and it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up - Unsure if it was from fright or disgust. "You amuse me, little vixen. Very much, you amuse me. Having a little fox wag her tails around this place, all fired up, would give some sense of fun, wouldn't you say?" his voice was grating her, and she only wanted to sock him in the jaw. "Keep on dreaming. I'm not your toy, and I'm not here for anyone's entertainment. You have enough girls in this place to amuse you. I'll be going now, and even if you chain me, you can't stop me from achieving my freedom." Kitsune growled at him, slamming open the sliding door that would lead into the balcony, from where she could jump the hell away from there. "You proved you value your life even less than your parents do, so chaining you would do nothing. I have never seen a woman as fiery as you. All the ones I have are the same. Meek, soft...Afraid. Boring. They all like the same things, and hate the same things." he groaned pitifully, evidently bored out of his mind. "They hate you, don't they? You want women, but you don't bother treating them right. Can you get even more typically terrible? Pitiful and disgusting, that's what you are. You just want to break people for your entertainment. You are nothing more than a selfish megalomaniac. No wonder you are in need of entertaining, you are thoroughly boring." Kitsune's degrading words, however, didn't seem to phase the man at all - In fact - It made him laugh. Never, in this life, has he heard anything this degrading before - Everyone tried their best to appeal to his benevolent and merciful side - To at least spare their lives. He was stronger than anyone alive, so nobody dared speak up in front of him. It was obvious she had no idea who he was - All the better - He thought. "Ryomen Sukuna, missy, but you can call me your Emperor." that confident laugh was enough to drive Kitsune up the wall with anger as she stomped to his side and actually punched his jaw. It was annoying - The height difference - As he towered over her entirely, but at least she managed to reach where needed, little miss firecracker. "Piss off." the fox girl growled in anger at him...And yet...He only...Laughed. And he cupped her face, getting his own so close to hers that they could feel each other's breaths. "You. Are. Mine." his grin was so wide and sociopathic that he might as well have had his face split in two. "I will never be yours. I will never be anyone's. I'm not an object. I will not obey anyone. The second you leave me out of your sight, I will flee, and you will never see me again. And if I can't, I will find a way to kill myself. I have nothing to live for, but everything to die for." Kitsune bared her elongated canines at him, and gosh, was she enticing. "And if I get rid of the harem?" he asked, not bothering with everything she talked before. "You'll be a heartless jerk who'll destroy

the lives of so many women." she refuted just as quickly. "And if I don't fuck anyone but you?" he threw that, wanting to fluster her, but the fire in her eyes only ignited even higher. "As usual, you can only think with the wrong head, can't you? There's nothing to you but your stupid little prick. How pathetic. And you call yourself a man. Go die in the war or something." she grabbed him by the loose neck line of his kimono, only to hear him laughing condescendingly. "But darling, that just couldn't possibly happen. I am simply too strong to get killed. Everybody fears my power, why else do you think your parents were so willing to give you away? They were weak, just like you said, and every weakling needs the help of Ryomen Sukuna, Japan's own God of War." this statement made the girl's gorgeous eyes widen in shock...Only to start laughing, almost hysterically. "Oh, bow down to the self proclaimed God of War! Can you believe that! Your majesty, tone down your arrogance, it's gonna get yourself killed! I knew it, you're absolutely useless! All you can do is bark, no bite, little puppy! The only thing intimidating about you is your height, other than that, you are just a generic man who thinks he's all to powerful. How ridiculous." the fox girl couldn't stop her degrading laughing, which confused the man for a while, only to smirk and pick her up bridal style, carrying her out of that room, not letting her get out of his grasp, no matter how much she tried to wiggle or burn him. "I won't let you go until you acknowledge my infinite strength, cute, little fox. But don't think that just because I favour you, I will let you get away with all the shit you called me." his voice sounded darker, more ominously, but it didn't seem to intimidate the girl. "Not in a million years. Not even in your sweetest dreams. You're pathetic and I'll never acknowledge you as anything else but a disgusting, lecherous pig!" she yelled at his face, to which he responded by letting her roughly fall on a soft futon, then crouching by her side and gripping her face just as her mother did before. "Say that again when you'll end up screaming my name as if your life depends on it." he laughed at her before leaving her new room, which she won't leave for a while.

This annoying girl, Sukuna was intrigued by her, but at the same time, he was very tempted into strangling her or snapping her neck - Despite all that fire she lets out, he was curious if she'd end up groveling in self-pity, begging him for mercy, going back on her previous misguided and foolish courage. Wasn't it bad enough that she had no idea who HE was? He also had to endure such disrespect - And even worse - Enjoy it? That little fox bitch was ready to commit seppuku in front of everyone just to prove a point, what the hell else could be more entertaining? All the women he's had were given away by their families as tributes, and none said a word. He was a jerk to them, he fucked them, he mistreated them - Sukuna didn't give a fuck about any woman, man, child, animal...Or any living being in the world, except for himself. All were beneath him - Unworthy, weak, frail -...

And yet, they still lie to his face, trembling as they say all the fake, sweet nothings - "I love you, My Lord" the women would say, their voice shaky, jumping in fright as he'd touch them. He was a rough man, he never knew gentleness, nor mercy, no love - Through all the words spewed by the firey woman, the part where she declared he had no idea how to treat women properly - Yes, it was true, but did he care? Of course not.

Humans were all puppets with whom he could play as much as he wanted - All instruments for his entertaining in this terribly boring world, he would manipulate everyone like dolls on his strings, and when they've exhausted their means of entertaining him, the string will be cut, and the puppets will fall in an abyss of infernal fire.

For the first two weeks, Sukuna and Kitsune were literally acting like a cat chasing a mouse - And each time, the cat would surprise the mouse just as she was about to survive - He was giving her hope of success, only to pick her up by one of her many tails, or embrace her from behind, pick her up, trip her, show up from behind a tree, play with her hair as he came up from a tree behind her, and sometimes, even going as far as to mock her by pointing her the way out of the place.

But very soon, she gave up, and decided to starve herself to death by not leaving her assigned room, ignoring him entirely whenever she'd get visited by him - But that ended in the worst way possible - With her fainting and unable to wake up, and Sukuna freaking out because he didn't want his little toy to die before she got boring.

He laid next to her on the futon, holding her in his eyes, brushing her hair out of her face, playing with her vivid red hair - She truly looked like a fox in Sukuna's eyes, and he almost felt his heart warm up as he felt up the soft fur on her tails, waiting for his cursed energy to heal her up. After some time, he noticed the little red ball of fur getting smaller and smaller as she cuddled into his chest, resembling a defenseless kit searching for warmth, love and safety from its mother. She was so much smaller than him - So frail, so thin, so soft...So cute? - What was it that he was feeling? Calmness? Protectiveness?

He was furious at her for neglecting her health just so she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of toying with her - But that was also endearing, in its own, messed up way? She would go to such dramatic extremes to prove him wrong...It seemed that no matter what she did, it would still make him enjoy her company.

Whenever he'd fuck one of his harem girls, he wouldn't stay over, not even for a kiss - Hell, he didn't even know most of their names - Why should he? They were all the same to him - But he felt such a strong sense of protectiveness over he - He didn't want to strangle her to death anymore - Maybe just a bit of fun, some teasing, some startling - His hand around her supple neck as she looks up at him with her sparkling eyes, calling out his name - Sukuna, Sukuna - Pleading softly, but desperately to him for her sweet release - Sukuna, Sukuna - And he will be merciful, for once, and give her what she wants.

Just as he was caught in his own, sick fantasy, he felt the girl move and grumble, turning on her back, her small hands flying to rub her eyes awake - And he rolled over her, a playful, teasing smirk on his face as he waited for her to realise the position they were in - And yet, she was still out of it, for her eyes were half-lidded and gleaming, she was still weak from her lack of self-care, and she could only look up at him, dazed..."Sukuna...?" she mumbled in a whispery tone - What is she doing to him?! How dare she entice him so much? He wasn't supposed to be attracted to her in any way, so why...?!

"Relax, sweet-cheeks. I'm here." he spoke in a low voice, not wanting to alert her...Wait, what - "...Thanks." muttering that, she let out a soft sigh as she closed her eyes again, the corners of her mouth slightly turned upright as she allowed herself to fall back asleep and rest, not caring too much that she felt a slight pressure on both of her hands, in the form of the demon man pressing his own hands to hers, intertwining their fingers together as he towered over her, watching her chest rise and fall rhythmically as she breathed, her kissable, pink lips just a tiny bit parted. He couldn't stop himself - She was too irresistible, and he was much too insatiable - And he leaned down, pressing his own lips over hers - Gently - Very gently in fact, almost as if afraid of breaking a porcelain doll, as if afraid to crush a snowdrop he just picked from a glade, one just just barely managed to get out from under the remaining, melting snow of early spring. "You'll be the death of me, cutie." he found himself saying as he licked his lips, taking in the sweetness of the kiss.

Since then on, despite not being exactly friendly with the man, the fox girl didn't hate him that much anymore. It even got well enough for them to eat in the same room, or play shogi - The girl beating him at it more often than not, which left mixed feelings in his heart - And then he showed her the musical instruments that the concubines would sometimes use whenever he'd want a banquet and more sinful indulgences. He didn't ask her to play for him, though. He realised that the more he tried to push the girl, the less likely she'll actually do anything he wants.

Even more, the more time they spent together, the more his concubines would get neglected - So much that he was completely drawn to this fox girl and all the other women were completely wiped from his head. - And he started gifting her a bunch of beautiful kimonos, only to find them in front of his room's door, rejected. She didn't want anything from him, nor did she want his favour, so she continued wearing her simple clothes.

Until...

Until one night - It was a special night, really - For the moon was full, and big, and gleaming with such a beautiful silver light that neither of them saw in the many years they've been alive. And Kitsune dressed in one of her festival yukatas and went to the lotus pond, surrounded by a few wisteria trees, as the mirror of the water reflected the celestial orb like sparkling zircons. The fox gingerly jumped in the middle of the sheen, walking on it like a spirit, only her feminine silhouette being seen, as her long hair was gently blown by the warm spring wind and her tails were dancing around her in perfect sync. As her feet moved to the sound of the melody she played on a vertical flute she was given by the owner of the place, Sukuna found himself unable to move from his place on the palace balcony, his sight fixated on the woman's form as she alternated playing the instrument and dancing with ribbon-fans.

Her moves were fluid and mystifying like those of a priestess leading a will'o'wisp to rest into kakuriyo, the land of the dead - what was he supposed to do now? He was confused and mesmerised. He's seen his fair share of beautiful women playing instruments and dancing for him - Hundreds of them, in fact - But none could match the effect this nine tailed fox girl had on him.

This continued days on end, but he never admitted to her that he was stalking her every night, nor that he was completely enchanted and under her spell, at the point of no return.

"I'm going to war tomorrow." he told her one evening as he poured himself some sake. "...Good for you. Finally, more entertaining for the most powerful man on Earth...Or something. Bring me a souvenir when you return, I guess." the girl merely shrugged her shoulders as she took the tea pot and poured herself some tea, not bothering with any reaction. "You're not worried for me, are you? What if I die tomorrow? Will you weep for me?" he leaned forward, taking her chin between his fingers. " 'Course not. You're the one who keeps boasting about how you're the most powerful man on Earth and The God of War or something. Besides - If you die, I will just steal all your money and get the hell out of this place, so I can finally see the world through my very eyes, not through inked letters on paper. I want to be free and fly. Life here is boring. I've had enough years of being home stuck, don't you think?" she snapped at him as she snatched the now empty sake up and poured herself some alcohol. "And what if I promise to take you out to see the world when I return?" he smirked at her, watching her ears perk up a bit at the proposition. "...I don't believe you." she looked away before she could reveal any real emotion in her eyes. "I promise. But you also have to promise to relax around me. You're always on the edge, even if you've been here for a whole year. I saw you play in the winter, jump to collect autumn leaves taken by the wind, pick up fruit after climbing up the trees, and make flower crowns in spring. I saw you get buried completely in snow, only one of your tails being seen, I saw you make fruit wine in autumn, send paper lanterns into the sky and bathe in the lotus ponds. We're not strangers anymore, and I've never hurt you even once. So, do we have a deal?" his hunter-like eyes carefully watched her every reaction, noticing how her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, before biting into it softly - She was nervous, that much was obvious - And Sukuna was now a pro at reading her behaviour. "...I'll try. But if you go back on your promise...I promise you, you won't wake up the next morning." she scoffed, threatening him, but it only ended up making him laugh. "The little kitten has claws, how adorable. That's fair, I'll let you have that." the man chuckled at her, petting her hair just between her ears, making her close her eyes and blush just a tiny bit. He was finally able to reach her - Not by much, but even this much was enough for him...For now.

For a whole month, Kitsune was all alone in the palace - Or so she felt, despite the numerous harem girls and the servants - All who had to obey her every order - But she refused any of that. If she wanted to eat, she would make food for herself. If she wanted to drink, she'd get some herself. If she wanted to bathe, she would prepare the bath herself - Just as she's always done. However, all this time, she was never in need of company. She couldn't handle people, nor their fakeness and many other useless emotions that would only make them vulnerable and susceptible of being used and taken for granted.

She's been through that numerous times while living with her family, and she wasn't about to let that happen again.

Thankfully, Kitsune never felt lonely, nor bored - However, she realised that she actually enjoyed Sukuna's annoying presence, and somehow, she found herself awaiting his coming back sooner.

"Master came back, vacation's over. Take care, everyone...I heard he's been injured. Can you believe it? Never thought demons can bleed." the many rumours circulated around the palace, but the fox girl only snapped at the gossipers, glaring at them to shut up. But she didn't go to greet him, like everyone else did. Instead, she waited until night to go to his room, and she found him on the ground, calmly drinking some sake.

"Ah, look at this, a little fox found its way in my humble abode. What ever could you be doing here, I wonder?" he chuckled teasingly, as she only looked down at him, giving him a slight head tilt, yet no expression on her blank face. "Are you wounded?" she muttered in a low voice, almost half-wanting not to have been heard...But she was. "Ha! So you heard those rumours too, haven't you? How ridiculous! Me? Ryomen Sukuna, the God of War, getting injured? Preposterous!" his bark-like laugh echoed through the place, but it didn't move the girl in any way. Instead, slowly crouched next to him, snatching down the already loose kimono top from his torso, letting it fall down to his chest, as her delicate fingers traced his chest, arm and back, analysing each and every fresh wound and scar alike. "I thought you could heal. Cursed energy magic or something. What you did to me when I passed out. Stupid liar. All you know how to do is to boast to everyone, but you can't even admit that you are still capable of making mistakes sometimes." her voice was obviously pissed off, but not enough to sock him in the jaw again. "Anti-regeneration magic. I didn't know something like that existed. Gimme a break." he scoffed, looking away in mild embarrassment. "Lucky you. Now don't move, or you'll really piss me off." she sneered at him as she made blue fire light up her palms and focused on healing him. It was then that she realised how good it felt to feel someone's bare skin, to feel his muscles, sore from fighting so much. He was finally beginning to look more like a man - A warrior - Not like some obnoxious, bratty, entitled casa nova. "I didn't know you could heal people. It tickles." he smirked slightly, turning his head to watch her focused face. "You don't know many things about me, Sukuna. Don't even bother trying, you'll never be able to, anyway." she scowled at him, but this time, it wasn't as aggressive as usual. "I've always loved a challenge, sugar." he chuckled boastfully, only for her to frown and look at him. "Is that all I am for you? A challenge?" she asked in a softer voice, sounding almost disappointed. "Not anymore. You've always been an enigma for me. You were fun, that's why I kept you around. If you weren't, I'd have killed you. I have no regrets about killing anyone, reason or not. But you got under my skin. I don't want to unveil the enigma behind you anymore. I just want to know you." carefully, his hands found their way on her hips, just before pulling her on his lap, only for her to stiffen up completely, her hands quickly taken off of his skin, as she quickly snapped her head away from him, her face covered by the long hair that resembled the blood he spilled on the battlefield. "Aww, are you shy, cutie~?" his seductive voice was back again, one of his hands reaching up to cup her face - But she couldn't bring herself to speak - Instead, she just gulped and jumped away from him, taking a few deep breaths before getting out of the room, and climbing up to the roof, hugging her legs to her chest, leaning her chin on her knees, her bottom lip bitten into to the point of drawing blood.

What the hell was she thinking, letting herself getting touched like that? By someone like Sukuna, nonetheless, who, if given the chance, would have his way with her, then toss her aside like he did with all the other women in his enormous harem. Her heart was beating so hard, so fast against her chest. It was a foreign feeling that scared her so much that for a long while, she couldn't help but avoid him once again, going out of her way to only leave her room when she was sure he wasn't there. It didn't always work out as she wished, but she still tried nonetheless, as succeeded for most of the time.

"Are you scared of me?" Sukuna asked the girl one night, when he found her softly shedding tears up on the roof. "...No." she offered a monotone answer. "Then why are you avoiding me again? Do you hate me?" he asked again, only for her to hang her head and hug herself. "I realised that I shouldn't be alive. All my life I've known only two emotions - Hatred and Rage - All of them masked by a facade of complete neutrality, passiveness and uncaring. But, now...I can feel my heart beating. And it hurts. I was so ready to throw away my life, and I knew I would have no regrets. I lived for nothing. I have no memories of anything good happening in my life. I thought that...I thought that maybe...I would be able to feel, staying here, with you. I wanted to feel something good, for once. What was that called...Happiness? Love? I wanted to feel those too. I guess it's too much to ask from this cruel life. The second you touched me, I started panicking and I got scared. I was afraid. Not of you, but of the idea of possibly getting hurt. I don't know how to feel, and I don't think I'll ever be able to be a proper being...But maybe...Someday...I will be able to look up at the same sky, at this very same moon, and the very same stars...And smile...And my chest won't be hurting anymore. And I won't be afraid anymore. Maybe, in the next life...Or the one after that...I will be lucky. Maybe times will change, and people won't be so cruel anymore. I'm sorry, Sukuna. I didn't end up being who and what you thought I'd be. I will forever be a disappointment to everyone I meet." she wasn't sure if her words were directed to anyone at all, or if she just found the courage to speak for the first time in her life - To acknowledge the existence of feelings altogether - But Sukuna understood her. Except for the thrill of the kill and fleeting quenched lust, he didn't feel any relief. Just like her, anger and hatred, for the entirety of his life. How different and similar the two of them really were, he realised, as he went to hug her from behind, resting his chin on top of her head. "You have never disappointed me, Kitsune. You cannot disappoint me. I understand what you're feeling. It's a cruel world, and we are much crueler to everyone around us, including ourselves. If you ever think you have it in your heart to accept me, I will be waiting. Forever, if needed. And if not, I will be awaiting in the next life. Or in the next one. I won't give up on you." and saying that, he planted a kiss on her temple before leaving her alone to watch the same silver moon they've been looking up at for so long. "...Thank you." she spoke to herself after who knows how long.

And she smiled.

Every day passing, she would look at the pink haired warrior, and every day, she'd want to throw herself in his arms, but every time, she'd start shaking, and she'd turn around and leave the place. This whole ordeal continued for well over three months, until one day, the palace was attacked with burning arrows, and the whole place was lit aflame.

In the mayhem in cause, the fox girl made sure to gather all the civilians in the huge estate and lead them to safety, and by the time she was done, she rushed to search for Sukuna, the person the enemies wanted to bring down, once and for all. However, by the time she found him, the whole place was ablaze, the once blooming garden was now turned into ashes, and the Demon God of War was heavily bleeding, slouched and leaning his back against a wall.

Opposite of him, many meters away, a menacing looking enemy who had spears in his hands was ready to throw them at him...And Sukuna merely smirked, defeated, and closed his eyes, awaiting for the impact of his ultimate death.

"Sukuna...Keep your eyes closed." Kitsune's low, shaking voice called out to him, but instead of doing as he was told, his eyes snapped open, only to widen in terror seeing the girl he grew to love, impaled by numerous spears, acting as a shield for him. "K...Kitsu...Ne...?!" he managed to usher after getting over his shock. "I told you...To keep you eyes closed...Idiot." she shook her head as she curled her fingers on the wall, taking a few deep breaths, despite her legs shaking. "Idiot. Idiot. You are such an idiot." "No...You...You were supposed to run away...I told you to run away...I told you...To...Live..." his voice was desperate, trembling, not believing what he was seeing before his very eyes. "Not without you...We were supposed to...Go...together...And be happy...And look at the moon...And stars...Together..." but as she said that, she heard the air getting split by yet another set of spears that go through her tails and torso, making her lose strength and fall over the man she was shielding. With her last strength, she punched back the spears out of her body and crawled on his lap, cradling his body, wrapping it up protectively with her tails, holding tightly onto him. "I never learnt how to fight...I never had anything to protect...Until I found you. I have no regrets dying, if you live. Close your eyes, Sukuna. I...I love you." and just before all strength left her body, she cupped his face and stole a weak kiss.

She was happy. She finally found her courage to act as she wished - With her heart, not with her fears. She was finally able to expel all the bad things possessing her. She died, and yet, she was finally smiling. She regretted nothing.

She was really happy.

"...Look there, Kitsune. Look at the moon. And the stars. And we are together. In this life. And the next one...And the one after...I will find you. And I will protect you. Don't be afraid anymore...Nothing will hurt you again. Until then...Sleep well, my Princess...Wait for me...Very soon."

---------

"Don't worry, Yuji! We will find all the victims of this place and rescue them! You'll see!" the cheerful nine-tailed girl wagged her fluff left and right as she dragged her best friend to the ominous place, as their other two team mates followed soon after, both having different reactions, as usual.

As her shikigami fox and Megumi's white wolf were assigned to make sure no cursed spirit would sneak up on them, they tried to make heads or tails of the distorted reality inside the place - They knew they may be dealing with a Special-Grade monster, but to have power of such magnitude seemed...Unreal...And unsettling.

"Guys, calm down. This is the Innate Domain...Cursed energy made this foul play...But I've never seen anything like...This. We have to move fast, and not split up, or we'll get picked one by one." Kitsune gritted her teeth, feeling the fur on her tails stand up. "Where's the door?!" Megumi yelled, turning around, only for everyone to gasp, realising the way they got through completely disappeared. "Th-The door's gone?!" Yuji blinked, incredulous at what he was witnessing. "How?! We just came in through here, didn't we?!" Nobara freaked out, only to make a short, brain dead dance with Yuji. "Calm down. The dog remembers the scent of the entrance." saying that, the two fawned over the two canines as they let them lead the way, only to find three mangled corpses, one of them having a name tag - It was the name of the child of the desperate woman outside of the place, pleading to the police to rescue him.

However, a fight erupted between the two boys who couldn't decide whether they should run away or rescue the corpses, as closure for the woman outside, at least, and while Nobara yelled at them, trying to make them stop...She...Disappeared?! Through a makeshift hole in the floor that wasn't there before.

"B-But...Megumi's demon dog and my fox should have been able to sense the curse...!" Kitsune then quickly turned around, only to gasp, noticing the bloody corpses of the said shikigami protruding from the walls. "NO! CYNDER!" she whimpered, hating to see her lovely companion in such a state. "ITADORI! KITSUNE! WE HAVE TO RUN! WE'LL LOOK FOR KUJISAKI AND -" but before he could finish speaking, Kitsune's whimper, that grew louder, along with the presence of the demon she was pointing at, staring straight at her...Made both boys stop in their tracks, wide eyed and shocked...And very much afraid.

The trio was sweating bullets, trying to move, trying to get the hell away from there - But Yuji moved first, taking out his knife, slashing at the Special-Grade....Only for his hand to go flying far away...From the impact.

"Megumi, run away! Go find Nobara, I'll stay here and create a diversion! Give us a signal when you're out of here! Yuji can get Sukuna and save us!" the fox girl yelled at her brunet friend desperately as she pushed him away, but a mouth on Yuji's cheek, speaking very derogatory, pointed out he doesn't give a fuck about Yuji's body, and that he won't die, even if his vessel does. "Nope~! Even if parts of me inside you die, I've still got 18 other fragments of my soul! Still, irritatingly enough, I don't have control of this body, so go away and switch, if you want! But once you do...I'll kill that brat before the cursed spirit can! Then, I'll go for that woman. She's a lively one. I'll have fuck with her. And then...I'll claim this cute fox girl that you care so much for!" Sukuna kept talking, and it was creating a state of panic in Yuji's heart. "Don't listen to him, Yuji! I know you won't let him take over you completely! You can't hurt us!" Kitsune yelled at her friend, trying to snap him out of the trance Sukuna put him in. "No, no, no, darling, you're wrong. If he's too focused on me, his friends WILL die~!" the demon kept laughing at his vessel, until the Special Grade unleashed a full blast of pure, cursed energy. "Yuji, look out!" she jumped at him, getting him out of the blast's range. "Stop listening to him, and take care of yourself! This isn't Jujutsu, this is pure cursed energy! We have to buy Megumi and Nobara enough time to get the hell out of here! Look at this jerk, he's having fun. I'm sure we can figure something out." the fox girl gritted her teeth in anger, but before either of them could try to attack or dodge - In the blink of an eye, really - She felt herself getting picked up and slammed on the wall before her by yet another blast of cursed energy - Followed by another, that flew her on the bridge in the next room, rendering her barely conscious. "KITSUNE! KITSUNEEEE!" she heard her pink haired friend's desperate wail as he tried to shake her awake. "...Sukuna...?" she asked, her shaking hands trying to rub away the tiredness from her eyes, as she looked up at him with gleaming, half-lidded eyes.

Before he could answer, shocked that she would call him by his demon's name, and even more, his own demon shocked, hearing her say something like that, she managed to cling onto the boy enough to get herself back on her feet, turning towards the attacker, her big, fluffy tails opening like a protective fan for the boy, as she created a blast of blue spirit fire to try to counter the cursed energy blast from the enemy. It made her growl from the pain, but her mind was blank - She had no regrets - No matter what life she was living, she will only get stronger and stronger, until she succeeds and protects the ones dear to her.

But not in this lifetime.

She wasn't strong enough yet. She was nowhere near her mentor, Satoru, in power. She had no way to compete with him, nor could she protect her friends when needed.

How pathethic.

It was her last thought before the cursed energy took over her, burning away some of her skin and creating even more damage after getting slammed and breaking yet another wall. With the last bit of consciousness she was able to hold onto, she saw her pink haired friend still alive and well - By some standards, at least - And she could merely smile and fight back the darkness threatening to take over.

But...Something happened, for the boy now seemed fearless - And he even taunted with the special-grade...And then he healed his own arm, before going to her, looking down at her, shaking his head. The markings on his face...This wasn't Yuji. This was...

"Idiot." a much darker, more masculine voice came from the body of the teenage vessel as he crouched down to the girl. "You never change, no matter what life you reincarnate into, do you? But that's the charm about you, stupid fox. You never really lose your memories of the past, do you?" he gently caressed her face, feeling his heart beating a bit faster as he noticed she was smiling and leaning into his touch. "You said you'll find me...So what is there to fear?" she mused weakly, before she got picked up bridal style, allowing her to cuddle into his chest, finally allowed to rest at ease. "Let's teach this weakling a lesson and get the hell out of here. The moon is up." Sukuna chuckled as he walked up to the demon, effortlessly punching in the head, slamming it into the bridge, only to smash his foot into its head, breaking the bridge altogether. As they fell, the monster grabbed his leg, but the fox-fire burn on his hand was enough to get his to shriek in pain and let go, as Sukuna jumped on one of the falling rubbles, taunting and laughing condescendingly, as he ripped apart the monster limb from limb before impaling it into a wall, as soon as they reached the watery ground. "Honestly, I'm jealous. I could never get to your power with jujutsu alone. Satoru said this thing is 80% born talent. How disheartening." she grumbled, feeling better already. "There's nothing cursed in your heart, sugar. Let the killing to me. I promised I'll protect you, I'm not going back on my word. I'm not going to see you die again." he threw her up a bit to get a better hold on her. "Hang onto me, foxy. Let's show this sucker how we do things." seeing his infamous smirk on his face, she threw her arms around his neck, holding on tightly, seeing as he did a hand seal, calling out his Malevolent Shrine...And they were back home, dressed the same as they were so long ago...A thousand years ago...And the monster got split in 5 slices, before Sukuna dug out another one of his soul-fingers, and he started grinning even laughing even darker, realising that Yuji couldn't switch bodies again, which made villain jump out of the facility, right on top of it. "I guess...No matter what life we live, the sky is going to be forever beautiful." Kitsune sighed as soon as he let her down, but she didn't let go of him. Not this time. Fears won't take over her life anymore. "And yours is even more eternal than the moon's or the stars." he cupped her face, taking in her beauty for the first time in over a thousand years. "It's been to long. I made you wait far too long. I hope you didn't miss me too much." one of his hands found its fingers raking through her hair, and she closed her eyes a bit, taking in the warm, loving feeling that completely took over her. "I'll forgive you. You did take your bloody time...But at least you're here now. And you're not going anywhere. I won't let you." her hands slid down to the neck of his blouse, pulling him to her level, which only made him smirk smugly. "Good. That was my intention." his charming, dark voice spoke, making her heart beating faster, and feeling the hair on the back of her neck and the fluff on her tails stand up from excitement. "Won't it be weird? Being Yuji's body...?" she asked shyly, as he only chuckled, pulling the same Malevolent Shrine trick, so they finally looked as they did when they first met. "Better, sweet cheeks?" he pulled her flushed to his body, as she got on her tippy toes to get closer to his face. "Spectacular."

As the fox girl couldn't stop touching his face, raking her fingers through his hair, feeling his body closer to hers as her whole body felt hotter than ever before - It was just a kiss - His lips so sweet against her own, his arms, so strong, holding her, feeling her, loving her.

It was only them, under the gentle light of the silver moon, guarding them, as the stars softly twinkled, embellishing gold into the dark sky - Just like this love light up the darkness in their hearts.

Her tails wrapped around him instinctively, as they pulled apart, and looked each other in the eyes for the first time since they've known each other. Her eyes were sparkling with happiness, her lips were curled into a kitten-like smile, and she was glowing - It made Sukuna's heart have a pleasant arrhythmia as he saw in front of his very eyes a sight that he's been dreaming about for over a millennium - The woman that captured his heart - Happy, in his own arms, safe, and very kissable.

This feeling and image were worth waiting a thousand years.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna imagine #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna imagine #yuji itadori #kugisaki nobara #megumi fushiguro #gojo satoru #kitsune #kitsune reader #fox #feudal japan

[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!”

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