#why didn’t you just print out a map? you might ask

[ivy-and-ivory]

Hey :) So the next time you hear me start to say :) hmmmm :) maybe I should set this fic in a highly specific real-world location :) that might be kind of fun :) the next time I say that :) please :) for the love of god :) somebody :) fucking :) stop :) me :)

[jezabelle9299]

Intimidating S.R x FEM! reader

Overture-While you're cataloging a new collection in the archives, a young Spencer Reid wanders down in search of an art print stored in a different archive.

Inspired by the opening of season 2 episode 14 'The Big Game', when Gideon visits the Smithsonian to look at Havell's Audubon paintings. (We're going to pretend this isn't the episode Reid gets kidnapped in) Later piece is inspired by any of the many times prostitutes flirt with Reid throughout the early seasons. I looked at a few maps and online catalogs of the museums current collections to kinda figure out how long it would take to walk there, and what pieces are stored where, but it might not be 100% accurate so don't hold me to it.

Cws- Brief mentions of robbery and prostitution (separate occasions)

A/N- This has been bouncing around my brain like a DVD menu screen, I'm so excited about it. I'm a museum studies major so I'm making this girl live all of my dreams.

Your favorite part of the job by far, was cataloging the new pieces. Whether they were from other museums or private collections, unpacking those boxes let you indulge in a bit of nosiness everytime. This particular collection was from a recently closed exhibit, so you were doing the overnight shift. No one else was in this part of the museum, and your boss was doing a showing of some prints to a collections enthusiast so you had the place to yourself. 

You threw on some headphones and got to work, once you finished this you could go home. You’d just cataloged and packed the first half of the pieces, but as you were about to start on the rest, you saw something move out of the corner of your eye. Archives were a slightly creepy place to be at night anyway, the shelves looming over you, and the underground structure providing little light outside of your small workspace, but that was definitely unusual. When you finally turned around, there was a full-on stranger walking towards you. He was about your age, but he definitely didn’t work here, you would’ve remembered 

“Jesus! Walk louder! I didn’t hear you come down here.” 

“I called out twice to try and see if there was anyone down here.”

“Point taken.” You shrugged it off, you’d never seen him before. He definitely didn’t work here, he was cute and about your age. You’d remember him. You both stood there just kind of looking at each other, not fully sure what would happen next.

“Are you going to like— rob me now? Or maybe introduce yourself?”

“Oh! Sorry, my name's Spencer Reid, I was here with a colleague. He was looking at some ornithology prints upstairs, and he told me to come down to find—well you I assume, and get the last print in the set, and ask for directions to the coffee machine?”

“Sure! Just come over here and I’ll look it up for you.” You set down your clipboard to head back to your little desk, the only one with the lamp still on. 

“So, what exactly are you looking for?”

“It’s a Robert Havell, Frigate Pelican.” You typed in the name into your system to make sure, but you knew now why your boss didn’t come to get it himself. It wasn’t in this museum, it was in the archive under the Renwick gallery, almost a mile away. 

“Alright, I can be back with it in like an hour, it’s at the gallery on 17th street. This was a split collection and it’s still in that archive. There’s a coffee machine down the hall on your left, and I can meet you back in my boss’s office.”

“An hour? Are you walking this late at night?” 

���Yep. But I’ll go as quickly as possible.”

“I can’t in good conscience let you walk that far by yourself this late at night, would it be alright if I came with you?” 

“Alright! Only if you want to though, I promise you don’t have to.”

“I want to, if that’s ok.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” You smiled at him, and while you were grabbing your keys and ID, he went from relieved you said it was ok, to completely red at the idea of being around you alone for the next hour. He was stuck in place as you passed him and got halfway down the hall, before he started running to catch up. 

“Where exactly are we going?”

“We need to go up the elevator, through the garden, and then it’s pretty much a straight shot down 15th and through Lafayette park.”

“I thought we could get through the archives?”

“We could, but it would take longer. I get distracted easily, and it’s a nice night out anyway.”

*****

About halfway through your walk, you’d already felt like you knew him. When you were passing through a particularly busy part of the street, someone called out to you. Well not you, they called out to Spencer. 

“Hey cutie, you’re back. I told you I’d remember you.” A woman in high heels, a fur coat, and shorts entirely too short for the chilly weather, called out for him. You didn’t place any judgment on her, but the look you gave Spencer. Shock, and trying your best to stifle laughter at his panic.

“Oh–um. Have a good night.” He rushed off, in his haste grabbing your elbow to pull you along with him. Once he’d gotten far enough away for his embarrassment to pare down, he let go of you, realizing with a whole new sense of self-consciousness that he touched you without even thinking about it. 

“That was not what it looked like. I swear– I was talking to her with my boss last week, we were doing interviews for a case; and she well– she called me cute, which is what that was about.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I would tend to agree with her anyway– you are pretty memorable.”

“I– thank you. You’re memorable too.”

You walked the rest of the way with Spencer almost trailing a half step behind you. You were so mesmerizing, he just couldn’t help it. 

By the time you finished the walk, arriving at the security booth to get back inside the archives, you already felt like you knew Spencer. 

“ID please.” The security guard spared a singular glance towards yours, and you realized you forgot to ask Spencer if he had his on him. 

“Oh I forgot they check IDs of any guests coming into the archives, you have your driver's license on you, right? Or any ID is probably fine. I didn’t even think about it.”

While you were rambling about it, Spencer pulled out his credentials, showed it to the guard as if it were nothing. Because he’s a federal agent -apparently- he didn’t need a visitor badge. 

“You’re in the FBI?”

“Yes?”

“How on Earth did that never come up on the twenty minute walk here.” You finally got moving again towards the art storage, now trailing alongside Spencer, more focused on him than looking where you were going. 

“It did.” 

“When?”

“Why did you think I was interviewing a prostitute?”

“I don’t know! I thought you were like– a lawyer or something. You’re so fancy! And nice! And you know– Young!” 

“I–you think I’m fancy?”

“You’re wearing a suit with a sweater vest at 9pm on a Saturday night.” 

“Fair enough. But no, I'm not a lawyer. I’m glad you think I’m nice though.” It was your turn for your face to heat, and for you to hide your head. 

“Of course I think you're nice.”

When you finally found what you were looking for, you started heading back. He told you about some of his interests, but mostly he wanted to know about you. All you wanted to hear about was him though, he was so interesting. 

“What do you do for the FBI?” 

“Behavioral Analysis”

“Oh my god. Oh if I’d known that I would’ve changed everything I’ve done so far. That’s– I mean that’s so intimidating” And now he was laughing at you. 

“I don’t think anyone has ever described me as intimidating. Off-putting and annoying sure, but intimidating is new.” 

“You’re very intimidating. I’ve never met a guy who knew that much about historical art without even being in the field before, and now I know you could read my behavior? I must’ve come off like a total idiot like–15 times by now.”

“I don’t think so, quite the opposite actually.”

“Well thank you, but I was making a conscious effort not to make it clear I have a huge crush on you, and then you tell me you could tell anyway?” 

“You have a crush on me?”

“Well–yeah. I thought you could tell.”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” It felt like an eternity before he responded.

“I have a crush on you too, for the record.” 

“Yeah?”

“Most definitely.”

An older man came out of the building before you could walk back in.

“Reid! Where’d you go? JJ called, we need to leave for the office.” 

“Oh–um, I’ll call you? What’s your number?” You checked your lanyard and your pockets as best as you could while holding the flat-packed print. 

“I don’t have a pen or anything on me.”

“You can just tell me, I’ll remember it.”  After you said your goodbyes he disappeared again, and you went to put away the rest of the collection. Spencer called you the next morning to set up your first date, and though he never stopped amazing you, you wouldn’t describe him as intimidating anymore.

[rainbow-flavoured-skittles]

Hey Mom, Dead Mom

Chapter 2: No more playing daddy’s game, I’ll go insane if things don’t change

I suffered for this chapter. it was fighting me every single step of the way but it’s finally finished. I can rest now. this isn’t as dark as the last chapter but Cole is running away in this, so it’s still not very happy. also I did indeed make a couple of random ocs because how else was I supposed to advance the plot? they’re not returning any time soon. as always, this is cross posted to ao3

~

Cole got on the plane to MOSPA at exactly eleven in the morning on a Sunday. He traveled alone — Dad was unable to come with him. Other people at the airport gave strange looks to the unaccompanied twelve-year-old, reminding him of the looks he got after Mom died. “Oh, why is that little boy all alone? So strange,” and then they’d go about their day, not giving him a second thought.

The flight attendant in front of him right now was doing just that. “No parents?” She asked, face mildly concerned. 

Cole shook his head. “I’m going to visit my grandma, but Dad couldn’t come,” he lied. Cole was good at lying. He’d done it a lot these past few years; you couldn’t take care of yourself the way Cole had without at least some lying.

The attendant gave him a small smile. Maddy, her name tag read. “Well, if you need anything, just call.”

“Okay, thanks, Ms.”

Maddy nodded and continued walking, greeting the other passengers. Cole fidgeted in his seat. The fabric covering it was itchy and the seatbelt was too tight. The man sitting next to him scrolled through his phone, music blaring loudly, and the old lady behind him was snoring. Not even off the ground yet and this flight was already torture. Cole resisted the urge to groan.

It was only a two hour flight, Cole could do this. But he hated planes so much — always had. Not being on the ground made him feel ill, and every bit of turbulence was terrifying. At least he had the window seat, though that didn’t do much to soothe his nerves. Being able to see how high up he was might make Cole feel worse. 

The crackling of a speaker interrupted his panicking. The sounds it made were loud and screechy. “Please fasten your seatbelts and put all devices on airplane mode. We will be taking off shortly,” the announcements said. 

Finally. Cole dug through his backpack and found his book. Fish in a Tree, the title read. He’d found it at the school book sale but had never gotten around to reading it. Now was his chance.

He’d barely gotten past the first chapter before they took off. Cole actually felt it when they did — it was like getting severed from a part of him. He felt sick, though throwing up wouldn’t achieve anything. It would probably make him feel worse. Cole settled for putting the book down and staring blankly at the seat in front of him instead. He wouldn’t be able to focus on the book, or anything at all, not when his stomach was lurching so badly.

Just two hours, he told himself. Then I can collapse on a bed and sleep. He repeated those words over and over like a mantra. 

~

As it turned out, Cole was not able to immediately sleep once he arrived at MOSPA, because he had to check in. Check in, as if the school was a hotel. Or maybe a prison, which would be much more accurate.

“It’s great that you’re here, Nicholas,” the secretary smiled cheerily as she typed on her computer. “I’m sure you’ll love this school. We’re all one big family.”

Yeah, right. Every time a school said that they didn’t mean anything by it. In fact, it meant there was probably all sorts of bullying that went ignored. “It’s just Cole, not Nicholas. Nobody calls me that,” Cole said. He hated his full name — who agreed to let his grandfather pick it out? ‘Nicholas’ was an old-person name from at least a hundred years ago.

“Okay, then, Cole. I’ve got your dorm number and schedule here,” the secretary printed out a sheet of paper. “Do you need a map of the school?”

Cole shook his head. He had spent some of the flight looking at the floor plans and they were seared into his brain at this point. “I’ll be fine, thank you,” he hurried out before she could offer to have someone show him around. He didn’t want that kind of forced social interaction.

The dormitories were not hard to find, not with the giant sign that pointed to where they were. Cole opened the door, cursing when it was stuck, and shoved everything to the side before closing it again. He didn’t see a roommate anywhere, but it was a weekend, so everyone was probably out. That was good, it meant he had a couple hours alone; he could use the time to unpack and explore the school.

Cole shoved all his clothes into the closet and shoes under the bed. MOSPA had a strict uniform policy, so he wouldn’t be able to wear any casual clothing, nor his combat boots. That was a shame — he really liked those boots. They had served well when he got into fights. And they added another sorely needed three inches to his height, another advantage.

Any books that he’d brought were put onto the desk. Items such as stationery and notebooks were placed in drawers. Miscellaneous trinkets were placed in a box under the bed and his toiletries in another box. Cole pushed the suitcases into the corner. There wasn’t anywhere else to put them, but he’d figure it out later. Right now he wanted to take a nap and not wake up for a month. Screw exploring the school, he could do that tomorrow.

Cole closed the curtains, pulled the covers over his head, and went to sleep. 

~

MOSPA, as Cole found out in the span of a month, was its own special brand of hell. The students there hated Cole for always messing up and acting strange, as if grieving for a loved one was something to make fun of. The teachers hated him for not talking or making eye contact and always zoning out. Everybody seemed to agree that he was the weird kid who should be avoided at all costs. His roommate, a kid named John, disliked him enough that he asked to be put in a different dorm.

“Thanks for messing up again, Brookstone,” one of his classmates sneered. Brant Green, yet another asshole who existed to make Cole miserable. “You ruined the whole performance.”

It hadn’t been Cole’s fault. Another student had purposefully tripped him, causing him to fall and knock over several people. “Yeah, I did. What’s your point?” He tried not to flip off Brant. That would just cause more trouble, trouble he couldn’t risk. The teachers hated him enough already.

“How’d you even get into this school? I thought you needed to have talent to get in,” Brant spat. 

“Do I look like I want to be here? I hate this place,” Cole stood up and glared at the taller boy. Brant was a good head taller than him, unfortunately.

Brant didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Perhaps he’d thought Cole was going here willingly, though how he’d come to that conclusion was a mystery. He gave Cole another sneer and walked away.

Cole rolled his eyes and went back to his lunch. For all its faults, at least this school had good food. The chicken salad was pretty tasty.

A large group chattered next to him. One of them gave him the side eye. “That’s the Brookstone kid,” she said, loud enough for Cole to hear. “His dad’s a Royal Blacksmith. Isn’t it weird how he didn’t get any of the family talent?”

Cole scowled and looked down at the table. He stabbed his lunch with more force than was needed.

“Nicholas Brookstone to the office, Nicholas Brookstone to the office,” a speaker sounded. All eyes turned to him. Cole looked down at the floor and wondered if he could just die right there in the cafeteria. It would save everyone a lot of trouble.

A kid coughed from the table in front of him. Awkward, Cole thought. What had he done this time? There wasn’t anything recent he’d done to warrant this.

It took five minutes for the school to realise he wasn’t moving any time soon. They all went back to their conversations, and Cole snuck out the side entrance. He had always been good at going unnoticed.

Cole walked through the halls briskly and knocked on the office door. He was let in by the guidance counsellor, a lady in her forties with platinum blonde hair. “Nicholas, we need to talk about your behaviour,” she said as they sat down.

“I haven’t been in any more fights,” Cole said. It was true.

“Your teachers say that you don’t pay any attention in class and that you’re not following instructions. It has nothing to do with your peers.”

“I’m trying my best, okay?” Cole snapped. Why couldn’t anyone just listen for once? He was trying, he’d been trying for ages.

“Then how come your grades are so low? This is one of the top arts schools in Ninjago, Nicholas. We expect better.” The counsellor had a mask of false concern on. Cole kind of wanted to punch it off. 

“It’s not Nicholas, it’s Cole. And I am trying,” Cole gritted out. 

“Your grades are barely scraping fifty percent.”

“So?”

The counsellor frowned. “If you don’t start doing better, you may get expelled.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Cole said under his breath. Then to the counsellor, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.” She might be suspicious of the sudden change of pace, but Cole couldn’t care less. He just wanted to get out of the office.

The counsellor nodded and fixed her glasses. “That’s all for today, Nicholas. You can go to class now.”

She didn’t even bother to get his name right. “Thanks,” Cole marched out the door.

~

Cole stared down at his exam results and wondered if he was dreaming. Forty percent average, the paper said. A fail. He’d managed to do so badly that his average wasn’t even fifty.

Dad’s going to kill me, he thought. Dad expected at least nineties, and this definitely wasn’t it. He’d be grounded until his thirtieth birthday, if he lived that long.

The only subject that had above sixty was visual arts. The teacher for that class was nice — he understood Cole’s struggles and gave him all the time he needed. It wouldn’t make Dad overlook all the other failures, though.

The paper crinkled under his grip. Cole blinked the tears out of his eyes and shoved the paper into his folder. His classmates were conversing all around him, comparing grades and bragging about what they’d gotten. The teacher sat at her desk on the computer. Nobody would notice if he went to the washroom and never returned, hopefully.

Cole got up and walked to the front. “Ms. Jackson, may I please go to the washroom?”

The teacher nodded distractedly and waved her hand. “Yes.”

Cole grabbed his belongings and slipped out the door. He hadn’t taken a hall pass, not when the teacher would notice it missing. She wouldn’t know he was gone, but she would notice the hall pass. The teachers here were strange like that.

He opened the door to his dorm and collapsed on the ground. How was he going to explain his grades to his dad, much less the teachers? He could already hear the lecture. “Your mother would be so disappointed in you, Cole. What happened to all that potential?”

Then again, Dad didn’t pay attention to him. Cole doubted he even remembered that he existed; Dad was too busy partying. Maybe he could burn the report card and pretend it didn’t exist.

Or… Cole’s thoughts drifted to a snide comment Brant had made a few months ago. “Why don’t you just run away? Nobody would miss you — we’d be happy to see you gone.”

Cole had ignored him at the time. It was just another uncreative insult from the stereotypical bully. But it wasn’t exactly a bad idea. As strict as the school was, Cole knew all the weak spots in its system. It was easy to sneak out and never return. And he’d been thinking about leaving and never coming back for ages. This was just the final straw.

“All right, then. Guess Brant gets his wish,” Cole said. No one responded, of course — he was all alone. But talking to himself was a habit. Cole got up and went to the closet, finding the duffel bag he used to use for camping. He blew the dust off and packed anything that seemed useful. A flashlight, multiple sets of clothes, a reusable water bottle, that box of granola bars he’d bought a month ago, all the cash he had.

More food would need to be picked up from the school cafeteria, he decided. And he’d need to find a sleeping bag somehow. But everything else was ready. Cole could leave during the night — he refused to call it running away, he wasn’t running from anything — it was easier that way. This was the best option, he told himself.

Cole snuck out as soon as it was dark. He didn’t need to avoid any roommates, thankfully — anyone who’d been placed with him had moved out. It took a few minutes for him to write a letter to Jay. His best friend didn’t deserve to have him disappearing without warning, though they hadn’t been best friends since before Mom’s death. He put it in the outgoing mail on the way out, sealed with a blue sticker. Jay would know what that meant.

He took the back exit and walked down the road to the bus stop. The city’s streets were dimly lit, people rushing past him to get home. A couple looked at him curiously but didn’t stop him. A drunk man sat down next to him on the bench as they waited. Dogs barked in the distance and a truck drove past. It was peaceful, Cole thought. The most peaceful he’d been in a while.

The bus arrived just after midnight. Cole got on and paid for a ticket to the next town over. He could find a sleeping bag and extra clothes there, and the further away he got the better. He was finally leaving MOSPA and his dad behind, and he wouldn’t be stopped by something as simple as not having basic supplies.

~

Running away wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. All the books made it seem easy — there was no mention of sleeping in alleys, or trying not to get mugged, or having to do odd jobs to get money. Thank goodness for Ninjago’s lax law enforcement; nobody would have hired a thirteen-year-old if the police were good at their job. Especially a thirteen-year-old who may or may not be on the missing persons list. Cole still wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed him missing.

Cole shouldered his backpack as he walked away from Jamanakai Village. He’d managed to find work at a local restaurant a few weeks prior and had finally saved up enough money to get somewhere else. He wasn’t quite sure where his next destination would be, but for now he planned to go back to the mountain range near Ninjago City. He deserved a break, and climbing was therapeutic. The city having a lot of people to pickpocket was just a bonus.

Jamanakai was isolated, unfortunately. It would be an entire day before Cole could get to a more urban area and find a bus stop. He knew there wasn’t a lot of point in travelling so often, of course, but Cole couldn’t shake the feeling that if he didn’t keep moving, someone would find him and bring him back to MOSPA. He couldn’t let that happen. And it kept his mind off of Mom and Dad. Nope, not thinking of that today, Cole thought. It was a good day and he wasn’t going to ruin it.

“Probably enough money for a ticket to Ninjago City,” Cole muttered. “Then it’s just some hitchhiking.”

Not a difficult journey, really. Cole continued on.

~

The mountain was tall. And windy. And probably dangerous to climb without proper gear. Cole tried not to think of that as he pulled himself up the next ledge. He’d already had a close calls today, almost fell off before he found a foothold. Cole thanked Wojira that he hadn’t fallen to his death. If he was going to die, he wanted it to at least be dignified.

Only a bit more to the top of the mountain and then he could rest. Cole planned to camp there for the night and then go back down, hopefully without any major injuries. The broken ankle  still ached, and it had been months. He hadn’t been able to walk for two weeks the last time, and Cole wasn’t eager to have a repeat.

Huffing and sweaty, Cole reached the top. He climbed over the last few rocks and stopped, feeling pretty proud of himself, when he noticed the man sitting in front of him.

“Hello there,” the man said. He looked ancient, with deep set wrinkles and a long white beard. He took a sip of his drink and smiled.

Okay, that’s creepy, Cole thought. He had thought he was the only one climbing. How had he not noticed this guy?

“Wha— who are you?” The words exited Cole’s mouth without permission. He really should work on his brain-to-mouth filter at some point.

“Maybe that is a question you should ask, but first: why do you climb the mountain?” The old man looked at Cole with something like curiosity. Curiosity about what?

“Because it’s a good way to get exercise?”

“You can tell me the truth, Cole. I don’t judge.”

“How do you know my name? I never introduced myself,” Cole took a step back. Was this man some sort of stalker? Nobody knew where he was. If he got kidnapped, or murdered, no one would be able to find him. 

“Because I know you, Cole. I was there when you were born.”

“You know my Dad? Are you going to bring me back to him? Give me another lecture on how I’m a disappointment? I don’t need to hear it,” Cole crossed his arms and prepared to make a run for it. It would be suicidal to jump off the mountain, but he was a fast climber. The old man wouldn’t be able to catch up with him.

“I knew your mother. She was one of my students,” the old man stood and held up his hands in the ‘I surrender’ gesture. 

“Student?”

“I taught her to be a hero. Did you think that all the stories she told you were made up?”

Cole hadn’t thought about his mom’s stories in years. She used to tell him about great heroes who could control the very elements themselves, who tamed dragons and fought against evil. He’d loved those stories.

“You’re telling me that all those stories about ninja and dragons were real? Yeah, and I’m a giant purple unicorn,” Cole glared at the old man. This guy had to be crazy, spouting nonsense about real-life superheroes and monsters. Mom had told him those stories for entertainment and bonding, nothing more.

“You are stubborn. Also like your mother, I suppose. I can prove to you that all the old legends are real. You just have to trust me,” the man held out his hand. His face was a mixture of hope and worry and maybe a little bit of fear. Fear of what, Cole didn’t know.

Cole hesitated for a moment. There was nothing left for him back at home, if he still had one, and no one cared if he went missing. The only people he cared about were either dead or better off without him. His life truly couldn’t get any worse, and if this man had known his mom he couldn’t be too bad. Cole took the hand.

[byericacameron]

Hi! I figure you have a ton of asks so I’ll try to keep this brief but I read Island of Exiles in fifth grade (a little young? maybe. but I had free rein of the library and inhaled books faster than my parents could keep track of), and it absolutely changed my life. Not only did I love it (and find out just how much I could ship a ship, that is, as much as a fifth grader can), but the existence of a third gender in your fictional society started the wheels turning in my own mind of just how much I wanted that, and honestly, I don’t think I would have figured out I was nonbinary if not for your book. It was a long and hard journey of identity and it would have been so much harder if my sheltered self hadn’t had anything or anyone to relate to at all. Not to mention how me and my twin incorporated your magic system and world into the stories we’d dream up for hours every night. A few years later, I went looking for the other books and ultimately gave up on reading the rest of the series because the third had been out of print at the time and I didn’t think I’d be able to handle another cliffhanger ending of the second if it was like the first, but this time, unresolved forever. But recently I started thinking about it again, did some googling, and saw they were re-released— and let’s just say that my day and maybe my year is made. I’m so unbelievably excited to fall in love with this universe and these characters all over again. From the bottom of both my heart and that of my eleven year old self, thank you for sharing your writing and, by extension, your soul with us all.

Okay, first off...

And possibly all of my 2023. Many readers assume that authors receive hundreds of emails and messages, but for a lot of authors who aren't New York Times bestsellers, that's not true. Messages like this are incredibly rare, and I deeply appreciate you taking the time to send this to me.

It means more than I can say that you identified so strongly with the way I described gender and society in The Ryogan Chronicles. A huge part of why I included a standard third gender and made bisexuality a more standard norm is that I wanted people to see how easily we could shape our society to be just as equal and inclusive. For readers who had never heard of intersex, trans, bi, or ace people, this was a chance to see them portrayed in a story where they could go on adventures and live in a world where they weren't judged for who they were but for what they did. I hoped this might help some readers understand those who were different from them. It's even better if the story somehow helped you figure something out about yourself.

Writing and reading have helped me figure things out about myself before, too, so I know a little bit of what you're feeling. For me, it was a lot later in my life that these realizations came because representation like I now include in my books didn't exist in any of the stories I read growing up. Maybe if stories had been more inclusive when I was in elementary and middle school, I would have walked a very different path in my teens and twenties.

Honestly, it's the rare messages like yours that kept me working toward re-publishing the Ryogan Chronicles series even after my original publisher pulled them from print. I knew it was unlikely that the series would suddenly explode in popularity or anything like that, but it was worth the work for the few people I knew would care about being able to finally reach the end of Khya's journey.

As a bonus, because I had complete control over everything that went into the new versions, I was able to include multiple maps and other special features to make the books even more special.

The whole series is finally available again on Amazon. I hope you enjoy the final book even half as much as you enjoyed the beginning of the series, and maybe one day you'll come up with your own wonderful world that can help the next generation figure something out about themselves. Keep reading and keep writing, even if it's just for yourself and your friends/family, and thank you again for letting me know you were out there. Readers like you are exactly why I wrote this series, and you're also why I made sure I eventually got these books back out into the world.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope you have a wonderful New Years full of new stories and wonderful new experiences!

[erisunoaakaibu]

Spiraltown - Chapter 1: Divination

It’s a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming. On days like this, guys who can’t cook properly like Igor…

Should be eating out.

Whoa, that’s a bit lame for the beginning of a story, don’t you think? Anyway, you might be wondering who Igor is. Igor, full name Igor Gunnar, gender male, green skin, white hair, red eyes, muscular build, right mechanical arm, with a few scars on his face. He used to be a soldier, until he lost his right arm. Now he’s the lead vocalist of a rock band that’s pretty popular in Spiraltown.

Spiraltown, you say? Oh yeah, Spiraltown is where Igor lives. It got the name, due to its roads spiraling from the center.

Spiraltown’s overly simplified map, made with RPG Maker MZ. The map isn’t accurate, but you get the point, right?

Okay, back to the story. Igor went out to have dinner. His dining experience isn’t worth talking about though, so I’ll skip that. But when he was going home, all the lights suddenly went out. “Ugh…” He groaned. The guy didn’t expect this to happen. I mean, who would expect that? Luckily the roads weren’t that dark to begin with, since it’s not midnight.

The next thing that happened was probably even more expected to Igor. As he was walking to the bar, he suddenly felt goosebumps all over. Before he could even turn around, a hand had already touched his shoulder. The muscular man immediately turned around and threw a punch at whoever just touched his shoulders, but the person quickly dodged it, as if they were trained for this. Now that Igor had turned around, he finally had a clear look at the other person. A female, wearing a huge hat with a skull ornament on it, green coat and green scarf, dark skin, long gray hair, fit build. Under the huge hat, a glimpse of their eyes was seen: Glowing golden eyes with snake-like pupils.

“Solanine, f*ck you! Why do you like sneaking up on me at night so badly?” Igor yelled. But the woman named Solanine just smirked in return. “What do you want?” “Hang out. Today’s job just ended, and I’m bored as heck. Where are you going?”

Solanine, full name Solanine Nightshade, is currently an assassin whose job is to take down dangerous criminals. Yeah, she’s basically doing the dirty job for the government. You see, not all criminals can be captured, sometimes they need to be eliminated right away.

So both of them went to the bar. “Hey Igor, have you ever thought of consulting a diviner?” Solanine asked, while taking a sip at the cocktail. “No. I don’t believe in fate and such. But why do you ask?” “I just suddenly feel like asking. You see, Ren just got a spare divination slot so I’m going to her place for some tea leaf reading tomorrow. You wanna come along?” Confusion was written clearly on Igor’s face. “Ren? You mean Ren Murasaki? She, out of all people, does tea leaf readings? Isn’t she like, blind? How does a blind person even do tea leaf readings? Are you joking around?” “Oh shut the f*ck up you idiot. If you don’t trust me, you can check it yourself.” “Ugh, whatever. Wait, did you just call me an idiot, Solanine? Do you have a problem?” And what he got in return was another smirk. Anger started boiling inside Igor. The guy was just about to yell, but the bartender had stopped him in time.

* * *

Time skipped to the following day. 

Igor and Solanine entered the divination store that belonged to the person named Ren. The place was decorated to show a mysterious, yet divine vibe. Anyone who entered were all soothed by the smell of incense. Inside, there were various divination tools, from scrying crystal balls to tea leaf reading cups, all were arranged neatly. The two of them heard gentle footsteps coming from behind the dark curtain with a purple eye printed on. And from the curtain, a tall woman with light blue skin walked out. She wore a purple blazer outside a white button-up shirt, her dark blue hair was tied into a bun, and on her neck was a locket in the shape of a teardrop.

“Greetings, Solanine and Igor.” The woman, presumably Ren, spoke, her calm and even voice slightly muffled by the mask she was wearing. “Please come in, I have prepared tea for both of you.”

* * *

“The result is rather… intriguing.” Even though it was difficult to notice, Ren’s eyebrows furrowed a little, while she was “observing” the leaves left in the other two’s cups. “Huh, tell me more then.” “Both of you will face a huge change in your life. A chaotic change indeed. Not a bad change, but… I’m afraid Igor will need to learn anger management.” “I mean, he always needs that! He’s mad at everything and everyone, and when he’s mad he’s really loud.” “Hey!!!” “See?”

Ren shook her head and sighed, as the other two started bickering right inside her shop. This would take a while.

[briamichellewrites]

15

Bria had the idea of walking across the country. It would take her about six months, more or less. Brad asked her why the hell she wanted to do that. It just seemed like a fun thing to do. She could meet new people and get out of her privileged bubble of Los Angeles. If she started in March, she could be in Maine sometime in September, making her miss the winter season. He thought she was crazy but knowing her, she would do it regardless if he wanted her to or not.

What if she did it for a cause, like bringing attention to the homeless? He could see her doing that. The only way he would let her go was if she got a cell phone and she checked in with him once a day, whether it was by text message or phone call. That way he would know she was okay and still alive.

She agreed to that. Mike asked her if she was crazy! Possibly. The band laughed. Walking across the country was an insane plan! She would have to be ready to be homeless because she might not be able to find accommodation. That meant sleeping outside and not always being able to shower or use the bathroom. She was okay with that, as she wasn’t one to hate getting dirty. She was only fifteen.

“I know. I just think that I have a privileged life and that I need to get out of my bubble. I need to see more than just LA and meet people who don’t have personal assistants or private planes. People who work two jobs just to make ends meet or people who go to the bar every Saturday night and sing sucky karaoke songs. Like Into the Wild, except without dying from poisonous berries in the middle of nowhere Alaska. If you spend too much time in LA, you go bat shit fucking crazy.”

Yeah, that was true. Phoenix had faith she could do it, as long as she had the right equipment. She would detail her experience in a journal that she could then publish into a book. Brad pulled up a map of the United States on the laptop and printed it off. He then brought it over with a pen. The seven of them looked at the map together.

California to Maine was a distance of three thousand, one hundred fifteen point six miles. She would go through Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ontario, Canada; Quebec, Canada; and then, Maine. That meant she would have to get a passport to enter Canada. She could do that, along with hiking equipment and a cell phone. It would take her about a month to prepare before she could start her journey.

She would then fly back to LA from Maine. After she had some authentic Maine seafood and a good night’s sleep at a hotel. They still thought she was crazy, but at least she wasn’t diving in headfirst without a plan. George agreed she was crazy but he also had no doubt she could do it. He was so confident that he would help finance her trip.

As long as she sent him a postcard whenever she could. She promised to do that. Thank you. He hugged her. Where in Maine was she thinking of ending up? Probably Portland, since it was a major city with an airport. She was going to try to not use hotels during her journey because she wanted to know what it was like to be homeless. What time of the year was she thinking of leaving? She was thinking about leaving in March. That way, she would be home before winter. That was her plan, anyway.

She was prepared for delays because of weather conditions or other unexpected issues. What she was most excited about was just meeting people and seeing how they lived. Maybe she would help out for a few days or a week in exchange for housing and food before heading off again. George knew what it was like to grow up privileged. That was why he helped out people who had less than him.

Brad had done a great job teaching her about how much she had and how not everyone was as lucky as she was. She could have whatever she wanted. Instead, she didn’t ask for anything. He was from a middle-class family and had worked hard for what he had by working at fast food restaurants and doing whatever odd acting job he could take. It paid off as he was taken seriously as an actor and was able to grow his career through the nineties.

March was in eleven months, so she had plenty of time to prepare. Stephanie would be a little over a year by then. If she left in June, she would be in Maine by the new year. She would have to pack for summer, fall, and winter. After the three of them laid out a plan, they talked about everything she would need. Brad would take her to the local REI to purchase everything she needed the following day.

“Bria, you are fucking insane! Do you know that”, Phoenix asked her.

“I would hope so! You have to be insane to do this!”

“She’s got a point”, Rob said.

He had to agree with him on that. She was insane! But, she was not someone to back down from anything easily. Her daughter would be taken care of by Brad. Being away from her was going to be hard because she would miss her but she would see her when she returned. It was going to be an incredible once-in-a-lifetime experience. They would be anxious for updates on how she was doing.

Other people had done it and she was going to be one of them. She thought about Forrest Gump and how he ran across the country. He wasn’t alone, though as he picked up people along the way. That was fiction, this was real. She and her father were getting her ready to leave. They went to REI and bought her the necessary equipment and supplies. The salesman helping them was interested in hearing about her plan to walk across the country.

She explained why she was doing it. He thought it was a noble act and wished her luck. Thank you. Everything cost hundreds of dollars but it was worth every penny. She even bought a compass, which she had to learn how to use, a battery-charged phone charger, and a forty-eight pack of AA batteries. While packing everything into her backpack, she thought about bringing a pair of tennis shoes.

Just in case. She got her good pair and packed them in with her new hiking boots. Stephanie watched her from her walker that her papa had bought her. It had different toys attached that she liked playing with. Her little legs were learning how to move around the floor. She was curious about what her mommy and papa were doing. Bria said hello to her, making her smile. Hi, Mommy! After having an afternoon nap, she was happy as a baby could be.

Her diaper had been changed and she wasn’t yet ready for dinner. Bria continued packing everything into her backpack. It was a lot but she needed to be prepared for anything and everything, including rain storms, cold days, hot days, cold nights, bugs, tornadoes, and everything in between. Brad hugged his daughter. Was he scared? Yeah, he was. He was scared of something happening to her.

But he also knew that he had to let her go. They would miss her. He just hoped she would be home before Stephanie’s first birthday. She was leaving in a week, so he had to get himself ready for that. For now, he bent down to his granddaughter’s level. She smiled at him and kicked her feet. Papa. Her papa. He said hello to her. She was just the cutest and happiest baby he ever met. Stephanie babbled in agreement, making him laugh.

April 2002. My name is Bria Angel Pitt. I am fifteen years old and in a week, I will be walking across the country from Los Angeles to Portland, Maine. I will be using this journal to document my experiences.

@zoeykaytesmom @feelingsofaithless @alina-dixon @fiickle-nia @boricuacherry-blog

[cloudbattrolls]

Moderation

Jameth Abnale | Present Night | Takami Estate

Despite the fact that just about everyone he knew would consider it a very bad idea, Jamie balanced precariously on the back of the couch as he put together his final plans for his confession. 

He reached out in the air, gesturing wildly in a way that would look like a bad mime act to the unenlightened. Instead, the controls of his holographic projections mapped to his movements. Every jostle and swing unsettled his body a bit more, in a way that could be described as ‘possibly hazardous’.

Fie on such people who would say so! This was why he lined the floor with pillows.

Oh but Jamie, people might reply, why not just not lie on - whoop, almost fell off there - a non-narrow and uneven part of the furniture?

Bugger you, he would respond cheerfully as he -

- oh damn -

- tumbled onto the pillows with an ‘oof’.

Still worth it, even if one of his arms had landed at an odd angle. Better than his back.

His stupid back. One would think the vertebrae made of metal wouldn’t ache anymore, right? Just the bone ones?

Wrong.

Worth it, though. The height and angle had been ideal for arranging everything into his final planning document, which hung shimmering in the air, made of blue light.

If he was honest, it had been fun, planning this. As fun as his old projects…maybe a little more, in some ways. His heart fluttered differently, more nervously.

Oh, he was being dumb, he scolded himself as he wriggled across the pillows, pulling himself back around to the other side of the couch. From there he clambered awkwardly - some people might say, he really thought he had the particular shimmy involved down to an art, thank you - back into the couch. 

He laid there for a moment, rubbing his glasses, contemplating what would - could - happen now that he was fine.

As if Velour really…it would be far too painful to consider it and be wrong. Better to settle, better to be realistic.

Either way, this outing would be fun.

He hummed as he looked over his first chart. 

Step one: He had carefully gone through all the restaurants in the city nearest to Jikiro’s estate, having bots evaluate them by type of food, expense, seating arrangements, atmosphere, usual traffic, and views.

That done, he’d compiled a list of the top picks, and narrowed it down yet further based on what he knew of the cuspblood’s tastes, and for how well they related to the other part of his plan.

Finally, he’d made his call - a moderately fancy but not too high-profile restaurant several stories up in a skyscraper, with a breathtaking view of the city’s spaceport and the ocean beyond. 

It offered a variety of cuisine, but not merely generic samplings; no, this restaurant perfected every dish, yet the ingredients they used were overall common. So the prices, while moderate, did not stray too high for most selections. Something Velour would feel comfortable with splitting.

Step two: He’d gotten an outfit specially made for the occasion, a beautiful light blue suit with silver and white paisley patterns. 

It also had technology woven into it to jam any personal recording devices; he’d be damned if the empire or any nosy fans would ruin his date.

His shoes would be simple and black, but elegant; ones with good grips as always. He would also swap out his usual gold piercings for white pearl ones, to better match his clothing. 

Step three: He’d had tech made to suit Velour as well, disguising him and scrambling any attempts to take photos or recordings. Naturally, the kitsune troll was always immaculately dressed; unlike his kismesis, he didn’t have to worry about him in that regard.

Though, he wouldn’t quite know what he was being invited to at first.

Step four: Asking Jikiro to make him a temporary portal directly to the outside of the restaurant, coming out in a nearby alley and saving them the trip. His spade had laughed at him and asked with what time he was supposed to do that with, but Jamie’s provision of some new printing technology had swiftly changed the tealblood’s tune and he’d agreed. 

Jamie had smirked in victory, then squawked as he got noogied for it.

Now he merely adjusted his glasses as he swiped a finger and filed it away into green-lit completion.

Step five: A new pair of glasses. Oh, Velour might not even notice - but he himself couldn’t stand it if every aspect of his outfit wasn’t new and beautiful. These had light teal frames instead of his usual black. They wouldn’t go with every outfit, unlike those, but they were pretty. Just like his others, they hooked around his pointy, mobile ears so they wouldn’t fall off.

Step six: Choosing his makeup. He’d debated if he should cover up his freckles or not, but Jikiro had gently insisted he not do that and booped his nose, calling them cute. What a sentimental idiot the tanuki troll was, but the cobalt supposed he had a point. It wasn’t like Velour hadn’t seen his speckled-blue face a thousand times anyway. 

It was just…he knew how he looked, no matter how he tried. He had an excellent hand at makeup, at hair, at fashion…but none of that could disguise what a ridiculous scrap of a highblood he was, with his scrawny build and his broken back. 

Jikiro had said to not try to disguise it anyway. That if Velour really was pale for him in return, why the hell would it matter? 

He meant well, Jamie knew. But he didn’t understand.

Velour was a celebrity. He was used to the best. He could perhaps be friends with a pathetic, cullbait highblood…but it would take doing to present himself as more. 

He had to try twice as hard to get what everyone else had, had to try in earnest to keep it once he’d gotten it. That’s how it had always been.

Yet he had always gotten on Velour for being dishonest…

The cobalt groaned. As he was, then, aside from simple eyeshadow and touch-ups. The blueblood knew perfectly well what he looked like, bundle of angles and all.

Step six: His hair.

Jamie always disliked when people called his curls messy. They were supposed to look this way! God forbid everyone not have pin-straight locks or immaculate waves. He felt a certain sympathy for other trolls with natural curls of all textures and styles and the nonsense they all had to hear at times.

Still, there was no harm in a bit of gel for polish.

Step seven: His horns. 

He bit his lip. This, he had to admit, was the weakness in his makeup skills; he’d never done much with his horns aside from keep them nicely polished and trimmed. Perhaps that would be enough? He didn’t want them to be gaudy and distracting, after all.

Yes, they were fine as they were.

Step eight: Meal entertainment.

He had chosen a night when the restaurant would be having a wonderful concert, and when the band in question was one who paid as much attention to their style of dress as their music, donning fashions from across the planet.

He didn’t know much about Velour’s taste in such things, but the band was cheerful and vibrant, as were their melodies. Surely this was something the optimistic kitsune troll would appreciate, along with the variety of instruments they used? He’d also gotten them a good seat for it; along the view, the acoustics in their spot would be ideal.

He certainly hoped Velour would enjoy it. 

Step nine: The table.

Jamie had arranged for decorations, of course. Who was he? Some half-rate suitor?

Nothing excessive; gaudiness was tacky and he didn’t want the display to be distracting or draw too much attention from others. But he wasn’t simply going to leave it plain.

So he’d paid extra for specially made blue candles shaped like clusters of diamonds, and others in the shape of stars. Small things with no scent and minimal smoke - he didn’t want any odor interfering with the food’s flavor - but they were pretty and slightly sparkly.

He’d also had a tablecloth ordered with constellations on it - prominently displayed were vulpecula, the little fox, and apus, the bird of paradise. 

The seats he’d had prepared were particularly comfortable - good for him and his back, but it would hardly hurt Velour either.

Over this table, once they’d eaten, or once they were finishing up…that’s when he’d tell him this was a date. To prepare him. One had to take it in steps with the anxious cuspblood, he knew.

He prided himself on knowing this better than anyone.

Step ten: The finale. 

Once they were done, perhaps after having a light dessert, he would invite his friend onto the outside balcony with him - covered with glass to keep the heat in and the ocean view intact, reserved for this night to only for the two of them. 

He’d be watching the taller blueblood as they walked out there, he knew, yet trying not to at the same time. He knew his hands would be wrapped around the handles of his crutches so hard it might hurt a little.

He knew his heart would be hammering as he leaned against the safety wall, practically escaping his ribs, but he would meet Velour’s eyes anyway. He would prepare himself - yet again - for the likely rejection. At least Velour would know he meant it. At least he would have had a nice night. 

He would say that he’d heard the breathtaking scenery below was best when observed with someone close to one’s heart. Someone unexpectedly close, even. 

He would extend a hand, pausing a moment, then take a breath. No turning back. 

He would say it. 

For better or worse he would finally know the truth.

Someone whom you were pale for, perhaps.

[grad603-haydenmiddleton]

BROCHURE FIRST DRAFT

Here is the first pass at my design for my brochure. The front and back cover of the brochure are upside down for a reason since they’ll fold in a specific way which will mean they will be right side up in the end. The front cover is also just a recolour of the main poster to keep things simple, cohesive and the same.

Obviously I kept the same simple colour scheme but also added in elements of black and white for the images of each designer. This is not something I’m so sure about just yet and also because the images are obviously all different sizes and ratios this also makes the design look not as cohesive and it cant be exactly the same for each page. So it might be back to the drawing board when it comes to the images I give each designer. This is also true because of the amount of text each designer has been given, because of the amount of pages we have and need to fill (16) this means some designers, probably the designers with the most information, can be given two pages to go over onto. But also the text box sizes aren’t the same for each designer and they also don’t fit to a specific grid design either unlike the first two introduction pages which I’m more happy with. So I need to find a way to bring the grid design down to the pages talking about each speaker. This is why I also didn’t design a page for every single designer given and left a lot of empty space down below because I’m not happy at all with the design so far with text and images and honestly I think at this point before I get too far it’s important to know print to make sure the colours work well and that the text is the right size, not too small you can’t read it or not too big it’s an awkward size. This will also help direct me in what design decisions I can change to become more happy with how these speaker pages are going.

There’s a similar reason too why I’m keeping the table black too because I want to print it out and see how I feel about the size and get a sense for how cluttered it is before I go through and make all the colour edits which are extremely tedious. This also gives me a chance to ask and see if there is a better way to go around the difficult way to change text colour in a table.

Also my map that I made in a drawing program, although was originally done in very large dimensions so It wouldn’t lose quality, looks fuzzy here online so for the back map cover I have also left simple to at least first make sure the map is legible and good quality when it’s printed. If it isn’t I will go a different route and make this image in Adobe Illustrator since using vectors in Illustrator allows for no loss in quality when messing around with size. I find Illustrator always really difficult to use but this is an important element of the brochure which needs to be perfect and so I will do some learning to make sure it can be done.

Below is the same images but in preview mode so without the grids getting in the way and you can get a clearer look at whats going on here.

[nationalharryleague]

Valentine’s Day

Summary: Y/N receives a special candy gram on Valentine’s Day. 

Genre: Valentine’s Day Fluff with Middle School Band Teacher!Harry 

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: Hi my valentines!!! There’s about 30 minutes left of Valentine’s Day for me and I finished this piece right in time!! Thank you to the angel herself @tbslenthusiast​ for beta reading this for me and I cant wait to hear what you all think!! More of my writing can be found in my Masterlist and I would love to hear some feedback! 

***

Valentine’s Day was never fun for you. You dreaded this day every year.

Valentine's Day in a middle school was full of teddy bears and flowers purchased by someone’s mom and having to tell 12 year olds to stop kissing in the hallway. You also knew that you would be inevitably interrogated by your students about your love life before getting any of them to listen to your lesson about the industrial revolution.

And every year, your answer stayed the same.

“It is none of your business,” you would begin with a teasing sigh. “But if you all have to know, I am happily single.”

And every year, you were met with a chorus of disappointed whines.

Your students were always desperate to wiggle their way into your personal life, a side-effect of being one of the youngest teachers in the school. You were closer in age to them than to some of your coworkers and they took advantage of that fact constantly, creating an open and honest dialogue with their favorite history teacher.

“But do you have a crush, Miss Y/L/N?” Jenna, one of your favorite students, piped up this Valentine’s Day from the front row. You couldn’t help but laugh at the way she raised her eyebrow at you from her desk, inquisitive and adorably curious.

“How about this?” you started, raising your own eyebrow to match her’s. “I’ll tell you if I have a crush, if you can tell me why the printing press was so important to the industrial revolution.”

Your heart started to drop as you watched the massive smile stretch across her face, exposing a mouth full of braces with pink rubber bands. They weren't supposed to learn about the printing press for another week.

“It made information more affordable and easier to access which bridged the information gap between the rich and the poor,” she answered like she had the textbook right in front of her. She crossed her arms triumphantly and leaned back into her seat while the class oohed and ahhed around her, knowing she had kept up her end of their deal.

You felt your cheeks heat as your classroom descended into giggles as your flustered face. “Nice job, smarty pants,” you let out with a nervous giggle.

“Remember, honesty is the best policy,” another student shouted out, pointing towards the poster on the wall of your classroom next to the world map that read the same saying.

“Okay, okay, okay,” you conceded, raising your hands in surrender to the classroom full of seventh graders. “I do have a crush.”

Your students erupted at your admission. Whos, whats, wheres, whens, and whys were thrown out by the class, but only a gentle smirk rested on your features, refusing to relinquish any more information to the children demanding it.

“You aren’t getting anything else than that!” you raised your voice to settle the rowdy classroom with a laugh. You moved from the front of the class back to your desk, listening to the gentle click of your heels on the white tile and gathering the stack of worksheets for that day’s lesson. “Now, pass these around and stop asking questions,” you playfully scolded.

“That’s not what your poster says, Miss Y/L/N,” Jenna spoke up again, pointing out another poster on your wall.

Never stop asking questions! was written in bold rainbow colors on the wall and it was now staring back at you.

You let out a chuckle and shook your head at the floor, knowing they had caught you once again. “I’m going to take down all my posters and you’re going to have to learn in a boring classroom soon.”

“We are just looking out for your love life!”

“You deserve a boyfriend!”

“Or a girlfriend!”

“Just someone who loves you!”

You smiled wide at the class full of endearing faces in front of you. They had nothing but good intentions and were sweeter than Valentine’s Day candy. You loved these kids like they were your own.

“Guys, I appreciate your concern,” you confessed. “But I promise I have it under control.”

After that, they began to settle down, eventually letting you give your lesson on the industrial revolution and scientific advancements of the period.

But you knew you had told them a lie.

You did not have it under control, at all. You were hopelessly in love with the kind man with curly hair and green eyes down the hallway in the band room and had no idea what to do about it.

Harry was one of your first friends when you were hired last year, volunteering to show you around the school and fill you in on all the workplace gossip. He had flecks of cheeky mischief in his eyes as he told you about the gym and spanish teachers’ affair and how the coffee machine was broken by one of the math teachers after a bad administrative evaluation. You had listened adoringly, like he was explaining the meaning of life, and you hadn’t been able to shake your crush since.

You brought each other coffees on the daily and were always in and out of each other’s classrooms. He always made sure you were a chaperone on his field trips and you always made sure he was one on yours. He had even convinced you to let your classes come to band practice once a month so they could play music from the time period your classes were currently studying.

He was endearing and kind and charming and so so good with all the kids. He was also incredibly sexy, which made it even more difficult to control yourself around him. You had the fattest and most uncontrollable crush on him, but he was your friend and you didn’t want to ruin that.

The ring of the bell that signified the end of the class period brought you out of your Harry induced haze, waving goodbye to your students and shouting after them to do their homework and to stop kissing in the hallways. You stood against the door frame of your classroom and watched their little awkward bodies skurry towards their next class, but your attention was soon caught by the tall man who’s chocolate curls stuck out high above the sea of middle schoolers that surrounded him.

“Good morning, love. Happy Valentine’s Day,” he smiled wide, dimples appearing like they were inviting you to poke them, as he reached your classroom and your heart fluttered at his affectionate pet name.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Harry,” you beamed back at him, hoping he and the passing students didn’t pick up on the adoration that was becoming very hard for you to hide.

“Oi, stop that,” he called over your shoulder, slight disgust showing on his face. You turned around and were met by two kids sucking face behind you. “Guys, just go to class,” he exasperatedly sighed when he was met by their shocked and embarrassed faces. Once they were gone, the two of you descended into a fit of giggles.

“They have no shame!” you laughed.

“Absolutely none!”

“Why are you over here? Not that you aren't welcome, but don’t you have a class to teach?” you teased gently as students began to gradually fill up your own classroom.

“I thought I would stop by and wish you a happy love day.” He smiled wide at you and spoke sweetly. If you weren’t reading into it too closely, you thought he might even be blushing a bit. “And it’s okay,” he waved off his class, clearing his throat and his voice returning to normal. “They’ll survive a few minutes alone. I trust them.”

“You shouldn’t,” you giggled again.

“Yeah,” he nodded with a chuckle. “I probably should get back, but I wanted to invite you to come to my classroom and get some cookies whenever you get a chance today.”

You felt your heart soar at his invitation, no matter how friendly the proposal. “I am free next period.”

“I know,” he winked, and your heart nearly jumped out of your chest. “I will see you then,” he grinned as he began to walk backwards down the hallway, maintaining eye contact for as long as he could, before spinning down the hall just as the bell rang to start the next period.

You tried your best to focus on your lesson about the renaissance with your sixth graders, but your mind kept floating back to the delightful man who had invited you for cookies. 

Had he invited all of the teachers for cookies? Or did he ask just you? Was he just being nice? Or did he actually want to see you? Had he been flirting with you?

The lesson was interrupted when there was a knock on your classroom door. You opened it up to find one of your students, Matt, dressed in a giant heart costume holding baskets full of labelled chocolate bars.

“I’m here to give out Valentine’s Day candy grams, Miss Y/L/N!” Matt exclaimed, his face barely fitting into the far too large hole cut out for his face. Every year the student council set up a candy gram fundraiser and the kid in the suit never got any less cute. You let out a chuckle as you looked down at him, opening the door further and letting him into the room.

You watched with a smile as he called out students’ names and the genuine surprise and flattery that passed over their features. Cheeks turned red and shy smiles played on their lips as they made their way to the front of the room and retrieved their candy from the giant pink heart.

You were caught off guard when you heard your own name be called. Matt held out the meticulously wrapped pink candy bar out to you as the class let out an “ooh” and your cheeks heated with embarrassment. Your cheeks heated even further as you read the label.

To: Miss Y/L/N

From: Mr. Styles

Will you be my valentine?

Your heart fluttered in your chest and you had a very hard time holding back the large and toothy grin that wanted to appear in front of your students.

“Who is it from?” one of your students asked excitedly.

“I don’t ask who your Valentines are, do I?” you teased, but held the candy bar close to your chest over your heart. You could feel your heart racing underneath your hands.

The giant pink heart standing at the front of the classroom finished distributing his candy and your class led a chorus of goodbyes as he left the room, onto the next classroom to spread some more innocent young love. You impatiently watched the clock tick down the seconds until the bell rang and released both you and your students out into the school.

And just when it felt like it might never come, the bell rang through the school and your students were off into the chaos of a passing period. You followed closely behind after you gathered your things, the candy bar slid carefully into your bag. You flowed along with the flow of children that carried you down the hallway, heart racing as Harry’s classroom came into view, your feet quickly matching it’s tempo.

Your footsteps echoed on the tile in the acoustics of the large room, your voice bouncing off the walls as you said hello. He had been tuning a guitar when you came in, his attention flashing up from the instrument in his hands to you.

“I was promised cookies,” you teased him. “They better be good.”

“I promise they are. They’re my nan’s recipe.”

“Of course they’re your nan’s recipe,” you sighed with a chuckle.

“What’s so bad about using my nan’s recipe?” he asked incredulously, grinning as he settled the guitar back into its stand and moved towards you.

“Absolutely nothing,” you sighed adoringly. “I just think it’s very sweet.”

“You haven’t even tried them yet! You can’t say they’re too sweet.”

You couldn’t hold back the giant smile that was so wide it made your cheeks hurt, chuckling at his cheesy joke. He made you feel warm when he moved closer to you, like someone had just turned up the heat in the large room.

“I meant that you were sweet, silly,” you tried to joke, but it came out genuine and soft. You bit on your lip nervously, replaying the affectionate tone in your head over and over.

“Thank you, sweetie,” he smirked softly at the pet name and you felt like you were soaring.

He was close to you now, having crossed the room and standing only a few feet away from your body. You wanted to close the space between you two, to kiss him with all your might, to tell him you would love to be his valentine. But just as you built up the courage, he stepped away towards his desk, retrieving a cookie for both of you.

The cookies were shaped into small perfect hearts with a coarse pink sugar pressed into the soft biscuit. The cookie melted in your mouth and the sugar granules crunched between your teeth. You had to hold yourself back from releasing a moan at the taste. They were dainty and delicate and you could only imagine how much time he had put into them.

But you weren’t shocked. Harry was like that. He was gentle, taking care and measured precision with everything he did. He spoke to the kids with tender care, making them feel talented and successful, and was always there to lend a helping hand whenever one of them needed it. And he spoke to you the same way.

“Harry-” you began softly, but he cut you off before you could finish.

“-Yes, I would love to.”

“What?”

“I would love to be your valentine.”

Your heart jumped in your chest, flattered heat rushing to the surface of your cheeks, but you also looked at him with a slight confusion. He had asked you to be his valentine, hadn’t he?

As you looked at him in slight shock, you noticed the small and meticulously wrapped pink candy bar that sat on his desk. Oh my god, they didn’t, you thought.

You could only imagine the confusion that fell onto Harry’s features as you moved away from him and towards his desk, picking up the candy bar and reading the writing on the wrapper.

To: Mr. Styles

From: Miss Y/L/N

Will you be my valentine?

Oh my god, they did.

“Harry,” you chuckled, looking back towards him and holding the chocolate bar up. “When did you get this?”

“I got it this morning when the kids delivered it,” he said dumbfounded. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t send this.” You walked over to your bag that you had left near the door and retrieved your own matching candy bar. “And I’m assuming you didn’t send this either?”

You handed the pink package to him and he read the label closely, eyebrows furrowing even further, then relaxing as you watched the puzzle fall together in his head as it had in yours.

“The kids sent these to us from each other, didn’t they?”

“I believe they did, Mr. Styles,” you nodded.

His cheeks turned a bright red, embarrassment flooding his features. “I’m sorry about before then,” he stammered out. You watched the panic on his face as he searched for something to say that would cover his tracks, but you cut it off when you connected your lips to his.

His lips were soft and velvety and he tasted exactly like the sweet sugar cookie he had gifted you. Your lips moved gently over each other and you slid your hands up to play with the curls that rested at the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to you as his hands found their spot on your hips. You couldn’t help the smiles that fought their way into the kiss and you broke apart moments later, both flushed and flustered, small giggles leaving both of you.

“I would love to be your valentine if you would have me,” you said breathlessly as you looked up to him.

“It’s all I could ask for.”

“This is the best Valentine’s Day ever,” you said softly against his lips, already pulling him back in for more.

“We’re just like the kids in the hallway.”

“They’re not too bad. I understand it now.”

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!! REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK MEAN THE WORLD!!! :)

[gukyi]

midas | jjk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bullseye. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re rather good at being both. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything else?”

“Fuck you,” you spit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Community service,” you say gruffly. 

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

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

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

A minder? 

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

Well. It could be worse. 

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

So at least there’s that. 

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

A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, I’m not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says who?” Jungkook spits back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only your life was as kind to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

She looks doubtful. “Your name?”

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

“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung looks about ready to pass out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, right. 

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

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

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

“Where do you sleep?” You ask. 

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you deadpan. 

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

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

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

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

“Fine, anything else?”

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

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

“Yeah, which are?”

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

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

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

He huffs to himself. 

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

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

You suppose that in a way, so were you. 

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

The man goes white in the face. 

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

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

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

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

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

“He was a day late,” you point out. 

“Three, if you include weekends.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook scowls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused. 

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

“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully. 

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

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

“What?” He shouts back. 

“We have visitors!” You call. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.

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

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

“Uh, a couple of—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s one way of putting it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s different,” you respond. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.

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

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

“Mr. Jeon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

“You figured correctly,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is,” Jungkook agrees.

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

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

“For what?” Jungkook asks.

“For listening to me.”

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

“Of course,” he tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what are you gonna do, then?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, yeah.” 

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

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

“And your investments are public, correct?”

“Yes.” Jungkook nods. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the matter?” You call out. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t we just order takeout?”

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

“Get what?” You challenge. 

“You don’t know how to cook.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re the kitchen!”

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

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

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

“Is it easy?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old family recipes die hard, you suppose. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna bet?”

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

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

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

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

“Will I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices. 

“I never take it off,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother would have loved it. 

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

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

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

“I know,” he says. 

You can’t sleep. 

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

But tonight, you are wide awake. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we considering that strike three?”

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

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

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

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

“Can’t sleep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has become someone he wants to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A modern day crisis,” you joke. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We thank you for your service.

Oh. 

Already? 

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

You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well. 

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

So what changed?

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

It isn’t over already, is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Jungkook says. 

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

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

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

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

Another person to fill up this barren house. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This arrangement has always been temporary. 

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

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

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

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

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

To Y/N,

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

Jungkook

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

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

You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” You demand. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You refuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

Like Jungkook. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jungkook—”

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

“Listen, I can explain—”

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

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

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

“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jungkook, you know that—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To remind you of the magic inside you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted. 

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

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

You ring the doorbell. 

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook budges a little bit. 

“Please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That old memories can become new once more. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loser washes the dishes! ♡

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

And then he shouts, 

“You’re on!”

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

[jiminrings]

i think stem!koo would compare himself with the other guy and start questioning if that’s more oc’s type and if he’s just the outlier. maybe even tries mimicking the other guy to see oc’s reaction… like if oc was talking to hobi and guk saw and then when they meet up a few day later oc’s like???? why are you blonde?

cold senior!y/n x stem major!koo masterlist :D

besides hoseok having the divine ability to throw pretty cool parties, it turns out he’s actually pretty cool too — too bad jungkook doesn’t know how to handle his jealousy at all.

“would you hate me?”

there’s no morning like today, really

no morning like today because all three of you woke up before 10 am

setting alarms when there are no classes is the equivalent of setting yourself up and you will not subject yourself to that!! — you wake up at like 12 pm max

yoongi would typically wake up at 4 in the morning, groggily realize that it’s iNDEED 4 in the morning, and go back to sleep — he wakes up seven hours later <3

jin’s sleeping pattern (or as what he calls un-blinking hours) fluctuates so oftenly and is therefore non-existent — he wakes up only when you wake him up!!

the three of you just started coming out of your rooms one-by-one and were in a daze looking at each other :|

no morning like today because now that the three of you woke up practically at the same exact time for an unknown reason, you asked if you can have jungkook come over for breakfast and they agreed

“do you guys mind if i invite jungkook for breakfast?”

“nah. go ahead.”

“it’s alright i understand i-?? what did you just say?”

jungkook also feels like there’s definitely something in the air this morning and it’s not weed lol

jin greeted him and yoongi nodded at him??? it felt as weird yet gratifying as a nickelodeon show crossover

all of you are immersed in casual and playful chatter in a somehow haze!! seokjin’s on autopilot preparing four (!!) bowls and yoongi’s getting the family (!!) cutlery instead of the disposable visitor ones

which is why the moment you ask a seemingly-loaded question, everyone just immediately snappeD out of it and was brought back to reality

“would you hate me?”

“never.” (jungkook fervently shakes his head no that his neck felt like it was unscrewed at one point)

“i would gaslight everyone and everything for you.” (yoongi snickers with his hands across his chest, actually thinking that he could also gaslight anything for you even if it’s an inanimate object)

“depends.” (jin carelessly shrugs as he tries to convince himself that you wouldn’t commit arson to his dream shared house with you and yoongi)

...

well they really didn’t let you finish ://

“thank you, but i didn’t mean it that way,” you snicker in thought at each of their answers, giving jungkook a grateful pat on his knee

yoongi almost scowls at that but he, along with jin, catches your incessant gaze

oh the question is meant for the two of them???

“would you hate me if i convince the two of you to split with me the cost of a canvas painting?”

a what

since wHEN are you into canvas paintings???

the two of them have their mouths slightly ajar and even jungkook’s joining in because even if he’s nOt included in this conversation, he’s also surprised???

“like an old abstract painting?” jin grimaces and therefore breaks the silence, blindly folding in his fluffy pancake mix to look at your reaction

“god, no,” you shudder already at the thought of an old painting with asbestos you can’t gauge the meaning of being hung at the large empty wall, “it’s for our dorm.”

.... oh?

they aren’t really against chipping in for an item that only yOU would benefit from, but it’s kinda exciting to think that all three of you are involved

“how big is this painting that you’re talking about?”

yoongi asks in deep thought, already thinking about nails and screws (which probably aren’t allowed) and the backup heavy-duty mounting tape

he’s curious already!!!! screw him!!!

“really?” your eyes considerably widen, looking at the teo of them, both shrugging at each other and that’s already your seal of approval!!! see!! you didn’t even have to plead :D

“A1 — that’s what the guy said. i found him on instagram!!”

yoongi narrows his eyes at you unironically, tch-ing at what you just said

“i don’t speak in barbecue sauce, y/n.”

.,.,.,...,. pls

jin snorts extra loudly because yoongi’s completely serious and not kidding at all when he only knows A1 as a goddamn brand of sauce instead of an actual measurement

“A1 means 23x33 inches in sizing, dumbass.”

the guy at the receiving end of chuckles only nods with newfound knowledge, already mapping it out

“what’s it about? i-i can chip in too if you’d like!!”

jungkook interjects sincerely, raising his hand out of classroom habit to which he sheepishly brings down

“it’s okay, koo. you don’t need to,” you reply back sincerely and effectively shut out the egging that yoongi and jin are giving him, something along the lines of “hey jungkook!! what if you pay for it whole, hm? you can come over for breakfast next time if you do.”

jungkook was really about to steal your phone and enter his card information in a sECOND if only you didn’t stop him

“the painting is to die for, y’know?” you hype it up as much as you could, holding jungkook’s hands in place so he can stop reaching for his wallet

:D

“it’s a painting of a sheep on a field, with the mountains behind it, that says atleast we’re under the same sky!!”

it’s pretty much safe to say that jin and yoongs were ready to lay down their money right then and there

neither of you can put a finger on it but it just tOUCHES your heart!! it’s a piece that pops up in your mind every now and then and feels like a fond memory while at it

“...and sent! quick too — he already gave me the payment confirmation.”

that’s nice!! not even five minutes after you sent your proof of payment and he already acknowledged it

the fact that it’s already paid for now aND is probably gonna get delivered within a matter of days is exciting, really

“i think i’d toss and turn in bed until that painting arrives,” yoongi yawns in admission, going into town with the powdered sugar on his pancakes that you physically had to stop him

“i’d save that painting first when there’s a fire,” jin snickers but it’s not that well-received, getting a pointed glare in return from yoongi, “fine. i’ll save y/n first and then the painting.”

this is your happy place :-)

your three favorite boys in the whole entire world in the sAME room!! and they’re not arguing!! there’s now dwelling in the past!!

just mediocre tolerance from yoongi and jin’s side, then half-giddiness and half-nervousness from jungkook’s side

“when it arrives, i’ll take a picture of the three of you and get it printed!”

kook offers and it earns him a ruffle on his hair, surprisingly from jin, that makes him almost chOke on the most delicious pancakes he’s ever tasted

“thank you, koo.”

jungkook’s getting used to this, actually

normally he’d expect a kiss on his cheek for his wonderful offer!! or maybe a hand on his thigh!! but he’s slowly starting to realize that you’re not always a physically affectionate lover

he’s admittedly the clingier out of the two of you but it’s okay!! right!!!!!!! it is :D

he’s sitting beside you right now on the couch anyway!! he’ll take that

yoongi, however, will nOT take it because that’s his spot and jungkook’s taking it away from him >:( he’s only noticed now out of the twenty minutes the four of you have been sitting here

he’s sneakily scraping off the powdered sugar from his pancakes and to the edge of his plate, ready to spill it on jungkook so he’d have an excuse of pushing him to the bathroom and take his spot beside you

just one more scrape and-

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKKKKKKKKKKKK-!!!!!!

literally everyone jolts with the abrupt knocking on your door and it even panics you a little

“w-who’s that?” jungkook fidgets on his seat and raises his feet on the cushions (no one can scold him bc everyone is also preoccupied) and his hand grips on your forearm out of instinct

“are you expecting anyone?” you ask jin because this may just be namjoon who’s rushing to get inside because students might see him

“no one,” he shakes his head and turns to yoongi, “this yours?”

yoongi shakes his head, his hand still clutching at his chest, “didn’t even order anything online these past two weeks.”

this is okay!! robbers don’t knock on the door, right? :-)

you make the initiative to stand up but you get tugged almost immediately by the three of them, shrugging them off as calmly as you could

“i’ll just see, alright?”

you peep on the keyhole and you relax immediately, just seeing a delivery guy with a huge package

you open the door and jungkook sputters of why the hell you would, about to skid towards you when-

“hoseok?”

is that-

is that jung hoseok??

jung hoseok as in your junior, the one who’s notoriously known for throwing the coolest parties ever?? to which he gets even the seal of approval from his seniors??

the same hoseok who threw the party wherein jungkook was ditched by jimin and you needed to walk him home? the one who threw the party wherein tae slipped outside and you needed to take him to the hospital??

tHAT hoseok????

he’s kinda cool for all of that actually

“Y/N???”

he’s just as surprised as you are, mouth actually dropping agape

the both of you are so surprised that neither of you seem to acknowledge the mammoth of a package that he’s holding

...

....

“oh my god, you’re the one who ordered my painting!!!”

hoseok actually leaps to hug you and it’s a miracle that you’re not knocked over with his sheer force, giddily jumping up and down as if embracing you is not enough

he pulls off before you could even poke at him, instead holding you by your shoulders and jostling you lightly now

jungkook’s watching the whole thing unfold and he’s still quite stuck on the couch, head tilting in confusion

why.... is hoseok.... hugging you.....

why........ are you letting him..... hug you

“oh my god!!! you’re the one!!!!! i-i thought no one would buy from me because i’m a small business and i don’t have a lot of works right now and my style is different but — yoongi!!!!”

hoseok attaches to yoongi next and the older guy just chuckles, patting him on the back

they’re not really close and no one really hugs their senior like that, most especially yoongi, but here they are

“let me guess, you’re one of the three who bought it, right?? y/n messaged me saying that she has two friends chipping in and asked me that if i could, add in some freebies!! and i did!!!”

man,, hoseok is quick

“we didn’t know you’re the one who made it,” you admit which gets a lot of nodding from both parties

“i didn’t know either that you guys were the one who bought it!” hoseok exclaims and turns his head to jin, “mr. kim!!! thank you so much!! you complete the trio, right?”

you and yoongi are bAFFLED at hoseok hugging seokjin, or rather mr. kim, aka an official of student affairs

what’s even more baffling is that jin doesn’t look surprised at all

“you two — i- uhm? i don’t-...”

“... hoseok’s my plug. our plug, actually.”

:O

hoseok doesn’t even look the least bit fazed, even nodding and laughing as he raises his hand

“i’m a business major!!”

ok wait maybe that does explain everything

jungkook’s so lost looking at the scene in front of him and frankly, he doesn’t know if he’s still included at this point

he’s frazzled when hoseok’s eyes slightly widen at the sight of him but later grin at him, looking back at you to wiggle his eyebrows

“and jungkook, is a stem major.”

it seems like no one but jungkook is surprised at hoseok’s sudden barging presence in the dorm

no one is batting an eye when he invites himself to stay and plop on the couch

“here, you can have mine.”

jungkook helplessly looks at you when you offer yOUR plate (that has one whole pancake left) to hoseok and leave him be

no one’s questioning him because after all, the three of you are busy unwrapping the package while he continues to explain

“what was i saying again? oh right!! i panicked when i saw the money transferred to my account because even if we were chatting, at first i was a littlE hesitant because like, bogus buyers amirite??” he speaks through a mouthful of pancakes, “and then you paid!! and i saw the address and tHEN i was really excited and like panicked? i didn’t want to get it shipped when you’re this near because that’s expensive!! and i wanted to thank the three of you personally!!”

“— which is why i sprinted all the way here!!”

that explains hoseok’s breathless and sweaty state, the whole tale of him bumping into the dean at one point and almost stomping on a pigeon making everyone entertained

everyone besides jungkook.

is it just him or is everyone’s eye twitching right now

is this his dorm? no. but does he feel like hoseok’s intruding, regardless if he lives in here or in the perspective of a fellow visitor? yes.

apparently, nONE out of the three of you seem to think so

because it’s all so good!! hoseok probably lives in your dorm too because why else would you give up your breakfast for him??

the three of you are actively fawning over the painting and jungkook’s just sO sure that it’s giving hoseok the biggest ego boost of his life ://

they just share a class or two, they aren’t really close anyways

hoseok’s the type to be intimidating and popular at the same time but surprisingly, he’s friendly in a way

ok maybe jungkook’s just getting a little over in his head rn

if he leaves, then it’s also hoseok’s time to leave!!!

he’s already practicing the words in his head

“come on hoseok, they’re the furthest thing away from being done at fawning. let’s walk together back to the dorms.”

he’s about to say it when-

“anyone have a headband i can borrow?”

hoseok asks aloud and effectively catches everyone’s attention, making you stand up in agreement

what the fuck is actually happening

jungkook watches you hand one of the headbands you wear during your games to hoseok, a guy you barely know, like it’s no big deal?????

that headband smells like your hair!!! the hair that he loves to bury his nose into and plays with!!!

that’s yours and you’re giving it to hIM?

jungkook’s stomach actually drops even if he just finished eating minutes ago, ina daze looking at hoseok putting it on his blonde hair

he doesn’t know what’s stemming from his heart nor what his tummy’s telling him, but jungkook doesn’t like it at all.

“i’m going home,” kook murmurs behind you who’s instructing yoongi and jin to level the painting some more, snaking his arm around your waist

“really? oh, okay. text me when you get home.”

you only sweetly smile at him and jungkook’s actually awaiting the offer of you walking him home, but it doesn’t come

that’s okay!

“bye. love you.”

he softly says yet it’s enough for everyone to hear, his hand still secured snugly on your waist

jungkook’s about to go for a kiss on your cheek because he’s sURE that both yoongi and jin would scowl at him if he took it any further, but he catches hoseok at the corner of his eye and it’s all out the door

he unexpectedly presses a chaste kiss on your lips and playfully drags out the mwah! at the end, much to the daggers your friends send him

that’s enough!! hoseok already saw — you’re taken by him. jungkook doesn’t need to worry now that hoseok knows :)

...

....

...... he may have spoken too soon

he’s already established that you’re taken by him, that’s great! even hoseok teases him when they see each other the next day

was that an ego boost? yes

what wasn’t an ego boost is seeing hoseok talking to him and parading the halls with your headband on!!

that’s yOUR headband!!! not his!!! what happened to merely borrowing it?

did he just happen to steal it from you, or did you just let him steal it from you?

:(

jungkook positively thinks that’s the end of this whole heart-clenching

hoseok has your headband but jungkook has you. it’s clear who’s actually winning in life

but god is jungkook wrong again

he texted you in the same morning on what you were doing since you had your classes cancelled for today with no professors coming in

going to brunch with hobi instead of sleeping all day. jin’s in the office and yoongi’s out on grocery duty. have fun w your classes :)

Hobi???

Uhm I literally just passed him in the halls two minutes ago

really? lmao that means he’s skipping class then

no because hold on

hoseok’s sKIPPING class to go to brunch with you?

you’re going to brunch with him???

HOBI?????

jungkook uncomfortably tucks his phone back into his pocket as class starts, chewing at his bottom lip

do you want him to skip classes so he could go to brunch with you?

better yet, is hoseok better than him because it’s no problem for him to skip classes??

now that he thinks about it, jungkook hasn't skipped even a single day of classes ever since freshman year

he used to take pride on his attendance but now he uh kinda wants a blank mark on his card actually

he could go to lengths of skipping classes if you asked him to!! he can!! of course he'll do that for you

but you don't ask him to and it's obvious that you only learned now how hoseok's able to meet you in the first place, but the reason behind it didn't seem to faze you

in fact, it looks like you're even amused

jungkook has to physically shake his head to get rid of his thoughts but that doesn't do anything

he's still thinking about you and hoseok during class.

he's trying not to dwell on it but it's difficult when he's always reminded of it

every time he comes over, the painting is GLARING at him and that's the reason jungkook just keeps his eyes on you for literally the whole time that he's there

your phone sometimes dings and it's a tiktok notification of hoseok sending you one

everything he does, hoseok and his outrageously blonde hair just seems to follow him

you had cat fur on the sleeve of your hoodie because you pet the campus cat awhile ago and jungkook was about to shriek because even that reminded him of the guy

all he's done this week is become bothered and frustrated to the point that even jimin, oftenly the most clueless and easy-going guy in the room, noticed it

"trouble in paradise?"

jimin's cool voice is the first thing that snaps him out of his anti-hoseok tirade in his mind, his eyes landing on his roommate lazily

it's actually jimin's red hair that makes jungkook look twice because when he saw him in the morning, he was still blonde

....,.,. blonde....?

"jimin?"

"hmm? am i right? is it rEALLY trouble in-"

"remember that time you ditched me in hoseok's party? or that time i made your paper because you forgot and you were hung-over and then you ended up getting an A?"

jimin's head tilts at jungkook's enumeration, blinking owlishly at him

".... yeah?"

"good," jungkook nods in acknwoledgement at jimin's recall, "because i think i'm gonna cash in the favors that you owe me."

:O

it's pouring

it hasn't rained in so long and it's raining sO hard that you might have to look for a candle later on

it was on the news anyway that it was gonna rain this hard but no one really expected that it'd be this hard!!

nonetheless, jungkook soothed your worries and said he'd come over because the two of you haven't seen each other in like three days

maybe it's just you but something feels off with jungkook

oddly, he's gotten a little bit more attached to you yet weirdly distant at the same time

for some reason, he asks a lot more questions too

just yesterday, he sent you a screenshot of a white polo, asked if it looked good, and proceeded to immediately purchase it once you said it looked nice

just because you don't frequently comment on what you notice, doesn't exactly mEAN you don't care about it

jungkook's a big boy!! an adult!! if he wants to say something to you, then he says it

he always has the words in his head, that much you know

but yOU, however.,.,.,

you really don't have the words right now

because as soon as you open the door, your eyes land on your boyfriend

your boyfriend in his usual hoodie who's been growing out his hair and is looking very much blonde and different

“you’re blonde?”

you rhetorically ask in shock and you're clueless to the fact that you look like a fish out of water, your hands unconsciously darting out to his chest

“hmm, you like it?”

jungkook hums and tries to keep the giddiness he feels at bay just seeing you look gobsmacked, your hands moving from his collarbones to his neck and finally, to his hair

you offer no answer because you find yourself kissing jungkook before you could even let him in and close the door

he mewls in satisfaction when you kiss him deeper and cup his cheeks, his hands finding no hesitance in pushing your bodies closer by the waist

"my handsome boy," you mumble at one point in the kiss, eternally grateful that the two of you are the only one in the dorm right now

jungkook preens at your attention, mumbling to your lips before he makes the move to kiss you determinedly

“you like me better than hoseok?”

in a single second, he doesn't feel you kissing back at all

he's so confused as he pulls away, dark brows, in contrast to his blonde hair, knitted in confusion

“quit it.”

there's no actual edge to your tone but you feel like it, an incoming realization starting to dawn on you

jungkook's oblivious to your boiling irritation, clueless to how the dots are connecting in your mind and how you're not sure on how to tackle them

“what did i do? i was just asking you if you like me better than him.”

he says nonchalantly and it's the tone that irks you — as if his seemingly harmless question didn't reveal what he really wanted to get at

“i’m with you, jungkook. has that not been established enough yet?”

your voice is still calm yet you trudge away from him, your boyfriend quick on his heels to trail behind you

“i mean you did kiss me on the mouth just now,” jungkook points out as if you weren't aware. “because i’m blonde just like hoseok.”

“oh my god."

it was just a strong hunch at first but hearing it first-hand from jungkook accelerates your sentiment for what he did even faster, your eyes rolling to the back of your head that rubs him the wrong way

he runs his hand through his hair out of habit, reminding you even more that it's bleached and blonde yet for all the wrong intentions

“is asking you so wrong? why are you getting defensive?”

you snicker at his inquiry, hands across your chest that just challenges him to do the same

“what’s wrong is that you dyed your hair blonde for no other reason besides the fact that hoseok is!”

now that jungkook hears it from you, his eyes narrow

“can’t i just be inspired?” he snaps, “can’t i be inspired to look this way because you look at him in that way?”

what?

wHAT????

“what way, jungkook?”

seemingly caught in a blindspot, he tries to backtrack

“i-i’m not-“

you're having none of it and to be honest, you're not even sure if it just pure anger that you're feeling at the moment

“you spent hours in a salon, is that it?" you prod him and that makes jungkook avoid your eyes, huffing under his breath, "got jimin to help you out?" that actually hits a nerve on him and makes his eyes zero in on you with much annoyance, "what did you go through just because you’re so inspired?”

“you look at hoseok like you’re in love with him!”

“i’m not in love with hoseok, jungkook!" you articulate every word but even that seems to anger jungkook further, "why would you even think of that?”

“because you’re only supposed to look at me that way. y-you’re not supposed to go to brunch with a guy alone when you just met him. you’re not supposed to lend him your headbands when he can just buy them! you’re not supposed to do the things you’d do with me with other guys!”

“he’s my friend. just like yoongi and jin are. i can do these things with them but that doesn’t mean i love you any less.”

jungkook rolls his eyes and even your profession of love doesn't budge him at all

“there you are with your guy friends again.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

you feel him treading to dangerous territory but you stand your ground regardless, your voice shaking when you add

“yoongi and jin came into my life way before you did, jungkook.”

it was to simply remind him but he feels as if it's out of spite, looking at you pointedly before patronizingly chuckling

“i know. i can never win with you, that’s it, right? just because you’re older than me by a year and you have friends that want to beat me up — you always win!”

his voice raises by the end of his sentence and it's his words that make you grind your teeth together and your nostrils flare, lip dangerously close to trembling

“i’m sorry if i’m jealous and i don’t know what to do because this is the first time i’ve become a boyfriend, alright?"

jungkook throws his head back and gestures to you, shaking his head while he's so close to crying because of his pent-up insecurity

“i’m sorry that i don’t know what to do and you always do because you probably had like ten boyfriends before me, right?? i’m so inexperienced and new to you that you can’t even stand me and-“

..

there's pin-drop silence in the room.

jungkook only realizes his words belatedly and the weight that they carry, eyes in a stand-still on you who looks the furthest thing from being appeased at him

you're actually hurt.

“how dare you, jungkook.”

your fists are balled to the point that the tips of your fingers feel numb from the pause in circulation, but oddly enough, jungkook feels the most remorseful when he sees your figure deflate and therefore relax

“don’t come home, it’s pouring. or go back to your dorm, whatever. i don’t care.”

he's planted by his feet but he realizes to move when you're walking out of your own dorm, prying away his hand from your elbow

“you can sleep in my room. i’m sleeping out tonight.”

.

.

.

part two

as always, lmk what you think!! i love answering asks :D what do you want to see from the lunchbox lovers next? send them here <3

[watchyourbluesturngolden]

Omg you should write about Y/n spoiling Harry for his first father’s day!! And he’d definitely get all emotional for his girls 😭

i’m sorry this took so looooong but i rlly love it and i hope you do too <3

here is the first gift I imagine, the charging station

and here is the star map (but with some minor changes that i tried to explain in the writing, i’m not that good at explanations so it’s probably slightly confusing sorry about that :) )

father's day

warnings: none

word count: 1.7k

"Good morning," you said in a quiet sing-song voice, opening Stevie's door slowly. She smiled brightly, standing with her hands grasped on the bars of crib.

"Hi mama," She said, bouncing in place.

"Hi baby," You smiled, moving over to the window to open her blinds. Early morning light streamed into the room, shining on the baby's face and reflecting off her green eyes. "Did you have a good sleep?" You asked, picking her up from the crib. She cuddled into your side, smiling as you bounced her softly on your hip.

You treasured mornings like this, where you could just hold your baby. You really didn't get to do it much. Harry typically woke up earlier than you, taking care of Stevie so you could sleep a little longer. You felt bad at first, but he always reassured you that he liked having these quiet moments with her. He said it was the perfect way to start his day, and it put him in a good mood since he had to go to work and wouldn't get to see either of you for the rest of the day.

Not today, though. Today was Father's Day, and you were determined to make it a good one for him. He really was an amazing dad, and you wanted to make sure he knew. So this morning when you heard Stevie fussing, you pushed him back down in the bed and got up yourself. He objected at first, but you wouldn't hear another word. You had rushed out of the room before he could get up, leaving him to flop back down and (hopefully) get some more sleep. You figured it wouldn't be too hard for him. Stevie had a rough night, and neither of you had gotten much rest the night before. You didn't care, though. Harry was always the one to be selfless and let you relax, so today you wanted to do the same for him.

"Should we go get some breakfast?" You asked Stevie as you finished changing her diaper. "Hm?" You tickled her feet a bit, smiling when she giggled loudly. "Shh, daddy's still sleeping!"

She lifted her arms up to you, clearly wanting to be held again. Of course you obliged, picking her up and closing the container of wipes on the changing table. You settled everything back into the drawers before you made your way downstairs and into the kitchen.

"What should we make today?" You hummed thoughtfully, opening the fridge. Stevie was still balanced on your hip, but she reached for the yogurt cartons. "Yogurt it is," You smiled, leaning forward so she could reach easier. "Maybe an orange, too."

She didn't respond, completely engrossed by the container in her small hands.

"I think I'll do pancakes. Daddy might like those," you decided, grabbing an orange for her, and one for yourself. You set Stevie in her highchair, opening the yogurt and handing her a spoon so she could begin making a huge mess and (maybe) actually eating some yogurt. You moved to the cutting board, slicing the orange into small pieces she could eat safely. Once she was settled, you grabbed the milk and eggs from the fridge.

You started your morning playlist, the rich sound of Hozier's voice drifting through the kitchen as you found the recipe you needed. Then you began mixing the batter, humming softly as you worked.

It really was the perfect morning. It was still early, so the light coming through the large windows was soft and red tinted. The kitchen smelled like oranges and pancakes, the sweet scents complementing each other. You had the windows open so the soft breeze came in, bringing the smell of early summer with it. Your playlist was soft, adding nicely to the domestic feel of the morning. Stevie would babble every once in a while, wanting to be involved in what you were doing. You would explain every step to her, telling her what each ingredient was for. This was something you and Harry did often. Of course, there were times when you baby talked her, but you also liked to have normal conversation with her. You knew it would help her develop and begin to talk faster. Also, it was funny when she babbled and Harry acted like he understood everything she said.

Once the pancakes were finished, you began the process of cleaning everything up. You wanted Harry to have a relaxing morning, and you knew he would try to do something to help since he had gotten to sleep in. You weren't about to let him do a bunch of house chores. Not today.

You put all the ingredients away before wiping off the counter top. Then you moved to set the table. You put the stack of pancakes in the middle, along with the bottle of syrup and a bowl of berries. You set out plates, silverware, cups, and the pitcher of orange juice. Once you were satisfied, you brought the washcloth over to Stevie.

Your earlier thoughts had been correct. She had at least half the carton of yogurt smeared on her face, hands, and shirt.

After only a small amount of fighting and fussing from her, you had cleaned her off and lifted her out of the highchair.

"Let's go get daddy," you said, smiling when her face lit up at the mention of one of her favorite people.

-----

"Morning, Harry," you said softly, pushing open the door with Stevie still balanced on your hip. You hadn't been loud enough, apparently, because he didn't move. He would never admit it to you, but he had been exhausted lately. He wouldn't tell you that getting up in the night and early every morning was taking a toll on him, because he knew you would feel bad. Which is why you really wanted to let him sleep this morning.

It was much later then he usually slept, though, and you didn't want the food to get cold. So you put Stevie on the bed next to him, settling down on the other side of him and letting her do her thing. She immediately crawled on top of him, giggling and bouncing.

"Good morning," he smiled sleepily, reaching up to grab her and stop her jumping. Stevie squealed, laughing when he pulled her against him and cuddled her. She wasn't in the mood to be still, though, and she quickly squirmed away from him. "What, I can't have a hug?" He pouted, but smiled again when you leaned into him.

"You can have a hug from me," you said, "But it might not be as good as hers."

"Nonsense," he grinned, pulling you against him. He grabbed Stevie again, pulling her into the hug even though she squirmed. "Stevie, this is family time. Calm down for a minute."

She laughed again when he danced his fingers along her tummy.

"Well, she's not gonna calm down if you tickle her," you laughed. "That much should be obvious to you."

"Right," he smiled. "Anyways, why did you make me go back to sleep this morning? I'm not complaining, but I feel bad you had to get up early."

"Harry, you get up early with her every single day. You deserve a day off. And it's Father's Day. And you are a father. So you should get to relax today."

"Well, thank you," he leaned up to kiss you. "That's very sweet of you."

"Of course," you smiled. "But now you have to get up. I made pancakes."

"Did you?" he perked up immediately at that.

"I did," you laughed. "Come on, everything's ready and it'll get cold."

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," he said, throwing the blankets off and picking up Stevie. "Let's go eat some pancakes!" He looked at her, grinning when she smiled up at him.

-----

"Thank you so much, love, breakfast was delicious," He said, placing the plates in the dishwasher. He had insisted on helping you clean up the table, even when you protested.

"Thank you," you smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "Sit back down, I have something for you."

"C'mere, Stevie," he said, lifting her out of her highchair and onto his lap. "What did you and mommy get for me?"

She babbled in response, and you smiled to yourself as you went into the hall closet to find the box of his gifts. You could hear him responding to her, acting like he understood all her babbling.

"Ok, here we are," you said, setting the two items on the table in front of him. "Open this one first." You pushed the box closer to him, the wrapped picture frame farther back.

He did as you said, pulling the paper off the box. Inside was a wooden charging station with a space for his phone, watch, and airpods.

"Thought that might be good, since you're always losing everything. This way you can keep them all in one place," you explained.

He rolled his eyes playfully. "Well not always," he said, but smiled nonetheless. "Maybe sometimes. Thank you," he pulled you closer by your waist.

"And that next one is more personal," you said, pulling the flat item closer.

He tore the paper off again, his eyes softening when he looked at the images. There were three circles, each with a star map inside them. The outer two were larger and set slightly above the middle, one printed with your name and one with Harry's. The middle one had Stevie's name. Birthdays were printed under each name, all in gold scripty font. "You, me, and Stevie," He said fondly, running his finger over the lettering at the top which read "The Styles Family".

You nodded. "I saw it on Etsy and I had to get it. It's just such a cute idea, and it'll look really nice on the wall above the bookshelf."

"It will," he agreed. "I love this. Thank you," he smiled, pulling at your shirt until you leaned down so he could kiss you.

"You're welcome," you smiled. "I hope this makes for a good first Father's Day."

"It's perfect, love. Better than I could have ever asked for."

[batsandbugs]

The Great IKEA Game

Chapter 3: Food Court Shenanigans 

AN: Well, it’s two months later, but I’m finally back! Enjoy! 

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Cautiously they snuck around from display to display - hiding their cloth robins in increasingly creative places, on a corkboard, with a dining set, on a fake bird. It became somewhat of a competition to find the best place within the display room. 

They remained serious in their mission at first, but soon conversation flowed. Snide comments about passing customers, little anecdotes - Damian’s humor was hilarious once you understood his sarcasm and pointed edges were just a defense mechanism (it reminded her of Chloe)- and joking around. Well, as much as they could be, being on the lookout for his older brothers. 

Over an hour they hid over thirty birds, changed outfits twice, spotted Jason another time, which resulted in Damian diving behind some fake curtains while Marinette tried not to drool over a butcher-block table perfect for a sewing room (but which was way too expensive). 

 “Coast is clear,” Marinette called, once Jason once again disappeared. Damian slid out from behind the curtain and joined her by the table. 

“This is nice,” he said. “But I like the dark oak better.” He pointed to the options available, and Marinette had to agree.

“Yeah, but my cabinets are light brown. Not that I need this or can afford it for that matter. I didn’t have a proper workstation even when I was in Paris.”

“Why not?” 

“No room. My parents had the bakery downstairs, then they lived on the second floor. I lived in a converted attic, which was great - I even had a balcony, but my computer desk took up a lot of room.” She shrugged a little self-consciously. “Besides, my projects always ended up splayed all over the floor, anyway.” 

“That’s fair,” he said with a small nod. He pulled out a map of the store, although Marinette couldn’t ever remember seeing ones to pick up. “We've neared the end of the showrooms - or at least the ones we placed calling cards in - once we enter the warehouse we’ll be out in the open. I’m sure one of my brothers are stationed there.” 

“Question is do we want to leave calling cards on the shelves of the warehouse, or do we need to avoid them more?” Marinette asked. 

Damian considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “We’ve still got several hours to go - open and bold moves now are an unnecessary risk. I would propose avoiding it altogether, but…” he trailed off. 

“What?” she prompted. A loud rumbling sound erupted from her stomach, and Marinette instantly wanted to die. Damian bit his lip, holding off a small smile. 

“Oh, laugh it up.” Marinette rolled her eyes, studiously ignoring the burning in her cheeks. “All I had to eat today was a pack of crackers.” 

“I thought you might be hungry - you could go grab something to eat from the food court and take a break if you wanted?” 

Marinette frowned. “But what about you? Aren’t you hungry?” 

Damian waved her off. “Nothing I can’t handle. I’ve gone longer than a few hours without food before.” His eyes were hard and cold, opposite of the teasing glint that had been there a moment before. It sent a small shiver down Marinette’s spine. It was obvious to anyone - or maybe it was just her - that Damian had been through things. 

But it didn’t sit right with her to head off to the safety of the food court and leave him alone and without food. While he had seemed perfectly capable of handling himself before she came along Marinette was very invested in how this turned out.

“How about I go grab both of us something to eat, come back here, and then we work on our next move from there?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Fine, if it makes you feel better.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black wallet.

Marinette shook her head. “No, no, I can-”

He shoved a black metallic card into her hands; it weighed more than she thought it should.  

“I insist.”

“I have money.”

“So do I.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not–it’s… payment.”

“I’m doing this for fun.”

“I won’t take no for an answer.” He crossed his arms and glared. It might have worked. If Marinette had been someone else. But she had been subjected to both Chole and Kagami’s overprotective and stubborn glares for years. This was nothing in comparison.

“I can pay, it’s nothing.”

He rolled his eyes again. “You’re a college student, it’s not nothing. Take. The. Card.”

Marinette threw her hands in the air. “Fine, you stubborn man.” A brief smile overtook Damian’s features, and then he dove out of sight. She turned to leave.

“I’m a vegetarian," he called. "Nothing with meat. And the pin is 1914.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in fifteen.” Walking away with the card in hand, she felt a little guilty for not fighting more. She was the one who was hungry, and who had offered to get him food. He didn’t need to give her his card.

Sighing in fond exasperation, she left the end of the display rooms. The warehouse section was large with rows upon rows of metallic shelving covered in boxes, but the food court sat off to the side; easy to find. It was mildly busy for a weekend afternoon, so she quickly stood in line and figured out what to order.

As she placed her order, she thought for a moment about just buying everything with her card, and then returning it to Damian as if she used it. She had a sneaking suspicion he would see right through that. Even after years of being a superhero, she still sucked at lying directly to someone’s face.

She scrolled through her phone, enjoying the slight break off her feet when she heard a familiar-sounding voice.

“Damn it, I don’t see the demon spawn,” growled an irritated voice.

Jason.

It was only years of practiced eavesdropping that stilled Mariette’s head from turning toward voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Damian’s older brother running a hand through his two-toned hair. A slightly smaller, but no less attractive man stood next to him, frowning at his phone.

“His credit card just pinged; he can’t have left that quickly.”

Marinette felt herself grow completely still at the mention of the credit card.

‘I am so going to tell him, I told you so,’ she thought furiously in her mind. How the hell would she leave without looking suspicious?

A third man jogged up to the two. A little older than them, but still just as attractive.

'This entire family looks like they could be on the cover of a freaking magazine,’ grumbled the part of her mind that was not overtaken with panic.

“I just checked the perimeter. No sign of him. Are you sure the charge was for the food court, Timmy?”

The man with the phone rolled his eyes. “Yeah–It comes out as $8.32, IKEA Food Court, order number 177.”

“Order 177. Order 177. Your food is ready,” called out a server. They placed the food on the counter, and Marinette saw the men all turn in sync to where the order laid innocently on the counter.

Marinette felt her stomach rumble again but knew the food was out of her reach now. Sacrifices had to be made to win.

‘Damn, I was looking forward to those meatballs and fries.’ No. She had to get out of here without Damian’s brothers noticing anything suspicious. They walked over to the counter, probably to ask the server who had ordered the food and which way they had gone.

Shit. She didn’t have any time.

Tapping on her locked screen, she placed it up to her ear as if taking a call.

“Hey Chole, yeah, no good to hear from you…” She rose from the plastic picnic bench. Only a few minutes before had seemed like such a nice place to rest, now it mocked her. She strolled away from the food court calmly, knowing one wrong move and she would be found out.

She reached into her bag, still walking normally, and grabbed a small metallic ball. It had a green paw print on the front.

Now, this was an experiment she and the kwamis had worked on over the summer. With a little help from Max–not that he knew what it was for–they had siphoned off a bit of pure energy from the Kwami’s and placed it into a small metallic ball that could be activated in a time of need. Mostly when it wasn’t safe to transform. It wasn’t super powerful and, so far, they’d only managed it with Plagg and Tikki, but it was something.

‘A bit of bad luck to distract them,’ Marinette thought.

Now, strictly speaking, this wasn’t exactly what they had in mind when creating the little devices, but desperate times called for desperate measures and all that.

She pressed the small paw print–using a bit of her own energy to activate the device–and threw it on the ground, letting it roll. She continued to walk calmly, and by the time she reached the entrance back to the showrooms, a clatter of noise erupted behind her. She only let herself glance back for a second, watching as a mostly empty display shelf collapsed onto an empty forklift.

Marinette winced. Hopefully, nothing was too damaged.  

Off to the side she saw multiple people had gotten into a traffic jam with their shopping carts, and… oh, everything had spilled out of one, and another looked like it had lost two wheels.

… okay, maybe the balls were a bit powerful.

Seeing she wasn’t being followed, she picked up her pace and made her way back to the showroom she’d left Damian at. Along the way, she saw multiple employees rushing toward the warehouse section. She felt a little bad for them, it would be a mess cleaning all this up, but it was her best shot at a clean escape.

After what felt like forever, but was just five minutes, she made it back to Damian’s hiding spot. Taking a moment to check her surroundings, she glanced around, not seeing any of Damian’s brothers. She breathed a small sigh of relief. She entered the showroom and ducked behind the counter.

“We need to go,” she whispered.

“Where’s the food?”

She shook her head. “Who cares about the food, we have bigger problems. Your brothers were waiting in ambush.” She shoved his credit card back at them. “They tracked your card.”

“Damn it,” Damian muttered.

She paused, thinking over the absurdity of the situation. “Who tracks their brother’s credit card?”

“People who want to win. What about you, Miss Disguises-in-your-purse?”

“They’ve come in handy multiple times.”

“Attention all IKEA customers be warned that aisles seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty are now closed because of potentially unsafe shelving units. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

Damian looked at her with a questioning glance, “Did you…?”

“I needed a distraction.”

“How… you know what… no, never mind.” He shook his head, but a small smile told Marinette it amused him.

“They’ll know you’re working with a partner if they get anything out of the server at the register. We need a better hiding spot.”

“Well, while you caused chaos, I figured out our next move.” He motioned her to follow him, and they crept along the floor to the back of the showroom. He moved aside a curtain to reveal an air conditioning grate big enough for both of them to crawl into. “The ventilation layout shows this running straight back to the loading docks, which have rooftop access. We can access another shaft which will take us back to the front of the store. I figured the long route would be safer than going the ground route.”

“Genius.” Said Marinette in amazement, although slightly wondering how on earth he got access to something like ventilation layouts.

“I am aware.”

“But how will we get it off the wall? I have a sewing kit, not a tool belt.”

Damian reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

“That’s a pen,” Marinette deadpanned.

“It’s a specially designed pen.” He grasped the top. “Avert your eyes.” Marinette glanced away, but then heard the sizzle of metal, and felt the warm rush of heat.

She looked. In Damian’s hand was a small laser, shaped like a pen, easily cutting through the metallic grate blocking off the air shaft.

“It’s a LASER?” Marinette whispered in a shriek. “You… just have a laser in your pocket.”

“Well, you apparently disabled four industrial shelving units with your mind.” He grabbed hold of the grate as it came loose and placed it behind the curtain.

“I didn’t disable four shelving units. Just one,” she paused, “and a forklift… and some shopping carts. Just enough to cause a distraction.”

“Whatever,” he rolled his eyes, but she could see the glee lurking beneath the surface. She couldn’t help the smile spreading across her own face. Something about Damian was infectiously fun and absurd. Marinette was reminded of her earlier days as a hero before the weight of the city fully settled on her shoulders. Back when fights were simple, and midnight patrols were racing across the Parisian rooftops–making the blood in her veins pound with the rhythm of her steps.

She missed it.

“Ladies, first,” Damian said, gesturing to the vent.

“Thanks.” She crawled in, beyond grateful she decided to wear pants that day. Damian crawled in right behind her and readjusted the curtain over the uncovered air shaft.

She grabbed her phone from her bag and turned on the light. Holding it and crawling was difficult, but it was better than crawling around in total darkness. It was times like this where she questioned the absolute insanity of her life.

She wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Tag List: (Closed, sorry!! I’m so glad you all like it though.) 

@multplelifes @bluesimani @justhugefangirl @nik-nak-3@redscarlet95 @purplesundaze @incredulous-reader @k-poplunardreams @our-preciousss @blackmagicforever @vgirl-10123 @lozzybowe @wannajointhecrabcult @dast218 @chaotic-mess-of-a-life @fidget-eep @kawaiigiantjudgefish @queenmj10@tumbling-down-hills-and-stuff @crazylittlemunchkin @fandom-writer642 @nach0ava @ladybug-182 @sam-i-am-0222@spyofthenightcourt @how-to-fuction-properly@emotionalsupportginger @dreamykitty25 @tomanyfandomsonmy-mind @mystery-5-5 @theatreandcomicfreak @weird-pale-blonde-person @whatthechickenfriedfuck @myazael@pawsitivelymiraculous @urbanpineapplefarmer @karategirl119@consumeconstantly @hauntedstudent99 @ertyzeta @thornalchemist23 @iloveitwhen @animegirlweeb@byronsacademics @i-wanna-be-a-ninja @moonlitjiminie@iglowinggemma28 @constancetruggle @catgirlkittypryde @waffelyunsure @maskedpainter @lilkymilky @unhappyraspberry @avengerthewarrior @quotesandanime @tbehartoo @clumsy-owl-4178 @g-arya @chocolateherringtacofan​ @jalaluvsu​ @crazyrandomrebel @fatimaabbasrizvi​ @thenillabean​ @goblinwhoships​ @bluefyoto94​ @nerinalith​ @loopingtangent​ @demonicbusiness​ @hecate-hallow​ @themcclan​ @tropestropestropes​ @paintedhope7​

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Maybe updated version of a redux of 3 and 5-Act European Story structure?

Basically goes like this (Super short version). A bunch of guys, mostly Gustav Freytag wanted to say their story structure was the best in the world. In order to do that, they invoked *snobby voice* William Shakespeare and proceeded to get him wrong. A lot. I mean, if the guy made no notes about his scripts, you don’t have the original scripts he wrote, then he’s a perfect target. Freytag, BTW, was a raging imperialist, genocidal, and racist. (subtly sexist, but who is counting that). He wanted to say that Germany had inherited from the Greeks and Shakespeare. And you might be thinking, “You’re making that up.” But the dude goes over this at least 2-3 times. And also goes over some ridiculous statements at the same time about Greek Theater, which BTW, he pulls out of his ass. (Reading Freytag is an exercise in frustration--which is also why he’s often misquoted, or his quotes are chopped up.) Freytag also pulls from Aristotle (Aristotle who, BTW, was also misogynist, and yes, misogynist for his times.) Influencing his structure was Christianity (he goes to great trouble to put down Jews, Islam and “Hindoos” in the most racist and religiously intolerant terms possible. I’m still trying to forget what he wrote so I don’t feel like throwing up in my mouth every time.), male sexuality. He explicitly cites sex... (Not sex shaming, but still misogyny) and just that little bit of imperialism. So maybe the structure of war thrown in there, though he did argue for emotions to be at the center of stories. I didn’t add Freytag to the Master list for a long time, because he’s a royal ass. I really, really hate him. Unfortunately for Freytag, he was kind of expelled from the literary canon because WWI happened and people hated Germans after that... but hit pause there. Meanwhile, there was this guy, you know, called Edgar Allen Poe, who innovated the short story, and printing got hella lot cheaper with the Rotary Printing Press, so writing fiction became from rich elite only to the large public being able to write. The first writing manuals seem to be more around Short stories than novels. Very late 19th century the first manuals came out.

It won’t surprise you, but 19th century novels had a plethora of ideas about how a novel should be. Some said it should have a structure, some entertained multiple structures. Some said you could map with with an emotional line. Some argued for a multitude of central plot drivers. The popular ones were: Morality (Morality Tale) Realism, Romanticism, and Emotion. This was HOTLY debated. Clayton Hamilton Joseph Berg Esenwein Selden Lincoln Whitcomb were the three I focused on. ‘cause the diagrams date from Whitcomb and Esenwein. (I did read more than that, but overly long) Esenwein took from Whitcomb, but cautioned that his method was ONLY for short stories and novels were far too complex to use his story structure... apparently people forgot and ignored him. (All of them invoked [Christian] God and Shakespeare again. Oh, and didn’t invoke Freytag, but you kind of feel his influence.) Conflict? Not in the list. I checked it against several writing books. It’s not there. The mention of conflict at the center of stories is Percy Lubbock’s Craft of Fiction 1921. Yep. Not a typo. NINETEEN TWENTY-ONE. It might have been accidental, since he kinda started the ball rolling in a direction from what I’ve read from him, he’d have generally hated. (It’s a bit of irony). He was asking for more critical readers, and also kinda arguing for Death of the Author. (Something like, it’s a cooperative affair, but the writer is not in control of what the reader thinks or feels.) BTW, Virginia Woolf had a love-hate relationship with Craft of Fiction. I have a loose theory that the focus on conflict and the doubling down, might be all those late 19th century wars, and then all of the disasters from 1920′s. The stock market crashed, World War I, the Pandemic of 1918, and since we’re including some later writers... WWII. Did it have anything to do with “make the story more interesting.” FUCK NO. It had absolutely nothing to do with that. It was that after trauma after trauma, there was a collective cultural understanding (one could say resonance) that needed to be worked out in fiction. And for a long, long time all there seemed to be was conflict. The Five Act structure comes from Kenneth Rowe misreading Aristotle and Shakespeare, which is terrible, since he was a professor of both. And believe me, I read all academic works surrounding Aristotle and Shakespeare that I could get my hands on. The gross errors were loosely referenced by Egri, who had a habit of not citing authors he loathed, but read anyway (e.g. Freytag). The arguing for plays, etc using line of emotion and so on was taking from short stories. Rowe’s Five Act structure, BTW, as described looks nothing like the final product. He wanted more bumps on the way up and on the way down, and thought the thing now called the denouement, could sometimes be unnecessary. (Which BTW, was stolen from Esenwein, no credit given, but it’s explicitly stated in Esenwein’s work) The structure wasn’t supposed to be for 2 hour films. It was supposed to be for 18 minute films. (*cough* No one thought to update to accommodate to film lengths over time?) And the diagrams used are incomplete, because there are 2 other diagrams he puts in that are not used or quoted on the internet. Lajos Egri, then attempted to organize all of it and make it into a more character-centric study and described it. He defined conflict as the central tenant of stories, but honestly back stabbed Jewish lore, which still puzzles me.

Then Syd Field took Lajos Egri, and set up the first throws of the Hollywood Formula 3 act, made a diagram (No, not a line). And then someone else, whom I haven’t found yet, took Syd Field’s work, bred it with Whitcomb’s line of emotion and probably Kenneth Rowe to get all of those wrong diagrams online attributing it to Shakespeare and Aristotle. (I think it has to be in the 1980′s, because there is a second boom of writing manuals then with the rise of computers, and there are a ton of indications that people misquoted, etc willy nilly in the 1980′s. Misquotes about Shakespeare, Star Wars, Aristotle, Mark Twain mostly come from there. Note: Pure speculation.) Because why not retcon the people who said nothing? Or talked for OMG more than 2 sentences. *sighs* The academia around these people forced me to read their effing texts myself. Thank you. I hated it. And I wish academia did better. Academia often sliced and diced, rather than read the full text to get the meaning. For example, the bit about Aristotle wanting a Beginning, Middle and End is a lie. Yes, he defined those things (badly), but his main argument was at the end of the section where he said this should be CONTINUOUS. They were not prescriptions for act structure. But academia repeats over and over it’s an act structure. No, what he’s arguing is that there should be no flashbacks or skipping around. All time should be set linear, which is a death for writers in the current era. Referencing previous points in time is a basic. The reason Aristotle’s arguing this, if you bother reading the whole thing, is because he’s arguing plays should be simple and easy to understand. But then you’d have to quote several large sections of his loquacious treaties, and have an attention span and time to get past it, so most academics don’t bother reading the original text in full. (This goes for Horace and Aelius Donatus, too, which is also kind of hilarious/sad since a lot of the 3 and 5 act is built on male ego, rather than on factual basis and tons of retconning.) Summary: You might doubt this, but you’ll notice the whole list is men. This is because essentially, you’re combining Christianity, (mostly cishet) Male sexuality and the Stages of War together while white (mostly:) cishet abled  men are worshipping mostly white cishet abled men. Percy Lubbock is a closeted gay. Egri is a Jew, but there’s oddities in both cases. Egri kind of backstabs the Jewish literary tradition. He mentions Jewish writers, but doesn’t seem to side with Jewish Literature structure. Percy Lubbock is so tricky to discuss without launching into the politics about the view of gay people in the 19th to 20th centuries. Consistently, though, most of these men dump on Gertrude Stein and either omit women, or dump on them. A whole ton. i.e. Skip over them as ever being great. Kinda reminds me of Stephen Fry saying this was his personal taste, and you are free to disagree with him, but there wasn’t a single woman or a person of color on his list. TT AND he’s worked with women writers before (Freaking Emma Thompson?). Even skipped Jane Austen, though he mentions her. (I do admire him... so it’s more like hurt that someone you admire has let you down.)

I did this because I had this irking suspicion that the story passed to us is a big fat lie. And it is. And considering that more women (and marginalized people) read than white cishet men, I’m really, really asking, why, WHY THE HELL ARE WE UPHOLDING THIS STORY STRUCTURE as the pinnacle of all stories? You can 100% hit all of the story structure requirements of the current 3 and 5 Act structure and still end up with a piece of crap. (WW1984, for example) We complain so often about how movies fail because they may have conflict, but you easily forget them. And really, that’s a betrayal of all of the mentioned writers above. Even that twit, Freytag. Even Aristotle. If anything, all of those writers listed said a story should linger in some capacity for the reader. None of the writers who contributed to the final story structure would approve of it. BTW, Europe and European Diaspora has alternatives. Say the 19th century writings? Absurdist? Pixar formula? Dare I say it all of those ignored marginalized writers who contributed a truckload of ideas on what story structure should be, which mostly center on self-realization, giving rise to a reformed 3 and 5 act story structure, because the male-centric one was failing and a piece of trash? (Though some people still used the self-realization model somewhat clumsily by people who don’t get you need to coincide the conflict with the emotional height, rather than use the self-realization to do info dump and explain what the conflict already resolved/is about to resolve.) Without those marginalized writers you would miss on things like psychology weaved into the fabric of stories, chapters being used as psychological tools, playing with language to evoke or play down meaning. Playing with trying to write stories in a ethnic shared cultural identity. Trying to argue for the right to speak. What does a marginalized perspective look like? And what is narrative when you are robbed of that power to speak most of the time? This is why a lot of imperialized communities latched onto the Modernists. The fragmented realities that modernism allowed, often fit more closely to the psychology of the peoples that were oppressed such that a linear story structure was no longer possible. Flashbacks, dream sequences, things out of order... Modernists. And many of them were not your Faulkners at all. The worldwide consensus about stories I’ve found is that if they don’t make you think, remember or feel anything, you’ve failed miserably. Conflict narrative swerves sharply away from that when you don’t remember the reason it was argued for was supposed to be heightened character and emotion. (I’d argue anxiety and an over reliance on definitive closed ending conclusions... but that’s a separate argument.)

[eideticmemory]

TWO GHOSTS | MATTHEW G. GUBLER

It’s been 15 years. 15 years has to be long enough . . . right?

Set 15 years after the end of Ever Since New York, so give that a read first!

Word Count: 3.1k.

Warning: Usual angst, porn, and poor communication amongst characters.

SOUNDTRACK:

Maps - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Stop the World, I Wanna . . . - Artic Monkeys

Space Song - Beach House

May 16, 2002.

New York City, New York.

“[y/n] . . .” Claire whispered. “Honey, c’mon . . . just, try to sit up.”

You couldn’t. You just, couldn’t. It was as if your entire body was filled to the brink with sand — coarse, wet, heavy sand — and it was weighing you down, keeping you anchored to Claire’s bed. Your head rested in her lap, and your fist gripped, tightly, onto the fabric of her jeans — which were stained with your tears. Her hand ran along your spine, and her arm wrapped around you, protectively. She wanted to shield you, she wanted to keep you safe, happy. She wanted to distract you from your luggage laid out on the floor.

But, the pressure of her body, coddling you, God, it just hurt. Everything hurt, and you couldn’t get it to stop, and you couldn’t stop sobbing, ugly sobbing, snot running down your lips.

“Cl—Claire . . .” you whined. “I . . . I . . .” your hand flew to your mouth, muffling a loud and painful sob that echoed throughout the room.

“I know, I know . . .” she cooed, kissed the top of your head, and ran her hand over your hair. “It’s okay, don’t try to talk, just rest.”

Claire held you, all day and all night on May 16, 2002. She held you until you lost your voice, until you cried yourself to sleep, and after that, she still held you.

Because it was May 16, 2002.

And May 16, 2002 was day one without Matthew Gubler.

After crying yourself to sleep that morning, you awoke alone in Claire’s bedroom that night. You rubbed your tired and sore eyes, and sat up, surprised to see the sun had gone down. Your mouth felt dry, and your throat was sore. Claire had left you a bottle of water, and you chugged it in one gulp. You stood from the bed, slowly and groggily, stumbling your way through the boxes of clothes, and decorations that Claire hadn’t even put up yet.

You wandered aimlessly into the bathroom, and switched on the light. You didn’t recognize yourself in the mirror. Only a faint resemblance of what you looked like that morning, before the airport, before the tears.

You had dressed up. Did your makeup. And now, your clothes were wrinkled, and your face was smeared with mascara. You looked miserable, you felt miserable, you were miserable.

Claire walked in just as another tear rolled down your cheek. You looked at her reflection, and saw she was eyeing you, sadly.

“Hey,” she attempted to smile. She stepped over to you and held onto your shoulders, catching you as you fell back, dramatically, into her arms.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” she whispered. You hiccuped as you looked in the mirror, making eye contact with her. “It’s just day one . . .” she said. “It’s just . . . day one.”

And it’s true, what everyone says: one day turns into one month, and one month turns into one year.

And one year turns into one decade.

October 13, 2017.

New York City, New York.

Today, is Friday the thirteenth.

Day 5,629 without Matthew Gubler.

And somehow, someway, you feel just as stuck, and frozen, and scared shitless as you did on day one.

You haven’t felt this way in a very long time, though. And of all the days, of all the nights, to feel like this, to be stuck and frozen and scared . . . tonight is not the night.

A knock rings at the dressing room door, startling you from your thoughts. You cleared your throat, and found yourself, once again, focused on your reflection.

You know this person. You’ve spent 5,629 days growing into this person. And y’know what? She’s fucking hot.

“[y/n]!” Another knock follows.

“I’m coming!”

“When?”

“Ramona, I will fire you, and trust me, I really need an assistant!” You shout, fixing your dress in the mirror once again.

“Oh, yeah, right. Then who would make your coffee and make sure you’re on time?” she replied. “. . . You’re late!”

“Okay!” You stumbled to the door in your heels, flung it open, putting your hand on your hip.

“Wow . . .” Ramona said, nearly speechless. “You look . . . hot.”

“That is not how you speak to your boss, dude,” you laughed. “You really think I look hot?”

“Marshmallows on an open fire, smoking, kind of hot.” She winks.

You chuckle, “Thanks, I needed that. Walk with me.”

“Okay, um,” she starts, walking beside you as you strut down the hall. “Hair and makeup are gonna take care of you in no less than thirty minutes, that gives you, approximately, two minutes to get into the studio.”

“Two minutes?” You stop in your tracks. “That’s it?”

She can’t help but grin, just a little, “Told you you were late.”

You scoffed, “Okay, so are we shooting when I step into the studio?”

“Yep!”

“Great . . .” you sigh, walking over to the cosmetic chair.

“But, hey, you’re the big boss, they can’t film without you.”

“Yeah, except big boss told everyone we’re filming at seven sharp, and big boss probably won’t even be ready at seven sharp!” You ramble.

“Okay . . .” Ramona nods, slowly. “Are ever gonna tell me why you’re so nervous about tonight, or . . ?”

“Uh, why am I nervous about a major, televised, celebrity event that I not only put together myself, but choreographed?” You rambled. “I don’t know, pick a reason!”

“Wow . . .” She says. “As valid as all those reasons are, I think something else is going on and I will find out, so you might as well spill.”

“Can’t talk!” You pip. “Getting my makeup done! Tell them I’ll be in at seven.”

You exhaled deeply the minute Ramona stepped away, closing your eyes. Not opening them until your hair was done perfectly, and the makeup artist added her final touches.

You, once again, came face to face with your reflection.

“[y/n]!”

But you didn’t have time to process it.

“[y/n], cameras are rolling, thirty seconds to seven.”

Of all the days, of all the nights, you tell yourself, looking into the mirror, to feel like this, to be stuck and frozen and scared . . . tonight is not the night.

“[y/n]!”

Because you are the big boss now.

Your purple dress — perfectly matched to the NYU logo — hugs your body tightly as you walk across the floor, the hem splayed over feet, which are covered in tall, silver heels. The clack of your shoes silences everyone as you walk by. Everyone, except for Ramona, who steps in before you can enter the studio.

She clips an NYU pin to your dress, “For good luck,” she smiles.

“3, 2, 1 . . . rolling.”

You enter the studio, and the room fills with a flood of “oooooh!” from each and every one of your students. The camera pans over their faces as you walk across the hardwood floor, smiling at them, laughing at their expressions. Their jaws are dropped, hands clutched over their chests.

“[y/n]! Holy shit!”

“Hey!” You laugh. “Language! We’re rolling!”

“You look great!”

“Thank you, how are you all?” You ask.

“Nervous, thanks for asking.” They all laugh.

“You guys will be fine, I’m an excellent teacher,” you giggle.

“Damn right, but are you sure you can’t hold our hands while we’re on stage? Just for a little bit?”

“Big babies!” You shake your head. “You’re ready. Signals from off camera indicated a time crunch, and you quickly brought the group together for a big hug.

It’s been a long time coming. Tonight. Or, as printed on all invitations and promotional materials:

New York University’s 2017 Celebrity Alumni Event: In Support of the Ballet class of 2017.

Coordinated and Choreographed by [y/n] [y/l/n], executive producer and star of the hit reality show, New York Best and Ballet.

Big boss.

The camera follows you as you exit the studio, walk down the hall, “They’re gonna kill it,” you smile into the lense. “I know it.”

All you can think about is the blatant, gross hypocrisy. The way you’re completely, beyond a shadow of doubt, confident in your students and their ability to pull this off.

And you can’t even say the same thing about yourself.

With the cameras off of you, you put your hand against the wall, and steady yourself. Ramona walks up to you, walking along your side. “Got you a water, you should stay hydrated tonight.”

You give her an appreciative look, taking the bottle of water and standing up straight, “Is it too early to start drinking?”

“I guess not, guests are starting to arrive.”

“Holy shit, already?” You gasp.

“You did plan this thing, right?”

“Ugh,” you huff, dramatically rolling your eyes.

“You’re expected in the ballroom, a margarita will be waiting for you at the bar.” Ramona grins.

You continue down the hallway, as she watches you walk away, a crew of people following behind you.

“[y/n]!” Ramona calls.

You turn to her, stopping in your steps.

“Marshmallows on an open fire, smoking, kinda hot,” she smiles.

You laugh, out loud, and give her a nod. Then, you continue on your way downstairs.

More people had already arrived than you thought. The ballroom was packed, covered by a sea of people, tables, cameras and crew meandering through the crowd to catch every ounce of footage they could. You were filmed as you walked down the steps, passing the stage and stepping onto the floor with a grand smile.

“Pretty good turn out, huh?” You chuckled, beaming at the camera as you branch out to greet your guests.

This helps.

The smiles, the laughs, the presence of people that support you and your program enough to show up, pay a lot of money, and witness the magic of NYU ballet in all its glory. The light highlights the brightness of your smile, the glow around you in your element. Your chuckle echoing around the room, as you coasted from table to table, person to person, thanking them for coming.

Reconnections were made, stories were told, and retold, and thoughts of college had you blushing on the spot. You’re so lost in the whirlwind of energy, of being the proper hostess, and managing everything in sight, you didn’t notice that an hour had passed.

Until a crew member taps you on the shoulder, and tells you it’s five minutes to show time.

“Excuse me,” you nod, removing yourself from your current conversation and heading backstage.

You blow kisses to the band of nervous students, give them two thumbs up as cameras trailed behind you. “And . . . you’re on, [y/n].”

You stand up straight, hand your margarita off to a crew member, take in a deep breath. And walk. You march up to the podium, the bright lights beating down on you as you stand in front of the large crowd.

“Hello, everybody, welcome!” You announce, bringing the room to a gentle silence. “Thank you all so much for being here. I’m [y/n] [y/l/n], director and head of the ballet department here at New York University.”

You become flustered at the wave of applause, cheering the crowd and backstage. “Thank you, thank you so much. As a NYU alumni, there is truly nothing that makes me happier than to teach this extraordinary class of students. They’re focused, they’re determined, incredibly talented, and the best of the best. So, without further ado, I present to you the NYU ballet class of 2017, presenting a remastered rendition of their first performance in 2014.”

You exited the stage, the curtain behind you shielding the students that were already positioned in place. You stood backstage, watching them on screen, with your hands bound against your chest. The curtain was drawn, the music kicked up, and they went.

They move effortlessly, dare you say it . . . perfectly. In sync, and with a wide range of motion that rolled without a hitch. The crowd watched in awe, and you were right there along with them. Cameras focus on your face as you’re entranced by the class, and so immensely proud.

“They’re incredible,” you beam. “Aren’t they amazing?”

The full set took about half an hour, and when the curtain flies down, closing dramatically, you jump up and down, and run over to the group of kids who couldn’t wait to see you. The joy can be felt through the lense of every camera trained on you.

Their energy and excitement is putting you on cloud nine. Your own adrenaline is rushing, and pumping in your ears.

You let your guard down. You hand out kisses and hugs left and right, and step back in the crowd on a high, head empty, no thoughts. No feelings except for happiness and pride.

“That was incredible, [y/n], absolutely incredible.”

“Wonderful show!”

You were saying thank you faster than you could hear the accolades, caught in a rush of people passing you by.

You turn to see your students trailing behind you, shaking hands as they’re showered in praise. You grin at them, entirely consumed with elation by their looks of satisfaction, of relief, of relaxation and accomplishment.

You let your guard down.

You got comfortable.

“[y/n]!”

You let yourself slip.

“[y/n], [y/n]!” A hand is placed on your shoulder, causing you to turn around, a smile still plastered across your face.

“You know Matthew, right?” Your co-producer asked. “You guys graduated the same year?”

You nearly collide with him. You stop on the toe of your heels, and come to a screeching halt. Your eyes connect like magnets, the pull is strong and intense. Your breath catches in your throat, you smile fading along with your breath. You instantly begin to sweat under the light of the cameras, your skin heating up, your hands shaking.

“U—u—uh,” you stutter. “Yes! Hi!”

“Hi, [y/n]!” He exclaims, happily, opening his arms to give you a hug.

“Oh!” You gasp as he pulls you into his chest.

And he smells, so good. He’s grown, and it feels different holding his tall frame in your arms. But the embrace is quick, and brief, and he holds your shoulders in his palms as he speaks to you, “The show was amazing, blew me away!”

You’re expected to talk. You’re expected to breathe. But you’re left speechless by the scruff lining his jaw, the curl atop his head, the suit shaping his body, and topped off with a jet black bow tie.

“Thank you, thank you,” you ramble. “Thanks for coming, um, let’s catch up later,” you nod, to which he politely nods back, and clears a path for you to walk on by.

You let your guard down.

And now you can’t seem to catch your breath.

Your feet were killing you by the end of the night. You didn’t get to take a proper seat — without the cameras, and the crew, and the crowd, until nearly ten o’clock at night. As you were trying to regroup, Ramona found you hiding away in your dressing room, halfway asleep.

“[y/n]?” she taps your shoulder. You groggily lift your head, and look to her, “There’s a car waiting for you out back. It can take you home or to the hotel across the street. What do you think?”

“Mm,” you hum. “Hotel. Hotel is fine.”

The Lillian Hotel had been acquired specifically for tonight’s event. A cozy room, with an even cozier bed was waiting for you, calling your name. And after tonight, after day 5,629, it’s all you can think about.

You give Ramona a quick hug, and thank her for everything before you sneak out of the building. You take the back exit, avoiding an entanglement of people and paparazzi.

The atmosphere of the elegant hotel was much calmer. You were given the key to your room, and you turned on your heels to head to the elevators. Your shoes created an echo against the tile, and the sound suddenly silenced when you saw him. Waiting for the elevator.

“Matthew?” You call, timidly. The courage comes out of nowhere, flies out of your chest before you can catch it in your throat.

He stops in his tracks, and turns to you, holding the strap of his bag. “Hey!” he grins.

You give him a shy smile, as you let out a dry laugh and step closer to him.

His eyes darken, not noticeably, but just a little. He looks down at you, and you look up at him, and all you can say is . . .

“Matthew . . .” you clear your throat. “Thank you for coming tonight, and supporting the program, and for . . . being so professional about everything, I know it . . . couldn’t have been easy, I really appreciate it.”

His eyebrows furrow, only for a second, and his face almost goes blank. He looks down at his shoes, taps his foot as his mind swirls with words to say. But all he can is chuckle. Laugh.

“I knew you were gonna do this,” he says.

You tilt your head, “Do what?”

“This . . . think . . . think that what I did today had anything to do with you.”

“I—“ you stutter. “Okay . . .”

“I came tonight to see friends, to catch up, to visit New York. And I knew I would see you, and I knew . . . I knew you’d, I don’t know, expect me to fall to my knees the second I saw you. I can’t do that . . . I, personally, see no reason to do that. I acted professional, because I am professional, not to cushion your feelings.”

And although, he’s changed, he’s grown, he’s matured, and he’s a completely different person than when you saw him last, Matthew Gubler still knows how to make a dramatic exit.

He turns away from you and continues down the hall, boarding the elevator without looking back at you. You — who’s paralyzed, stuck, scared shitless. Standing in the foyer of the hotel lobby, wondering why you’re unable to move, to breathe, to keep your eyes from misting.

And back to day zero.

You knew for sure that you’d struggle to sleep. That Matthew’s word would eat at your gut and brain like a parasite, haunting you, rattling around your head. But, the second your head hits the pillow, you were out like a light.

And you dreamt of him instead.

The way he was 15 years ago.

The way he made you feel.

Bing, bing, bing!

“Huh!” You jolt awake, spasming out of your sleep violently. Suddenly, the sun had risen again, and it was burning your eyes through the windows.

Bing, bing, bing!

“What the—“ You sit up, rub your face, and anxiously search for your phone, wondering why you were being called so early in the morning.

Ramona’s name flashed upon the screen, and you swiped to accept her call. “Hello?”

“[y/n] . . .”

“Ramona . . .” you slur.

“Have you checked twitter this morning?”

“Tw — no? No, it’s . . . seven in the morning, of course I haven’t checked Twitter.”

“Check it.”

“Ra—“

“Check it!” She shouts.

You groan, and navigate to the Twitter app. “Oh . . . oh, I’m trending . . . that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, uh-huh, check who you’re trending with . . .”

“Okay . . .”

Clicking on your name, you instantly sat forward, your eyes going wide, “NO!”

TAGLIST:

@muffin-cup

@pinkdiamond1016

@ncsls0515

@spencersbed

@safertokiss

[crazywritertomboy1224]

(I feel you in the empty inbox too 😢 I have a deal for you, I send you this kirishima request since imma kirishima simp and you have something to write about, deal?)

How about this:

Kirishima and his girlfriend managed to sneak out of the UA campus for a night city date. They were all nervous about being caught, but those fears fade away when they started having fun. Like they went to the arcade were the tried their best to kick each others ass. (you can add whatever else you want to the date). They were having so much fun they almost lost track of time, then tried to sneak back to the dorms without being noticed, but obviously, they failed.

(if you don't mind I'll keep sending you requests :p)

I've been WAITING for a Kiri one! So happy to finally have found another Kiri simp! Sorry this one took so long, I had to get it just right, yk? (Plus I've been kinda busy ;-;) Anyways, hope you like it (and hope it brings Kiri justice)! (Also yes please keep sending in asks!!) As always, stay safe and hydrated and don't forget to eat! <3

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eijiro Kirishima x Reader

TW: cussing

Genre: Fluff, romantic

Word count: 1579

You cracked your door open, peeking out to make sure no one was around. After you assured the coast was clear, you slipped out, closing the door with a small click behind you.

You stood outside your dorm room, waiting patiently. A nearby door creaked open and you shushed him frantically. “Shut up! God, you’re loud.”

He just laughed quietly, pulling you into a hug and pressing his nose into your hair. You sighed in contentment, having missed these times when it was just the two of you.

“C’mon, let’s go.” He grabbed your hand and you both tiptoed down the hall, took the stairs down, and opened and closed the front doors, all with barely any noise.

Once outside, you turned around to see if you could see any lights turning on, just checking no one had heard you.

“It’s fine, babe. No one saw or heard us. We’re good, now let’s go!”Eijiro grabbed your hand and led you off campus and over to a nearby arcade.

He ran ahead of you and held the door open for you. “M’lady?” he says, a smile playing on his lips as he swung his hand in a semi-circle around, over his head, and under his other arm.

You grinned and walked in, giving him a cheek kiss as you passed. “Thhaannnkkk youuuu,” you said, drawing out your words dramatically.

He giggled and followed you in, trying to fight you to be the first to the counter. You elbowed him in the ribs, temporarily pushing him out of the running.

You ran up to the counter and slammed your hands down on the old, faded linoleum. “Two pleas- DAMMIT EIJIRO!” you screamed as Eijiro came up behind you and pulled you away by your waist.

He slid the money across the counter and turned back to you with a huge smile plastered across his face. You growled under your breath and walked up to him, looking straight up at his face, arms crossed.

“What, pebble?” he asked, tugging your hand up to the counter so the cashier could give you your band and cards.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that I feel bad for you.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m gonna kick your ass.” You smirked, dashing off to find the first game.

You skidded to a stop in front of the only available skee-ball machine and swiped your card. Eijiro did the same on the one paired with yours. It beeped and the plastic shield above the balls slid back.

You picked up the first one and rolled it, landing it in the outer ten-point ring, Eijiro managing to make it in the twenty-point cylinder. You growled to yourself, knowing you’d have to up your game to beat him.

He glanced over at you and flashed you a grin as he rolled his second ball, making it into the ten-point this time.

You roll it with so much angry force that it actually makes it into the one-hundred slot. You freeze for a second, registering what just happened before Eijiro nudges you with his elbow.

“Great shot, y/n!” He beams a huge smile at you and you can’t help but smile back and hug him.

“Thanks, babe!” You roll another one, scoring a ten, Eijiro rolling a fifty.

“One minute left!” The machine squealed out.

You both made a show of quickly rolling all of the balls down, not really caring what holes they landed in. You ended up with 380, Eijiro with 370.

You met him halfway as your machines printed out your tickets and he wrapped you in a hug, breathing in your ear. “Good job, pebble.” He congratulated you.

“Thanks, you too," you replied, ripping your tickets off and shoving them into your back pocket.

“What’s next?” you ask him, since you picked the first game.

“Umm, air hockey? I’m not horrible at it,” he suggests, pointing to the left.

“Sounds good," you reply and he leads the way over.

You take your positions at either side of the table and swipe your cards. You place your hand on your paddle as Eijiro does the same. The puck falls out on his side and he places it in front of his paddle, swatting it over to you.

You swat it back at him, aiming for his pocket. You missed and he deflected it, shooting it back toward your pocket with a little wrist flourish.

You tried to defend it and send it back at him, but you missed and it landed straight in your pocket. You sighed as you grabbed it and placed it back on the table, cracking your neck.

Eijiro laughed. “Why- why are you-” He doubled over in laughter. “Why are you- why are you cracking your- popping your- your neck?” He asked, stuttering from laughter.

You glared at him playfully. “Because I’m about to beat your ass.”

His face suddenly went serious. “No way.” He deflected your shots and sent the puck spinning into your pocket time after time after time until the buzzer went off.

He won�� 26-1. He laughed and hugged you. “I love you!” He said, grinning. You sighed in acceptance but were unable to stay mad at him.

“Why do you have to be so cute?” You mock-complained, pressing your face into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you tightly.

“Alright, let’s go. What’s next?” You stood up on your tiptoes and looked around, eyes scanning and mapping out the whole place.

“Hmm… bumper cars?” You suggested, lowering yourself back to the ground and shrugging.

Eijiro reached out and grabbed your hand. “Great idea! Let’s go.”

You dashed across the building and joined the line. You checked the time on your watch. “Oh, shit. Kiri, it’s already two am!”

“Oh shit.” He flipped his wrist to check his own watch and his eyes widened. “Okay, after this, we go back.” You nodded.

After what felt like forever, you were at the front of the line. You showed the nice girl your bands and she let you in. You sat down in the [____] one, your favorite color, while Eijiro chose the red one.

You zoomed around the track, waving pageant-style at him as he hunched over the wheel in the little bumper car that seemed way too small for him. You laughed, throwing your head back as you finished in third place all in all, first between you two.

You stood up, brushing off your clothes, and walked over to help a struggling Kirishima out of his doll-sized car. “Need some help?” You asked, chickling as you extended your hand to him. He took it with an annoyed face but you could see in his eyes that he was joking.

You pulled him up by his hand, your fingers lacing together by instinct once he rose completely out. He wrapped you in a hug as you waited in line to leave.

“Ugh, bottle-necking us like this isn’t cool.” He muttered against your hair, annoyed at the people who designed it with only one exit gate.

You giggled against his shoulder and pull away, leading you out in a hurry. “SHIT!” You yelled. “That took an hour!” Eijiro froze in terror, staring at his phone.

“Fuck. Kaminari and Mina have been texting me.” He said, tapping the screen.

“Dammit. Jirou and Momo have been texting and calling me.” You replied, opening the messages to tell them you’re fine.

You finished texting before him and grabbed the front of his shirt, guiding him out of the building and back to the dorms.

You pulled the doors open and saw Mina and Momo. They were sitting on the couch, sipping tea. Mina looked over as you two walked through the doors. “Care to explain where you’ve been all night?” She asked, raising an eyebrow over her mug.

“Uh- we were with… Denki and Jirou,” Kirishima tries to explain. You nod, thinking you might be able to get away with it.

Denki and Jirou pop their heads over the back of the other couch. Mina looks over with a pointed expression. “Care to try again?”

“We wanted to get away for a bit, just the two of us and have some fun before finals. We were at the arcade down the street.” You blurted out, ducking your head in shame.

“Why didn’t you invite us? We could’ve all hung out!” They exclaimed, clearly riveted that you didn’t invite them.

“Like we said, we just wanted some alone time. Sorry guys, maybe next time?” Eijiro responded, placing a hand around your waist and pulling you close.

Mina seemed satisfied with that answer and sent you off to bed while the four of them stayed downstairs, doing whatever the hell they were doing.

Before you went into your dorm, Eijiro pulled you close and smothered you in a hug. You pulled away, tired, but he gripped at the back of your hips and pressed a sweet, loving kiss to your lips and another to your forehead.

“Goodnight princess. I love you.” He whispered into your ear, hugging you tight one last time.

“Goodnight my manly man. I love you too.” You kissed his neck, which was the highest part you could reach.

You both turned around and went into your separate dorm rooms to sleep in your own separate beds that night. You fell asleep smiling and all the second thoughts you’d ever had slipped away. This was exactly what you needed.