#I need to see Louis every Sunday I can’t do this!!!!!!!!!

[darlingfreddie]

How the Fuck am I supposed to wait for iwtv season 2 !!!!!!!!!!

[hockeyboysimagines]

F*ck me like I’m famous

Warnings: phone sex, implied sex, alcohol, swearing, fluff, Vince being a sad boy.

Sorry this has taken so long. I struggled through the phone sex part, so if it sucks. Please be nice to me. Thanks to @cellythefloshie and @jostyriggslover96 for talking me through it.

Enjoy, let me know what you think🤍

J:How’s Canada?

V:Oh you know, Canada is Canadian.

J:Not having fun?

V:I am. But I miss you a little. Not a lot though.

She giggled a little, biting her lip, before she answered.

Vince had left for Canada the week after their official first date. They’d spent every night together until he went home, leaving Josie here in St. Louis. It had been pretty sad, and Josie realized how much she liked him now that he was gone. The days had drug on, and they’d been making it work on the phone, talking when they were able, and nightly FaceTime calls. It was pretty unfortunate though if she was being honest. The most pivotal time in a relationship where you really get to know someone was being done through a phone screen. It had been tough to start, but smooth sailing for the past week. She would be heading to Ontario on Saturday afternoon and staying till the following Sunday. She was excited to see him but also nervous.

J:You miss me, or you miss my lady parts? Cuz she misses you too.

V:Jesus Christ.

J:Your gonna need him when I get to Lindsey next week.

V:🤣🤣🤣no I think that’s you.

J:Oh yeah?

V:Oh yeah. You should start praying now so you can get used to being on your knees.

Josie choked on her water and her whole body shivered.

After having sex everyday for the last two weeks or so, going without it for two weeks sucked. They’d exchanged some flirty banter but this was escalating. The more time Josie spent with him, the more things she learned about herself. And this was a new thing.

J:I’ll get on that right after I get off of you.

V:Just come now. I’ll pay to change your plane ticket.

J:No can do. I still have to finish packing.

V:So what are you doing? Besides tormenting me.

J:Just organizing my underwear drawer for my trip. What’s your favorite color?

She followed it up immediately with-

J:Nevermind. I think I’ll just go without them for the week.

And then her phone buzzed and Vince’s face appeared on the screen.

She answered on the third ring, shaking with laughter.

“Hello?”

“Are you fucking kidding me???” He whispered angrily on the other end of the phone.

“Vince hi!” She said cheerily “What brings you to call me so late in the evening?”

“What brings-you know what.” He was quiet and let out a long breath. Josie felt almost bad.

Almost.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“No I am not. And it’s your fault.”

“Me?!” She giggled “What did I do?”

“You know what you did.” He mumbled.

She could just imagine him sitting hunched over, arms crossed, pouting so she decided to help him out a little. She bit her lip and took a deep breath.

“You know.” She said softly “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

He was very quiet on the end of the phone but she could hear some movement before he spoke “Really?”

“Mhmmmmmmm.” She wasn’t actually wearing any underwear, just a large T-shirt she’d acquired from his room over the course of the last two weeks. She let a hand trail up her leg “I’m thinking about you.”

“What about me?”

“About how much I miss you. How I can’t wait to see you…how I can’t wait for you to fuck me.” She felt a redness come to her cheeks. Vince brought out a whole new side to her she didn’t even know existed and she was appalled at herself right now. She had never even thought about having phone sex before and yet here she was.

It may have also had something to do with the four glasses of wine she’d consumed but if anything, this conversation was sobering her up at an alarming rate.

He coughed on the other end “And how would you like me to do that?”

“Uhm how about everywhere? How many rooms are in your house?”

“Nine.” He answered a little too quickly “And a pool.”

“A pool? Now we’re talking.” She said lowly with a small giggle.

“FaceTime me.” he said softly “I wanna see you.”

“Uh uh. This is more fun. Are you thinking about me?”

Her voice was sweet on the other end of the phone and she had him so keyed up he was thankful he was alone “I’m always thinking about you.” He responded. It was true. He woke up with her on his mind and went to bed with her on his mind. But she was clouding other parts of his body now besides his brain.

“Do you miss me?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“How much? Cuz I miss you a whole lot.” Josie let her hand slide between her legs and let out a little gasp “She misses you too. She’s been so lonely since you’ve been gone, with no one to take care of her.”

Vince chuckled nervously on the other end of the phone “And what is she going to do about that?”

Josie rubbed her fingers over herself and squirmed a little “She’s so wet. I have no choice but to take care of her myself.”

She heard the distinct sound of a belt unbuckling and Vince adjusting himself in whatever he was sitting in and he cleared his throat “Tell me about it.” He sounded almost a little nervous and she wondered for a second if this was a first for him too, but now wasn’t the time to ask. She felt some confidence exuding now because for once she felt like they were on an even playing field in terms of sexual experience. Most often she felt like he had the upper hand, but today things felt even.

“When I get there next week she’s going to need all your attention.”

She heard his breath hitch on the other end of the phone “You know she’s gonna have it.” He murmured.

“I hope so. Because she’s been so empty, with no one to take care of her.” Her fingers felt good as the moved inside of her and while this whole thing was totally hot, it would have been better if he was here. But this was the best she was going to get.

“Are you touching yourself thinking of me?” She asked sweetly.

“Mhm. I wish it was you though.” His breath was heavy on the other end of the phone and it made Josie hot just thinking about it “Fuck.” He swore on the other end. His voice was ragged like his breathing and Josie too had reached her limit.

“Are you going to cum for me?” She whispered, fingers moving faster inside of her. She definitely was, but she was holding out until he did as well, just like when they had the real thing.

“Yes I-Jesus fuck.” He he ground out from the other end of the phone.

Josie closed her eyes, head falling back “Vince I-“ but the words died as they came out of her mouth. It wasn’t a mind blowing orgasm like she’d become accustomed to, but it was enough to get the job done. It did however bring her down to earth when she realized if things didn’t work with Vince, she might not find another person she had that connection with. But that thought went out the window when she heard him breathing heavily on the other end of the phone.

He was quiet for a few moments before he cleared his throat “Did you-uh-“

“Yes. Did you?” She waited with baited breath for a second before he answered.

“Yeah.” Then he laughed a little “First time for everything I guess.”

She breathed a long sigh of relief and then laughed a little herself “Glad I could pop your phone sex cherry.”

“Can we FaceTime now. I wanna see your face.”

She but her lip “Sure.”

The phone started to ring and Josie took a deep breath before she answered. Vince was a little flushed and disheveled on the other side of it, but he smiled when she answered. She looked down at her lap shyly before she looked back up at him.

“You.” He said brushing a strand of hair from his forehead “Are a very bad girl.”

“Only for you.” She winked and rolled to her side, propping the phone up on her nightstand so she could fold laundry and talk with him at the same time.

“So are you all packed?” He asked, eyes peering at her through the screen. She got lost in them for a second, although the camera didn’t do them justice, and then nodded.

“Half packed.” She turned the phone to show him her open suitcase “It’ll be here before you know it.”

“Yeah.” He said frowning a little with a small sigh.

“I’ll see you in a week okay?” She smiled reassuringly at him through the screen and he nodded.

“Yeah. I’ll pick you up from the airport?” He seemed troubled, eyebrows furrowed.

She nodded and gave him a tight smile, settling into her bed “Just wish you could come earlier is all.”

He actually missed her. Not just the sex part, if that was all it was he wouldn’t be flying her out to Canada for a week knowing his mom would be around. He could find someone at home for sex.

“Cheer up lover. It’s only 5 days. Then you have me for a whole week. That’s a lot of time for activities.” She wiggled her eyebrows and he laughed.

“Yeah you’re right. Next week is going to be exhausting. In more ways than one.”

She giggled and smiled at him “Anything for Lord Stanley. And you too of course.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, as she reminded him of her flight times before they said good night and hung up the phone.

He sighed and set his phone down on the table and leaned back in his seat, arms folded. Josie had turned him inside out and he had no idea how she’d even done it. He’d never really been opposed to have a girlfriend, but he’d also never really wanted one either.

And amidst all that here he was, flying a girl across the country and FaceTiming her goodnight.

Which is why he found himself sitting on his mom’s sofa a short while later.

“So mom. There’s something I wanna talk to you about.”

She froze in her seat across from him “Oh boy. I don’t like where this is heading.” She set down her cup and turned to him eyebrows raised.

“No it’s nothing bad. Just something…good I guess. Well it is good I just-“

“Vince.” She said smiling “What’s going on?”

“So next week on my day with the cup, I’m gonna have a friend from St.Louis fly in and she-“

“SHE?!” His mom said eyes lighting up “She! A girl?”

He rolled his eyes “Yes mom a girl. Anyways she-“

“A girlfriend or a ‘girlfriend’?” She asked air quoting.

“A gir-.” He frowned “Actually to be honest I have no idea. A girl…friend.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means, but tell me about her. What’s her name? What’s she like? How did you meet?”

He was definitely going to have to think something up for that last one because he couldn’t tell him mom that he’d taken her home an hour after he met her and then spent every night with her since then. She would yell at him for not being a gentleman but he also didn’t want that to impact the way she saw Josie either. He knew she was great, and he wanted her to think the same.

He couldn’t tell that to his mom.

“Her name is Josie. She’s great, I think you’ll really like her. And I met her out one day.”

She knew he was lying but she didn’t call him on it. He’d never asked but he was sure his mom had seen the photo of them that ended up online, and if she hadn’t he wasn’t going to start admitting to things now. Though he was an adult, technically, he went out of his way to keep his extra curricular activities private from everyone, but especially his mom. He suspected she knew about a lot of it, but it definitely wasn’t something they talked about.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me?”

“I’ll let her tell you the rest. I don’t want to give away everything before she gets here.”

“Well you must really like her if you’re bringing her all the way here. This is a big week for you.”

He shrugged but she shook her head “No no. Don’t shrug at me. You don’t have to admit it, but I know that you wouldn’t fly her here if you didn’t like her…a lot.” She added at the end “But it’s your business. Either way. Looking forward to meeting her.”

***********

Josie usually slept flights away, but she was too amped to sleep. In just a few short hours she’d be seeing the guy she’d not known just over a months ago, but now she couldn’t imagine not knowing.

It was a little scary if she was being honest. Not Vince himself but everything that came with him. The recognition, the sport, the being a citizen of a whole other country.

Which was actually the scariest part to her.

What if Canadian Vince didn’t like her as much as St. Louis Vince did. What if when she got there he realized he’d rather have a girl from back home celebrating with him.

Was there a girl from back home?

She felt silly but the longer she sat on the plane the more she realized she was stepping into a place she’d never been, with people she didn’t know, to celebrate a trophy for a sport she’d never watched.

Given the opportunity she would have parachuted out of the plane but she didn’t think the pilot would be too understanding about her nerves. Though if he knew who she was flying out to see, he might.

The plane was fairly empty, and she had no seat mates on either side, which left her to anxiously bounce her knee without disturbing anyone.

There was too much cloud cover for her to really see anything. Canada would be a complete surprise and for a few minutes her excitement overrode her anxiety.

That was until the plane hit the runway and she felt like she was going to puke. The flight attendant glanced at her and did a double take, holding out a bag.

“Ma’am your green. Are you gonna throw up?” She leaned back a little bit.

“What? No I’m okay. Just…I’m okay.”

“Right…well maybe you should take this anyway.” She pushed the bag forward again and Josie took it.

“Have a good time!” The attendant called “Don’t throw up!” She said pointing at her.

Josie laughed and exited the plane, locating the baggage claim and grabbing her suitcase, when she felt her phone ding.

V: Let me know when your at the doors. I’m parked outside

She started typing to respond as she exited the doors and got a face full of sunlight, blinding her from seeing two feet in front of her.

J:I’m outside. Marco!

“Polo.” She heard from behind her.

She turned and standing some feet away, was Vince leaning against a black BMW, smiling at her. He was just as beautiful as she remembered, and as he had been the first time she’d ever seen him. His smiled widened as she made her way to him. It seemed like it took ages to reach him, her heart beating just a little bit faster with each step. As she came within a foot of him, she dropped her suitcase and he pulled her into a very hot, wet, long kiss right there in the airport parking lot. She wasn’t sure what to expect if she was being honest. In St. Louis everyone had already seen them making out on the news, but this was his home field and she wasn’t sure if he wanted to be kissing her so openly in public.

When he pulled away she was looking at him surprised.

“What?”

“Nothing, just didn’t know if you wanted people to see us making out in the airport parking lot.”

He chuckled and grabbed her stuff “I’m a Stanley cup champion I can do what I want.” He said opening the trunk and putting her bag inside. She felt a little lurch in her stomach as he slid past her to open the passenger door, hand sliding across her lower abdomen as he guided her into it and then shut the door. He’d had his hands on every part of her body and a little touch on the wait was doing her in. She took a deep breath trying to will away the redness that came to her face as he made his way around the car and slid in. She couldn’t believe how nervous she was. But then he turned and smiled at her and she remembered they’d already done a plethora of sexual things in various places and she relaxed a little bit.

“Ready?” He asked brightly, starting the car and turning to her.

“I think so. Unless you’re sick of me already.”

“Sick of you? Never.” He backed out of his spot and left the parking area of the airport. As he drove she saw the buildings start to fade away little by little and they were replaced by some of the most beautiful scenery she’d ever seen.

“So this is Canada?” He glanced over to find Josie peering out of the window smiling a little “The view sure beats down town St. Louis.”

He smiled a little bit and shrugged “Yeah maybe. But Canada doesn’t have you so I guess that makes it even.”

Josie rolled her eyes and blushed “That was so cheesy.”

“I couldn’t help it. It’s true though.” She looked so good after not seeing her for a week. She always looked good, but he realized now how much he actually liked her. And he was pretty sure she felt the same considering that she’d flown all this way to see him for only a week.

“On a scale of 1 to 10 how likely am I to see a Moose?” She asked still leaned forward.

“Probably pretty likely, but I should warn you to not try and pet them. Not the friendliest. And actually just don’t pet any of the wild animals you come across. There’s not many friendly things running around the forests in Canada.”

“I guess I can only find friendly things from Canada on Ice then.”

“Ha ha.” He said with a smile and watched her, watch the outside.

“It’s beautiful here.” she commented glancing at him “I have no clue where I am, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.” The trees were so thick Josie couldn’t even see through them as they made their way down the road. She hadn’t seen a car since they left the airport.

“It is.” He was quiet for a minute before he spoke again “So….is it okay if I kill you?”

Josie turned slowly to look at him for a full 10 seconds before she burst out laughing “Sure. Just make sure I still look good for the open casket if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay deal.” He reached a hand over to rest it on her leg “It’s really nice to have you here.”

“It’s nice to be here. I like getting to see where you come from.” She sounded genuine, and she smiled at him, resting her hand on top of his “Thanks for bringing me on my first Canadian adventure.”

“Hopefully with any luck it won’t be your last. Just stay away from the Moose.”

**********

Josie could see now that Vince was just as popular here as he was in Missouri as she followed him along through the place there meeting his friends and family. She hadn’t even had a chance to unpack her stuff, which was still in his trunk, but she was excited to meet them and get it over with. He didn’t know it, and she wouldn’t tell him but her nerves were a live wire.

He made her nervous that first night but that was nothing compared to this.

“Come here.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her forward behind him through the crowd.

“Mom. This is Josie, Josie this is my mom.” Vince’s mom was smiling at her and waved away her outstretched hand and hugged her instead “It’s nice to meet you, I wish I could say I’ve heard so much about you but Vince only just told me you were coming yesterday and won’t give me any details.” She smiled cheekily at him and then looked back at her.

Josie looked at him for guidance. She wasn’t about to tell his mom that they’d met in a bar and he’d taken her home and had sex half the night.

“We met out one night after the cup.” He said smiling at her “Schwartzy spilled a drink on her.”

“Mr. Stanley Cup Champion over here swooped in like Batman and saved the day.” She gave him a nudge “My hero.”

“I do what I can.” He said with a shrug, but smiled and wrapped an arm around her waist.

The rest of the day went great. She was a bit all around. His friends and family kept pulling him aside to tell him how great she was, which he knew of course. He watched her as she interacted with friends of his, when he felt his mom at his shoulder.

“She’s lovely.” His mom said as she looked at Josie talking with them, laughing like she’d known them for years “And so gorgeous.”

Vince nodded “She is right?”

“How did you meet her again?”

Vince bit his lip and looked at his mom who continued “Because I vaguely recall someone sending me a photo of you kissing some girl that wound up on the news. That would happen to be her would it?”

“Uhm.” He glanced at Josie and then his mom and gave her his best smile, one he usually used to get himself out of trouble “That’s actually from when I met her.”

His smiled faded a little when his mom looked at him flatly. That smile never worked with her “Uh huh. Well maybe next time just think about who you’re kissing after you win a major trophy and remember, the internet is forever.” Then she smiled “You seem happy.”

He nodded “I am. She’s great, and I really like being around her.”

“I would hope so. You flew her all the way out here. You don’t fly someone you don’t like into another country.”

He shrugged “I do. But…I don’t know just seeing what happens I guess.”

“Hmmmm.” She pursed her lips and smiled glancing at him.

“Knock it off.” He said bumping his mom’s shoulder.

“I’m just saying. You seem different with her is all. None of my business.” She pinched his side and wandered away giving him a long pointed look as she did. He squeezed through people saying hello as he did, and found her sliding her glass to the bartender.

“You’re popular.” He said into her ear, one hand reaching forward to grip hers. She smiled at him and felt redness come to her cheeks, both from the wine and from him holding her hand in front of his family.

“Just like back home. I’m sorry you’re so lame and no one wants to talk with you.” She made a pouty lip at him and squeezed his hand. He rolled his eyes, smile widening.

She looked so good in Canada, in a bar with his family and friends, her white dress bright against her tan skin.

“Let’s get out of here. You have two weeks worth of phone sex and dirty texting to make good on.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. They said their goodbyes and much to her delight, he never let go of her hand, and they made their way into his car, driving mostly in silence, and then into his house. It was dark and late, and the sounds of the night could be heard from everywhere as he unlocked his front door and she stepped past him and inside. She heard him shut the door and lock it and a ripple of excitement started to creep through her, sending an electric current into every nerve in her body.

“So.” He said from behind her, causing her to turn. He was half illuminated, half in shadow as he dropped her bag by the door “Which room do you wanna start in?”

She grinned and took a step back “Catch me and find out.”

[zyxwl2015]

Excerpts from Lando Norris biography - part III

(There aren't too many behind-the-scenes stories anymore — mostly stating things everyone knows, F1 was postponed due to Covid, online racing happened, F1 resumed, Lando did this in this race, Lando had a new teammate, Lando moved to Monaco, etc etc)

Every one was extremely happy for Lando after his first podium at Austria 2020, including Trevor Carlin: "He is doing everything right and the results are coming and I am very proud of him" and "Lando is the nicest person you could ever meet"

Charlotte recalled in Eifel GP 2020, the marketing team's office was right next to the drivers' room and the walls were paper-thin, and —

We were working in the marketing office and we could hear this giggling from the drivers’ room next door… I went into their drivers’ room to speak to them and they were both lying on the massage bed watching YouTube or Instagram videos together. We all started pissing ourselves laughing at first, but I then said to them, “What the fuck are you doing? Why aren’t you in the garage? Everyone is looking for you!” I was like an ogre telling them off all the time. But that was the point where I and some others in the team realised that they actually enjoyed spending time together.

(Oh my Carlando heart 🥰)

Going into the 2021 season, he started to become more strict with certain things, especially diet and training: he stopped eating pizza, started to do more training and running (even though he "still hates it with a massive passion"), etc, to step up his performance. By summer break there's a noticeable change physically from when he first entered F1

Charlotte on Lando at that point:

When Carlos left, I think Lando got a bit nervous again, because he was a bit like, “Well, this guy’s obviously won seven races. He’s a known quantity, and he’s got a really good reputation.” I felt like Lando’s confidence had grown so much over the two years he had with Carlos. When Carlos left and we signed Daniel, Lando was a bit like, “I’ve really got to step up.” That was when I noticed that Mark, his manager, and Jon, his trainer, were building a positive environment by explaining that Norris had all the tools and experience and should not be putting pressure on himself… I used to call him kiddo, in fact I still do, but that was the time when I thought this guy actually could be really good and it will be really interesting to see the comparison. Some thought Dan would just come in and absolutely smash him, but he didn’t. You could certainly see a change in Lando, just the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, his whole demeanour. He was just so much more confident in himself while being self-deprecating.

(I love Charlotte 🥹)

Charlotte on Lando and Daniel's relationship:

At first, they were both definitely trying to suss each other out. We never thought they would not get on, but they just didn’t spend any time together… There was never any animosity between them, it was just they didn’t hang out. Andreas Seidl would have a meeting with both drivers before the race every Sunday. It’s called a “pre-race objectives meeting” and he would basically lay the law down and tell both drivers they are in it together. You drive for the team, no driver is better than the other, no one gets preferential treatment, you do what’s best for the team result, that kind of thing… Both drivers were team players and we needed that because we knew we were struggling and that Ferrari would be back up there again. Both of them then started spending more time together in engineering meetings and worked really hard on it. I can’t fault either of them. Both their work ethics are just unbelievable … but they started to work together quite a lot and from then, their relationship started to change and they started to get on really well.

McLaren keeps the Monaco 2021 trophy (as always), so Lando keeps the presentation box "because it is the coolest thing, a bespoke Louis Vuitton number" (😂)

Charlotte on Lando's relationship with McLaren team members:

He had worked with the boys for a long time by now, but he knew everyone, not just them by name, but their girlfriends, their wives, their kids, their families, their situation. He’d take the team out bowling or for dinner. I think he really understood the value of trying to galvanise people around him and that made him part of the furniture.

After the accident when he got mugged at Wembley Stadium, Charlotte messaged him saying she's so sorry. The whole McLaren team was being very supportive as well. When Lando went to the factory, he was really subdued, "he was worried because he thought he was going to be in trouble because of the watch getting stolen." Ofc Charlotte gave him a big hug

Charlotte described how different the mood was post Monza vs post Russia, especially during the last few laps, "It felt like the slowest time of my entire life, like watching a slow train crash."

[rumour] Ben Hunt says according to rumours, the contract he signed in mid-2021 (just before Monaco GP) was worth £6m a year, the one he signed beginning of 2022 (current one) was £50m for 4 years

[The End]

[vintageshanny]

Play Something For Me - Part 7 - Over the Rainbow

Content: Ruby and Elvis enjoy a sweet and smutty Thanksgiving in 1973 that involves a leather suit with rainbow fringe. 18+

Thank you to @peaceloveelvis for inspiring me with this pic of leather rainbow fringe pants that I didn’t know existed. And eternal gratitude to my lovely friends who’ve cheered me on in writing this series! 😘 @whositmcwhatsit @ellie-24 @be-my-ally @thatbanditqueen @lookingforrainbows @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @powerofelvis @arrolyn1114

If you need to catch up, here’s the series page:

Play Something For Me

Wednesday, November 21st, 1973

“But mom, I wanna go with you! It’s not fair!” Ella’s chocolate-brown eyes glazed over with tears as she pleaded her case. “Oh, honey, I know. There’s nothing I can do, it’s your father’s turn for Thanksgiving this year. But Elvis was very insistent that we both come for Christmas, so you’ll get to see Graceland then.” Ruby rubbed Ella’s back as she embraced her, soothing away the tears while she tried to hold her own nerves at bay.

After the week Elvis had spent in St. Louis at Halloween, he’d had to go back to Memphis to “take care of some business,” as he put it. The times they’d spent together so far had been in a sort of cocoon of love. Now she’d be entering his home and his normal daily life, whatever that entailed. After his comment about wanting her to move in, she felt a little terrified at how the visit would go.

A car horn honked outside, and Ruby gave Ella one last reassuring squeeze. “I love you, Ella-bella,” she murmured. “I’ll tell you all about Graceland when you come home on Sunday.” “You better,” Ella said with a small smile, trying to will herself into a better mood. “And I love you too.”

With Ella safely picked up, Ruby turned her attention back to her closet so she could finish packing for the long weekend. “What exactly does one wear for Thanksgiving at Graceland?” she muttered under her breath as she surveyed what looked to her like a bunch of frumpy “mom” dresses. “I wonder if I have time to alter anything…” she continued her one-way conversation when the phone interrupted her thoughts with its shrill tone.

“Hey, sweet red Ruby,” the unmistakable timbre sent butterflies swarming through her belly. “Elvis! It’s you!” Ruby squeaked out nervously. “Course it’s me baby, ya got another man callin’ ya?” he asked with a hint of suspicion in his voice. “No, no, sorry, I’m just���nervous about tomorrow,” Ruby admitted. Elvis’ tone softened instantly. “W-w-why ya nervous honey? It’s jus’ me. You ain’t never gotta be nervous or scared ‘round me.” Ruby cleared her throat a little bit. “Yeah, I know, I just hope I fit in there with you, in your home,” she said with an anxious sigh. “Ruby honey, ya ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that. Ya already know we fit together perfectly. In every way,” he added, and Ruby could almost see his cheeky grin right through the phone line as a flush rose on her face and a strained little whimper escaped her lips. Elvis laughed and teased, “Red Ruby, wait til ya get here so I can see the look on your face when ya make those noises.” Then he added more seriously, “I can’t wait ta see ya, honey. I miss ya so much.” Ruby’s heart melted right down and warmed her entire body. “Me too, baby.”

**************************************************************************************************

Ruby landed at the airport in Memphis at 11:18 Thursday morning with all the other last-minute Thanksgiving travelers. She bit down on her lip nervously as she looked around for Charlie, who she knew Elvis was sending to pick her up. She’d met Charlie in Las Vegas and he was sweet enough, although maybe a little desperate for Elvis’ approval. She inwardly chuckled, thinking how Elvis’ entourage probably thought the same about her. Charlie was polite but quiet on the drive to Graceland, as if he sensed her nerves and didn’t want to say anything that might escalate them.

Ruby gasped a little bit as they pulled up to the famed music note gate. She’d seen pictures of the house in magazines, but it was even more beautiful in person. She somehow felt Elvis’ aura and energy the moment they started up the driveway, and the nerves and excitement intensified as they parked and headed for the door. “We’ll go in the back ‘cuz he’s probably in the den waitin’ for ya,” Charlie explained. Ruby nodded anxiously and followed.

As she walked through the door and into a room filled with interesting furniture and an actual waterfall along the wall, she only had eyes for her beautiful man, who was sitting in a high-backed chair, holding court with his loyal subjects. He was talking and laughing, and his warm energy called to her. As soon as he laid eyes on her, he jumped to his feet and swooped her up in a big hug. “Ever’one, this is my sweet red Ruby,” he declared proudly, showing her off like a shiny new car. Most of the guys she recognized from Las Vegas, but she was introduced to some girlfriends and wives, plus a couple other employees. “Imma take Ruby on a tour,” Elvis said with a little wink as he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the basement steps. As they walked away, she could swear she heard someone remark, “It’s nice to see someone closer to his age.” Elvis must have heard it too because his grip tightened slightly, but he chose to ignore it for now.

“Will I get to meet Lisa?” Ruby asked as they walked down the stairs and turned right. She could see Elvis’ jaw tighten and his eyes turn stormy. “Naw, baby, Cilla is bein’ a –” Elvis caught himself and blinked slowly, trying to calm down. “Cilla won’t let her come home til Christmas,” he said, his eyes dropping sadly. Ruby wrapped her arms around him in a comforting embrace. “I’m sorry, Elvis,” she said softly. “I know how hard it is to be without your baby at the holidays. I guess the silver lining for us is that we have some time alone right now.” Elvis glanced up at her face quickly, his sad expression turning playful. “And what did ya have in mind for the alone time, Miss Ruby? Hmm?” he questioned teasingly.

“Well,” Ruby murmured with a deep blush, “I did notice the first stop on the tour is this big couch.” She nodded toward the long couch right behind Elvis. “And you’re here looking so sexy like this,” she added as she fully took in his outfit for the first time. Along with his usual assortment of rings and necklaces, he was wearing a brown leather jacket with long rainbow-colored fringe over a green button-down shirt. His leather pants matched the jacket, rainbow fringe and all. “Ya like it? I thought it felt like a Thanksgiving thing,” he said, his crooked grin lighting up his face. Ruby had to hold back a giggle at how cute he was to try to dress on theme for the holiday. “I love it, Elvis, there’s no one quite like you,” Ruby said, letting her hands drop and her fingers run ever so lightly over the soft bulge in his leather pants, causing a shiver to run though him. “I should hope not,” he said, smiling, resting one large hand on her shoulder, his warm fingers gently brushing the bare skin of her neck.

“You look very beautiful yourself, sweet Ruby,” Elvis said as he took her in, his eyelids seeming to grow heavy with lust. Ruby beamed, happy that she had chosen the right thing to wear - a burgundy sweater dress with a short flared skirt and a scoop neckline with a drawstring bow. Elvis’ fingers’ moved a little lower down her neck until they were tracing the neckline of her dress, running gently over her cleavage. The mixture of the warmth of his hand and the cool metal of his rings raised goosebumps on her skin. “This little dress is giving me some thoughts,” he whispered lowly as he gave the drawstring a little tug, the bow coming undone and the fabric gaping open a little bit. Elvis bent down and started pressing wet kisses to the exposed area of her chest, little moans coming from both of them. “Oh, baby, you’re makin’ me weak in the knees,” Elvis chuckled. “Let’s sit down for a minute.”

Sitting was the last thing on either of their minds though as Elvis pulled Ruby onto his lap on the couch and explored her mouth, her ear, her neck, and her chest with his tongue. He pulled the front of her dress and the cup of her lacy bra down a little more until one of her breasts was exposed. As he grazed his teeth lightly over her nipple and then sucked it into his warm mouth, flicking it with his tongue, Ruby couldn’t help but instinctually grind down onto his package that had grown so hard she wasn’t sure how it hadn’t burst right through the leather. She hoped the breathy moans from the two of them weren’t wafting up the stairs, but Elvis didn’t seem worried. “Goddamn, baby, I’ve missed ya,” he moaned out as Ruby leaned in and bit softly on his lower lip, then ran her tongue over it. She reached down between them and rubbed her hand back and forth over his bulge, the friction becoming too much for him to bear. “Oh, damn, Ruby, I-I-I love ya baby,” he said with a shudder as she suddenly felt a damp warmth beneath her hand. “I love you too, Elvis,” Ruby whispered as she laid her hand over his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat trying to return to its normal rhythm.

“EP, it’s almost turkey time!” a voice shouted down from upstairs. “Shoot, what am I gonna do ‘bout my pants?” Elvis muttered, looking down at where a sticky wet spot had soaked right through the leather. “I’ll have ta sneak up and change. Baby, can you go up and tell ever’one to wait for me in the dining room?” “Of course,” Ruby smiled as she stood up and straightened out her dress, re-tying the neckline and leaning over to give him a kiss on the cheek before going back upstairs.

Twenty minutes later, everyone had gathered in the dining room for a Thanksgiving feast and Elvis appeared wearing the same jacket but with some black pants. Nancy, one of the cooks who Ruby had been briefly introduced to earlier, brought in a platter of food and looked at Elvis in surprise. “Mr. Elvis, you were so excited about your outfit! Why’d ya change your pants?” Elvis’ face turned red as he stumbled for an answer. Joe started snickering. “I think Elvis needs to know how to get something sticky out of leather. Any tips, Nancy?” Elvis gave Joe a glare that could freeze hell over, but all the guys seemed to have trouble holding back their laughter. Especially when Nancy chimed in with, “You didn’t get syrup on your pants again, did ya?”

Sitting at Elvis’ side, Ruby could feel her face burning red as she realized everyone probably could hear them in the basement. Elvis looked a bit embarrassed too, but Ruby’s presence had a way of lightening his mood. He just leaned in and whispered loudly, “Ignore these assholes Ruby.” Then he dropped his voice so only she could hear. “We’ll go up to my soundproof bedroom later and do whatever you want.” Ruby blushed again and smiled broadly at him as he winked at her. He always made her feel comfortable and protected.

After a delicious dinner, some of the guys went to the basement to play pool, but Elvis sat down and started playing gospel songs on the piano. A few others joined in singing, and Ruby leaned at the edge of the piano, watching Elvis’ passionate face as memories from long ago washed over her. As he started playing “If I Loved You,” he looked up and caught her eye with a big grin, causing her to blush and look away. She knew they were both picturing her kneeling between his legs at the piano bench fifteen years ago. Ruby could feel her pulse quicken at the thought. If only no one else was around, she’d do it all again. She thought about how soft and smooth he felt when she rolled his foreskin up and down, the inviting way his head peeked out when he was fully hard, how sensitive it was when she touched her tongue to it…her chest was starting to heave with all these fantasies racing through her mind, all while staring at this most perfect of faces. As if sensing her desire, Elvis announced they were going to turn in for the night and thanked everyone for celebrating with him. He grabbed Ruby’s hand and showed her the way to the master bedroom.

“I know what you were thinkin’ ‘bout red Ruby,” Elvis teased once they were alone. “You were thinking the same thing!” Ruby protested, swatting at his arm. Elvis smiled so big that his cute dimple flashed at her. “Maybe,” he said. “I was thinkin’ of somethin’ else though, too.” “What’s that?” Ruby asked. “I was thinkin,” Elvis said as he ran his hands down her sides and gently squeezed her waist, “that I wanna lick your pretty little kitty again. I like knowin’ I’m the first man that ever did that to ya.” “You’re the only man,” Ruby corrected as she reached up and stroked his cheek softly. “I have a few firsts with you, but I don’t think you have any with me,” she said, her voice sounding a little bit sad. Elvis looked at her in surprise. He gave her forehead a tender kiss before he spoke.

“Baby, you’re the first woman I’ve been with where I feel like ya want to spend time with me just as much as I do with you. Not spend money or get your name in the papers or any of that, but just spend time with me and and enjoy me and love me for who I am. You’re interested when I talk to ya, you’re affectionate with me all the time, ya never say ya need a break from me, you accept me completely. That’s a first for me, and probably the most important first there is.” Ruby looked up at him, her eyes misty with emotion. “Well, any woman who doesn’t see what a special person you are, even without the money and fame, must be crazy. But that’s okay, because now I get to be the lucky one.”

“You sure do, baby, and let me show ya just how lucky.” Ruby squealed with delight as Elvis tossed her on the bed so he could get to work worshipping her with his tongue.

[around1302]

XVIII. EASY LIKE

SPARE PARTS: a series (18/20)

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

(W) strong language, alcohol use

THIRD PERSON’S POV

Not that Harry would ever admit it, aloud or to himself, but he wants a Sunday kind of love. Since he realised he’d never want that with anyone Charlie, he’d chased Saturday. Friday. Hell, even Tuesday. But Sunday was what he needs, what he craves.

He wants lazy mornings and hazy nights. He wants domestic strolls through parks and boring conversations about what to eat for tea. He wants shopping trips for lettuce and chicken and milk, and he wants all the petty arguments that come with that.

It’s why, despite his grin, he feels just a little dead inside raising his glass to his best friend and his fiancé. Because shit, he has his Sunday, every week for the rest of his life (if all goes to the legally binding plan).

“Glad to see you’ve come around,” Niall mumbles to Harry after the table collapses back into chatter. “Stopped sulking like a kid, at least.”

“I’m paying for the meal, aren’t I?” Harry snaps, failing to maintain the disproving-father esc persona he’s adapted about this whole thing the moment Niall cracks a smile.

Yeah, it took a few days (weeks) for Harry to not think Niall getting married at twenty-one is absolutely batshit, and sure, that was fuelled by his own jealousy – but right now, sat around the small party he decided to throw together to say sorry, he can say he’s genuinely happy for the couple.

Las Vegas, Nevada, of all places.

“Just promise me you won’t get married by an Elvis while we’re here.”

“Can’t promise that, my friend.” Niall winks, laughing around his fork.

Harry rolls his eyes, indulging in another hefty sip of his whiskey because for the first time coming to the country – drum roll please – the band are legal. Vis-a-vis: available to get completely and utterly fucked up in Vegas, finally.

Charlie, on the opposing side of the table within the bustling restaurant, feels a similar gut-wrenching nausea about the whole ordeal, and so has spent the last half hour gulping down wine like there’s no tomorrow.

Specifically, no literal show to perform tomorrow.

Charlie and Amelia have always been equals in their romanticism. Ever since they were little girls, they would binge watch rom-coms – resulting in avoiding one-night stands like the plague because they both held out for that meet-cute they’d been promised they’d get by Hugh Grant or Julia Roberts or Heath Ledger.

Except Amelia got her meet-cute. And what did Charlie get? The bottom of this bottle.

“Psst.”

Maybe.

Charlie frowns over her glass, the grapejuice slipping down her throat smoothly at this point. Harry’s nodding towards the exit, eyes bright and hopeful like she might actually consider escaping her best friend’s engagement dinner. Which, she might have, if said best friend wasn’t on her left, cheeks aching with happiness.

She is happy for Amelia, she is. She’s just… bitter, too.

Charlie shakes her head, trying to discreetly nod toward Amelia.

“Bathroom.” Harry mouths.

“No.” Charlie mouths back. “I’m not shagging–”

“What are you doing?”

Charlie jumps at the sudden intrusion of Louis’ voice coming from her right, the red wine nearly painting her white shirt crimson. When she flickers her eyes back at Harry, he’s talking to Liam. Sneaky.

“What are you doing?” Charlie fires back, hiccuping.

“Are you fucking hammered already?” There’s a teasing lilt to Louis’ tone, but concern peaks through. Charlie doesn’t like it, she’s stored enough pity over the years, she doesn’t need anymore.

“No.” Charlie lies. Well, half-lies. Tipsy is closer to the truth.

“You alright?” Louis lowers his voice, furrowing his brows.

“Fine.” Charlie bites, lifting her glass again – except it’s empty. She sets it down, quickly searching for her next bottle.

“Dude, come on. You know I’m always down for a bender, but save it for later, yeah?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Charlie snorts, lips lifting in a near hurrah as she spots an unopened bottle of white in the centre of the table. Just as she stretches for it, Louis swipes it before her fingers can land on her saviour and moves it out of reach. “Louis, don’t be a prick.”

“Slow down, mate.” Louis hisses between his teeth.

If Louis is telling you to slow down, something’s wrong.

“Am I not allowed to celebrate my friends? Everyone else here is drinking.”

“Yeah, everyone else is on their second glass. Not their second bottle.”

“Stop trying to be my fucking dad and let me enjoy myself.”

As Charlie becomes more desperate, for the alcohol or to convince herself she doesn’t need it, she’s unsure, her voice raises – garnering the attention of a few. It’s only the band, Zayn and Amelia at the table; making it not too hard of a task to swallow the conversation into a spotlight.

“I’m going to the loo.” She mumbles, her chair screeching painfully against the wood while she makes towards the exit.

Harry takes the opportunity to quickly run after her, barely even bothering with an excuse as to why he’s following Charlie like her back’s on fire and he has the only pale of water. He just does, till she’s rounding the corner and he grabs her waist, pulling her towards the wall.

“What– Jesus, Harry, you scared the shit out of me.” Charlie pants, holding her palm over her chest as her heart tries to calm. The hallway’s dimly lit, the restaurant fading to blurry background noise and it’s just them – just Harry’s hands on her skin, Harry’s eyes searching hers for some kind of indication she’s okay, Harry’s breathing as laboured as hers in their haste.

“I’m not fucking you in a restaurant, I was trying to make that clear at the table.” Charlie folds her arms, leaning against the wall. Harry’s fingers slip from her waist as he scoffs.

“I wasn’t– that’s not what I wanted. Or want. That’s not why I’ve come after you.”

“Fine, then what?” Charlie doesn’t know why she’s snapping, she’s just kind of tired of everyone right now and just really wants to go out or go to bed.

Harry chews on his bottom lip for a second, trying to find the right thing to say, before he just settles on a quiet, “this sucks, doesn’t it?”

Charlie meets his eye. Blinks once. Twice. Sighs.

“I feel so selfish, but yeah. This sucks.”

Harry gingerly leans against the wall beside Charlie, blowing a stray curl from his face, looking up at the ceiling. To say it’s a restaurant in Vegas, it’s painted oddly like the ceilings they saw in Italy.

“I thought I’d have a bit more time before we started doing this shit.”

“Mhm,” Charlie agrees, scratching anxiously at her arm, “I feel like I’m behind.”

“No,” Harry’s quick to shake his head, “they’re just ridiculously fucking fast.”

Charlie huffs out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah. Although it was always going to happen with them. Whether it was now or in ten years time.”

Harry nods, and they stand in a comforting silence – held by a bitterness only they can understand and justify.

“Do you…” Charlie starts, then stops.

Harry turns, watching Charlie through heavy lids. The whiskey’s beginning to catch up with him.

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever think if you weren’t… this, you would’ve found someone already?”

Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t feel his stomach plummet. He and Charlie hadn’t really talked about what they were since that night in Italy, he didn’t want her to run away and she was still dipping her toes in denial if she was honest with herself. But, he had assumed…

Well. Wrongly assumed, he supposes.

And yet, the whiskey speaks for him.

“No.” His eyes drop to her lips.

His gaze is searing, even in her peripheral. So searing she has to turn, her breath hitching at the way he’s looking at her. Like she’s his last meal, like she’s water in the desert, like she’s the sun itself. And yet, there’s a hint of frustration through the flames. Disappointment. Sadness.

“Sorry.” She whispers, unsure of what she’s even apologising for.

“Charlie, I can’t keep… I don’t want to be… I’m…”

Harry can’t find the right words, any words, but it doesn’t matter. Charlie knows what he’s trying to get at, and he’s right. They’re beyond complicated at this point, despite everything between them being painfully simple.

“I want… I want you, Harry. I told you that.”

“But then you say shit like that–”

“I misspoke.” Charlie rushes to say.

Harry pokes his tongue to his cheek.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Hesitating. Thinking. Debating.

“What if we’re just lonely?” Harry whispers.

Harry knows he doesn’t just want Charlie because he feels behind on the whole relationship front. Harry’s wanted Charlie for as long as he’s known her name; what he’s really asking is that of Charlie. He can’t be a fix for empty beds, he can’t be a fix for empty days.

He needs to be it for her.

Charlie swallows, thickly. “I think we all are.”

It doesn’t answer his question, but it’s good enough for now.

Harry lifts his palm to her cheek, so gently it’s as if she’s porcelain. Charlie leans into his touch, habit at this point, and tilts so she can kiss his soft skin. He straightens, holding her face in both his hands now, and rubs his thumb over her lips like he has so many times.

He contemplates saying it. He knows he wants Charlie, but loving her is an entirely different thing. But here, now, her brown eyes sparkling ardently at him as he traces her features with the pads of his calloused fingers, it feels like the only words from the English language he can remember.

“Charlie, I–”

“What’s the hold– oh.”

Charlie tears her face away so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash, because shit. Zayn is stood by the entryway, frozen on the scene

If anything, Zayn needed to see this. After years of her own pining, of having to watch him chat girls up on nights out and give out free (shitty) drinks at Malibu’s to whoever batted their eyelashes enough, he needed to feel the same ache she did.

So why does she feel so guilty?

“Right,” Zayn nearly scoffs, “of course.”

She can’t tell if he’s mad or what, but anxiety bubbles in her chest and only boils hotter by Harry stepping forward.

“Look, mate–”

“Leave it, yeah? It’s fine.” Zayn’s hard eyes shift from Harry to Charlie. They don’t soften, not like they usually do. Like they have every time he’s looked at her for the last four years. “Happy for you both.”

Zayn leaves, presumably back to the table. Charlie starts after him, but Harry hooks his arm around her waist, stopping her.

“I need to talk to him–”

“You don’t owe him shit, Charlie.”

“We lied to him.” Charlie writhes from Harry’s grip.

“We what?” Harry laughs humourlessly.

“Look, you don’t understand. Everyone else but him knew about… us, and he’s the one person who probably should have known.”

“Why? Because you slept with him a few times years ago?”

“It was more than that and you know it. You also know he’s wanted to–”

“Start things up again, yeah I know.” Harry’s jaw clenches.

Charlie leans back, taken aback by his tone.

“Look, I just don’t think you have anything to apologise for. He’s a big boy, he’ll get over it.”

“You’re his friend too, you don’t feel even the slightest bit guilty?”

“Not really, no.”

Charlie blows air from her nose sharply. “What a good fuckin’ friend you are.”

“From the way I see it, Charlie, I’ve been in love with you for six years and he’s just decided he wants you after messing you around for fuck knows how long. If anyone’s the shit friend, it’s not me.”

“He– wait, you– what?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Shit, no, that’s not– that’s not how I wanted to say it.” Harry presses the heel of his palm to his forehead before raking his fingers through his hair. Charlie practically gapes at him.

“You… you love me? You’ve loved me? This whole time?”

Harry exhales, keeping his hand at the back of his head. “I told you.” He deadpans, trying to keep any fraction of strength about him.

“No, you told me you had a crush on me. Being in love with me is a bit fucking different.”

“It just slipped out!” He lifts his arm in the air.

“Never fucking mind that, you’re in love with me?”

“Jesus, Charlie,” Harry covers his face, “drop it, man, it was an accident.”

“You can’t ‘man’ me after confessing that–”

“Fuck, fine, yes, I love you! I’ve loved you for years and I’ll probably go on loving you for years, and I’m sorry I’m telling you like this, and I’m sorry I’m telling you at all but–”

The air’s knocked out of him, literally, as Charlie rushes into him. Into his lips. She grips his shirt like he’ll disappear if she doesn’t, and kisses him with every inch as he holds her back and prays he’s not hallucinating to escape what was a very, very bad situation.

It’s as if then, in that moment, with those words, everything made sense for Charlie. From sixteen to twenty-two, every second of it. Every flirty compliment disguised as a snarky comment. Every argument started because she wanted to sit in conversation with him for a minute, even if it just entailed a whole bunch of yelling.

Every pillow thrown or insult hurtled or eye rolled just to be in that space with him, just for a minute.

Poppy, and when he was the one who would be there on her every coping-bender just to make sure she got home safe.

Their first kiss, when he begged her to do it again.

“Does this mean–” Harry breathed against her lips when they finally parted.

“I don’t know if I love you,” Charlie admitted, keeping him close. He nudged her nose with his. “But I think I could. I think… what’s pre-love?”

Harry popped a dimple. “Like?” He tried not to be mocking.

“That.” Charlie laughed at herself. “I like you, Harry.”

Harry kissed her again, cradling her jaw to mold himself to her in a way only he could fit.

“Say it again.” He practically panted.

Charlie pulled his bottom lip between her teeth, swallowing his whimper.

“I like you.” A peck. “I want you.” Another. “I’m so through,” a third, “with pretending I could ever hate you.”

“God, I love you,” Harry swept her face up into another kiss, and another, and another, until their lips were bruised and they had no breath left to swap.

“I do need to talk to Zayn, though. Even if you don’t think I need to.”

Harry nodded, biting back his opinion on the matter.

Because nothing did matter, nothing but Charlie, and the fact after six painful years; she likes him.

“I’m just… surprised. I shouldn’t be, probably figured something was up when he practically shoved you in his room in Italy.”

Charlie stood at the foot of Zayn’s bed as he sat there, raking his hands over his blonde buzz. This conversation was always going to be hard, but Charlie knew deep down it was never going to work.

He broke her heart too badly those years ago, and she couldn’t dive those waters again. Especially not after realising there’s only ever really been one sea she could swim in.

“I’m sorry.” He finally sighs.

Charlie frowns. “You don’t–”

“I do.” He stands, and for the first time in a long time, her breath doesn’t catch when his aftershave invades her senses. It’s just… him. Nothing more. “We were good, we were friends, then I went and fucked things up again.”

“Zayn, look,” Charlie fumbles with her shirt hem, then drops it. She needs to stand straight for this conversation. “It was never normal between us. You might have thought it was, but I always felt… God, I don’t know, weird. It’s probably why I kissed you in London. I just pushed everything away for the sake of the guys, for you, but I never got closure.”

Zayn rubs his stubble. “Shit, Charlie. I didn’t know…”

“I didn’t tell you.” She shrugs.

“Yeah, but I should’ve– Jesus. I’m sorry. I’ve been a fucking prick.”

“No, you–” Charlie stops herself. She recalls Harry’s words, then thinks about herself (for maybe the first time ever when it comes to Zayn). “A little. Yeah, you’ve been a bit of a prick. But maybe that’s why we needed to rehash all of this.”

Zayn sits back down, Charlie joining him.

“I always thought we were just casual. I didn’t think it needed to be talked about, but I was stupid for that.”

Charlie pinches her fingers together, and Zayn chuckles lowly.

“I never meant to hurt you, you know how much I care about you.”

Charlie nudges his shoulder with hers. “I know. You’re just no good with this stuff.”

Zayn looks up at the ceiling, blowing air into his cheeks.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Maybe we can actually restart. As proper friends this time, no weird, unresolved tension.”

“That sounds good.”

Charlie holds her palm out. A peace offering. Zayn breathes a half-laugh, but takes it.

“Proper friends.” He affirms, shaking her hand once.

“Proper friends.”

taglist: @lilfreakjez @be-with-me-so-happily @sirtommyholland @tpwksm @b-reads-things @tiaamberxx @daphnesutton @mleestiles

[zot3-flopped]

Can imagine being into Louis in the early years of 1D and maybe all through the band: he started off cute, quite nicely spoken, decent clothes, a fun vibe if you don’t see the disruptive tendencies, which you don’t when you’re a young teen.

I can imagine wanting the best for him after they broke up. Nothing wrong with that.

What I struggle with is those same fans swearing blind that Louis is a star performer, talented, kind and cultured. Everything he does only appeals to those fans and everyone else either doesn’t know or care about him, or is aghast that he has a career. He’s got no singing voice. He does make songs but his input is minimal. He gets no press traction. He has nobody to call a colleague. He isn’t courted for anything except truly random awards that Larries are 100% behind. He looks like any British bloke on a Sunday morning after a heavy night. Every time he talks, he betrays his lack of application to his job, not to mention his lack of artistry in general. He doesn’t care. This isn’t authenticity, it’s sour cynicism about the industry he needs to advance.

I can’t even compare him to Harry. He doesn’t have any peers any more. He’s on his own, entirely his own fault, being gaslit into thinking he’s doing something: by his fans.

Love this! Yes, he's in a league of one. Nobody else in the industry consistently sings out of tune and forgets their lyrics. He's beyond unprofessional and makes Niall look like an A lister in comparison.

[warwickroyals]

beginning - previous - next

Mrs. Jennifer Ware is the communications secretary to Nicholas and his mother. David Schuyler, who's appeared before and has been mentioned several times, is private secretary to Nicholas/Tatiana and is one of Alex's Godparents. "The people upstairs" refers to the only people "above" Nicholas's office: Louis's household and staff.

[DOCTOR] Your Royal Highness, this is Grace. She and her mother have been staying at Amanda’s House for three months.

[ALEX] It’s very nice to meet you, Grace. You’ve got my daughter’s name. Well, half her name.

[GRACE] You have a daughter?

[ALEX] Yeah, she’s around your age, too.

[GRACE] Is she a princess?

[ALEX] No, she’s an ordinary girl.

[GRACE] Does she go to school?

[SCHUYLER] I don’t understand why he chose to bring her up like that.

[JENNIFER WARE] That isn’t even the worst part.

[ALEX] Maybe when you’re feeling better you can return to school.

[SCHUYLER] Jesus Christ, why would he . . . ? I’ve seen enough; turn it off.

[JENNIFER WARE] You know what I’m about to say, don’t you? I was just telling Julianne the other day, like, what is it? “Julie, Am I a fucking mute or something?”  I’ve said this so many times: Prince Alexander is not his brother—

[SCHUYLER] I know, I know—

[JENNIFR WARE] You cannot just throw him into the wild unprepared.

[JENNIFER WARE] He needs notes, Sky! In bullet points and bold or else he won’t fucking read them! He’ll just skim them on his way there and the next thing you know, we have a member of the royal family telling a little girl in palliative care that she’ll get better one day.

[SCHUYLER] Jen, it was an honest mistake.

[JENNIFER WARE] Maybe so, but The Charlatan purchased the rights to that clip yesterday afternoon. This morning they uploaded it to Facebook. Our little mistake sits at over seven-hundred-fifty-thousand views. Over fifty-kay comments, the vast majority of them derisive in nature.

[JENNIFER WARE] The reputation of our second-in-line is holding on by a thread. It’s just been free-falling ever since he left the Prime Minister’s daughter. Even in the press briefings I’ve noticed a change in . . . temperature. That’s why I’ve waylaid you before the meeting. This is too intimate to bring up in front of the others.

[JENNIFER WARE] Listen, I feel for you. You and him were friends. The rest of us were just his employees.

[SCHUYLER] I’ve been here since 6 a.m., whatever emotional pandering you’re about to do, please make it quick.

[JENNIFER WARE] Fine, I’ll summarize. You know those boys, you’ve known them since they were babies. Most people stay with the palace, what, five, six years? You’ve been here for fifteen.

[SCHULERY] There aren’t many opportunities outside the palace. The job market isn’t the best.

[JENNIFER WARE] Don’t bullshit me. You’d began the process of transitioning out back in 2017. Everyone knows what happened.

[SCHUYLER] The late Prince of Danforth’s death was an unprecedented crisis. The family needed me.

[JENNIFER WARE] Right. And they still need you. We’re representing the future King of Sunderland, we can’t have stories of dysfunction and incompetence going to print every Sunday.

[JENNIFER WARE] Talk to those boys. Not as a private secretary, but as a surrogate father.

[SCHUYLER] I doubt they consider me as such. Well, you’re all they have.

[JENNIFER WARE] God knows you give them more attention than your own child.

[SCHUYLER]  Yes, for all the good it does. Neither are keen on listening to my advice.

[JENNIFER WARE] That’s not what the people upstairs think. They think you were the one who pressured Prince Nicholas into seeing a therapist. Oh, and one last thing: they were also saw the little clip I just showed you. The meeting you set up between Prince Alexander and The King has been canceled. Like I said: these mistakes have consequences. Talk to those boys.

[SCHUYLER] Bastards.

[boosbabycakes28]

In honor of finishing my story for the @1daboficfest , here is a little snippet of it. It’s hate to love and alpha/alpha ☺️

“Hold up!” Shivers run down Harry’s spine at the sound, and he stops himself from rolling his eyes. Of course, Louis is late for my birthday night. He hears the alpha’s steps come to a stop a few feet away from him, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Harry straightens up, settles back onto the pavement and turns around to face Louis, “Do you need anything?” He asks with weariness. Louis’ eyes are shining with the street lights and Harry tries to focus on something else, but it’s hard when the blue-eyed alpha is dressed to kill. He is wearing black Converse, rolled up black skinny jeans with his black leather jacket and a grey beanie, and Harry wonders how he isn’t cold on this winter night. But what suddenly makes him feel a bit hot, is the white t-shirt he is wearing under it, through which Harry catches sight of the other alpha’s tattoos.

This night is going to be long.

He sees Louis’ eyes roaming over his silhouette as well, and for a short moment it’s silent between them. The sound of the honk of the taxi makes them jump, breaking the moment.

“Hey man, are you getting in or what?” The driver grows impatient, and Harry can’t blame him.

“Sorry, just a sec.” He replies, but he can hear the man sigh in annoyance.

“Can we share it?” Louis says, gesturing to the car.

Harry snorts, and when he sees Louis’ unimpressed look he says, “Oh you’re serious?”

The other alpha’s gaze doesn’t waver, “Do you know how hard it is to find a taxi at this hour on a Saturday night?”

“And how is that my problem?” Harry retorts.

Louis rolls his eyes, “Come on, don’t be a dick.”

“Don’t be a di-” Harry stops himself, not wanting to make a scene in the middle of the pavement, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, “Okay, you know what? Maybe you shouldn’t have been late in the first place?” He finally says after a moment, looking back at Louis who is already looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“You’re one to talk. You’re late to your own birthday.” He cocks his hip to the side with that smug smile on his face and Harry’s words get stuck in his throat. He opens his mouth, but closes it instantly, realising that the blue-eyed alpha is actually right.

“Well,” Harry regains his ability to talk, “I- I was working. What’s your excuse?” He tries to be smart about it, but he can see the amusement in the other alpha’s eyes and Harry knows it was a bad move.

“You know you shouldn’t brag about that, it makes you pretty boring.”

“Not everyone can make their way through uni only doing the bare minimum and partying every night.” Harry spits back, anger bubbling in his tummy.

Louis shrugs presumptuously, “What can I say, I’m a lucky guy.”

Harry groans frustratingly, “Oh my God, you’re so infuriating, I-”

“Man, I’m leaving if you don’t get in!” The driver shouts, accompanied by another honk, making Harry jump once more and clutching the scarf that is falling over the front of his coat.

“He’s getting impatient, let’s go.” Louis says, stepping towards Harry and brushing past him a bit too closely for his liking. It makes his breath catch in his throat, as he watches the blue-eyed alpha get into the taxi without even waiting for Harry’s response.

If some of you want to do it as well, feel free ☺️ @greenblueish @nouies @alltheselights @allwaswell16 @pocketsunshineharry @berzerkshires @parmahamlarrie @lululawrence @falsegoodnight

#snippet Sunday #larry fic #1adaboficfest #abo

[alarrytale]

Happy Sunday Marte! I’ve found one funny gay site on IG (unfortunately it’s in my motherlanguage with memes which only people from my country would understand so I’m not gonna share it) and eventho I’m a straight woman, I’ve laughed a lot and it instantly became my favourite site there. And this site also got me into thinking about HL - well mostly about Louis to be honest. Like yes, we don’t know about their roles in their relationship and more likely they are versatile, I can’t help myself but I mostly see Louis as the top one because like f.e. (and these examples are from that IG site how the author - gay himself - defines top gays) he’s the tinier one, his known manspreading, very often visible bulge, he’s the messy one or the fact he’s not into self-care that much if at all…..I mean in like every third post I just saw Louis and I was so close not tag him in the comment section under those posts because what a shame he’s not known in the community in my country because he has everything why gays would love him. And so it got me into thinking how lthq wants more male fans and so Louis has to have this laddy lad image doing laddy lad stuff and talking about punk rock and indie music etc etc. I’m aware his CO is not coming any time in the nearly future and he also has bbg on his back for so long but if at least they’d let him be more himself and take adventage from his top energy, it might help him to get more males into the fandom from at least in the lgbt community. Like how come there are so many queer male fans when it comes to Harry but those male queers are harder to find in Louis fandom. Oh isn’t it because hshq let Harry be more himself and so eventho he has to play it to his het side of fandom, he’s also playing it to his queer side. While Louis’ image is straight laddy lad.

Happy Sunday to you too, anon!

Glad you're having fun on that site!

I think it's so interesting that this fandom got such different views on H and L. I see people fight about who tops and bottoms daily, who's the dominant one and who's the submissive. I think it's okay to view them either this or that way, and it's okay to prefer this type of fic or that, but the way this fandom is divided into two camps or sides on this issue is so sad. It's gotten too far and it's so childish. I think people should grow up and both camps need to be able to deal with seeing feminised artwork versions of both H and L without going off on a tangent. Seriously. There is no right or wrong side, so learn to deal with people who are of different opinions.

Anyway, i think what you see as top energy is him trying to bring out and use his masc side to appear straight. It's to attract straight males to him as an artist. Queer men will see right through that. They'll see it as posturing, see signs of toxic masculinity and be averse to his signs of homophobia. Harry is queercoding and showing signs of queerfriendliness. Queer men feel safe with H. I think L is between a rock and a hard place in terms of who to cater to, and how it will be percieved. He's doing a bit of everything right now. Is it because he can't totally commit to the bit, or because it's not authentic? There are different opinions on this.

[offthefieldsmau]

⚽ 1.92

Wednesdays, attentive reader, were the bane of Stede’s existence. It was lucky for him that since Mary and Doug were back from their vacation; Alma and Louis spent their Sunday thru Wednesday with them, relying on Stede to pick them both up at Alma’s nighttime soccer practice for the rest of the week. The duo would then be deposited back into Mary and Doug’s careful hands at family brunch on Sunday.

However, with the recent honeymoon trip and re-acclimation back into reality, Mary and Doug had been frazzled. Post-wedding chaos was palpable, especially with all the legalities that one had to go through.

Lucky for Mary, she didn’t have to worry too much. Doug was keen on taking over just about every detail that he could. Down to changing his own name, solely because he didn’t want Mary to stress too much about the process all over again.

The bar may have been low, but Doug was hell bent on raising it for the rest of society.

You’ll be inclined to know, however, that while Doug was busy taking care of all the Marriage Things, that left Mary to take care of all the Art Studio and New House Things. And Wednesdays were always fairly busy for Stede as hump day meant all kinds of meetings and check-ins with his infant team of real estate aficionados.

Routine was paramount to him: wake up at 6, breakfast by 6:30, dressed by a soft 7:15 (you never know how his hair will behave, especially by mid-week,) and out the door by 7:45. The drive to the office was a short fifteen, but even then, Stede was the boss.

If he showed up late, but with an armful of donuts, who in the office would have protested?

So his Wednesdays were down to a science, that not even a loose cog in the wheel could disrupt. He gave himself time buffers, just in case he doddled too long getting his skincare routine done, or matching the perfect button-up for his suit.

Which was why his well-oiled Wednesday machine sputtered to a stop when he got a phone call from Alma at 7:00 AM sharp.

“Petal?” Stede patted the lapel of his bathrobe as he stood in his closet, “Why are you—”

“Mom and Doug aren’t home,” Alma sighed and muttered something offhand to Louis, “I think they forgot us.”

Stede scoffed, “They did not forget you. That’s wholly unlike them,” lucky for them, he was ahead of schedule and pulled a blazer off the rack, “You’re sure they’re not home?”

“Pretty sure, dad,” she bemoaned, “my homeroom starts in 30 minutes and we can’t be tardy again. They both left this morning, like, super quick. The coffee pot was still brewing when I came downstairs for breakfast.”

Stede already had his top-half clothed and jumped into a pair of slacks, “I’ll be over in fifteen. Please eat or grab something for the drive to school—”

“Already fed,” her smile in tone was familiar — Stede could see the fondness on her face, “and thank you.”

“Of course,” Stede stopped what he was doing and grabbed the phone, “anytime. You ever need me, you call, okay?”

“Okay.”

Once Stede got in the car, he had to give Oluwande a call about a late show to work, since the school was in the opposite direction of the office from his house. With that push-back, he had to reschedule two morning meetings with prospective buyers. 

Like dominoes, his whole day was thrown for a loop. Lunch was an hour later than Stede normally took it (and his stomach protested violently.) His mid-afternoon tea had to be canceled for the day as he got email after email about bank appraisals needed for not one, not two, but three homes.

Someone at Bank of America had it out for Stede Bonnet, surely.

One gold, lone shiny star (like the stickers on his fridge) from the day was the fact that he was not late picking the kids up from school. He and Alma were nearly late for practice drop-off (to which Stede didn’t even get a chance to say hi to Ed, much to his heart’s dismay.)

[watchmegetobsessed]

SLEEPLESS

a/n: omg! it's been so long since i last wrote something for harry so it feels a bit weird but in a good way to be back. i've been spending more time offline so writing hasn't been going that fast like before, but im working on a few other stuff too! just please be patient with me, im trying my besti swear! so now enjoy this oneshot of two oblivious and stupid roommates who start sharing a bed...

pairing: Roommate!Harry x reader

word count: 8.1k

masterlist

Living with three boys has its perks but also a lot of downsides too. It’s not how you planned, you were set to move in with one of your friends from second year, but she bailed on you last minute, leaving you with no place to live when most of the houses were already taken for the next at least one year. You were bracing yourself to sleep under a bridge or something already when your heroes came along.

You went to high school with Harry Niall and Louis, but you weren’t exactly in the same friend group, just knew about each other. Then you ended up in the same Lit class freshman year with Harry and he was basically your pass into their little group. You hit it off pretty easily and you always wondered why you didn’t become friends before college. Later you had two more classes with him in the second semester and it was just all a coincidence that he found out about your living situation.

“Why don’t you move in with us?” he prompted one afternoon when you were studying together in the library.

“I’m not sharing a room with any of you, Harry,” you sighed, shaking your head.

“You wouldn’t have to. We had a fourth mate living with us but he dropped out about a month ago. You could take his bedroom.”

“Are for real? You should talk about it with the boys first, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind it. They like you too and if I’m being honest, the place could use the touch of a woman,” he smirked and you just rolled your eyes, but you were incredibly thankful for the offer.

So after talking with Niall and Louis about it and once they gave their amens on the situation, you officially moved in with the three of them.

You’d be lying if you said there hasn’t been times when you thought about choosing the bridge, living with boys is not exactly a dream. They are messy, sometimes loud and oblivious about certain things women do and need. You’ll never forget Niall’s face when you packed the shelf above the toilet with your tampons and pads. The horror in his eyes as he examined all the different sizes and types.

“But why so many? I don’t get it why you need the large ones and the mini ones too,” he huffed.

“Because I vary them according to the strength of my flow.”

“Bless you,” he scoffed and just walked away.

They tend to leave their clothes around the house and they don’t always realize when it’s time to let some fresh air into the place either. Harry has a sixth sense wanting to use the bathroom when you’re in and Louis always forgets to get rid of his spoiled food from the fridge. Tini things that surely got you thinking if it was a good idea to move in with them. But then there are times when you can’t even imagine sharing a home with anyone else than these three idiots.

The way Harry always leaves you a cup of coffee on the counter when he has an early class on mondays and wednesdays, how Niall always waits for you to get home after your night shifts at the restaurant you’ve been working at, but he always just says he was watching Supernatural on TV. You love that Louis goes out of his way to get you your favorite pastry for breakfast on sundays when he goes for his morning runs. But the absolute best is that you never feel alone or bored with these three around. Something is always happening and they make sure to involve you in everything, making you feel like part of their little pack.

Tonight is Thursday and Thursdays are movie nights in your home. It’s been a tradition since the first week and you haven’t missed any of them. Sitting on the couch at your usual spot, you laugh as Niall growls in annoyance when you suggest to watch another rom-com.

“Not again!” he protests, sitting on the floor by the coffee table you and Harry thrifted a few months ago after the previous one was broken at a smaller party held in the house.

“Why? I bet Harry would love it!” you grin, glancing at the guy in talk who is now entering the room with a big bowl of popcorn.

“Of course he would, because he is a pussy! And the two of you always team up, dragging Louis with you so I can never watch something I enjoy!” Niall whines as Harry sits next to you, not too bothered by his friend’s cries.

“Come on, I bet you enjoyed Crazy, Stupid Love last week!” you laugh, remembering how he whined for the first part, then fell asleep at the end.

“Love, if you think that was enjoyment, I wouldn’t want to be your boyfriend,” Niall scoffs and you gasp at his reply.

“Hey!” you snap at him, but can’t help laughing. This is how it always goes with you and Niall, the non-stop bickering can sometimes drive Harry and Lou insane.

“Okay, so what do you want to watch?” Harry asks, throwing some popcorn into his mouth as he gets comfortable, an arm resting on the back of the couch behind you, the other one busy with the snack in his lap.

“There is this new horror I’ve been dying to see!” Niall’s blue eyes light up right away, but you’re fast to break that shine.

“Nah, no way. I’m not watching a horror movie.”

“Why not?”

“Because I fucking hate them and they scare the shit out of me.”

“That’s like the whole point!” he protests, but you shake your head no again.

“What are you fighting about again?” Louis asks, walking into the room after his quick shower, the smell of his body wash filling the room for a few moments.

“I want to watch a horror movie, but Y/N is a little baby and she doesn’t want to.”

“I’m not a baby! I just don’t enjoy watching people get killed or demons sucking the life out of someone!” Niall just rolls his eyes at your response.

“But it’s always what you or Harry wants to watch, why can’t I choose just this once?”

“That’s not true, we watch movies you like too!” you retort, but Niall gives you an unimpressed look. “We watched that crime thing, that was your choice!”

“That was three months ago, Y/N,” he sighs and as you do some quick math you realize that he is right.

“Hey, he has a point. Let’s just watch what he wants this one time, yeah?” Harry curls his arm that’s been on the back of the couch around your shoulder and he pulls you to his side, squeezing you gently.

“But I hate horrors,” you pout, knowing well that it’s already kind of settled, you lost this battle.

“It’s just a movie. And if you get scared in the night, you can sleep at mine,” he offers with a wink that surely makes your heartbeat fasten a bit.

If you’re being honest, you’ve always had a tiny crush on Harry, even back in high school, when you didn’t really know him. He was the cool guy, but not the douchebag type, more like the one that was nice to everyone and earned their respect and liking. Getting to know him just proved that he really is a great guy, but you figured he would never feel the same way about you. These three guys only saw you as their sister and that was in a way kinda worse than being friend zoned, but there’s nothing you can do about it, so you just decided to come to peace with your situation. But that doesn’t mean you don’t get flustered when you see him wander around the house in just his boxers or when he gets a little touchy with you, which happens a lot, because that’s just how he is. Hands on your shoulders, a little squeeze on your hips, the gentle touch of his fingers on your back, they happen all the time and they get your pulse up every time. You can only hope it’s not that noticeable.

Niall finally gets what he wants and you agree to watch that stupid horror movie. It doesn’t start off too bad, but it quickly escalates and makes you shudder every time the screen gets a little darker or the music is foreshadowing that something is about to happen.

“Jesus fuck!” you jump a little when the killer appears out of nowhere in the scene.

“You alright?” Harry asks, peeking down at you.

“I fucking hate this dude,” you mumble, rubbing your face with your hands, to get your shit together. Harry chuckles lightly next to you, his arm pulling you to his side close and you gladly sink against him, the warmth of his body giving you some comfort and a sense of safety.

Your eyes are on the screen, but your mind is dancing around how his fingers are delicately running up and down your arm, drawing circles and little shapes on your skin. It could put you to sleep easily, even with the woman screaming on the screen after seeing her husband get killed.

“Just imagine the guy with a funny mustache,” Harry murmurs, leaning closer to you so he doesn’t bother the other two guys with his comment. “Or maybe in a ridiculous outfit.”

“Like… in a onsie?” you ask, squinting your eyes at the screen.

“Could be, yeah,” he chuckles quietly. “Just imagine him running through the woods in a onsie with bunnies all over it.”

You can’t push your laughter down, covering your mouth with your hand so you don’t bother the others. Harry just smirks, giving you a squeeze as you’re still melted against his side on the couch, legs pulled up to your chest, while his are spread out in front of him.

“Definitely not that scary,” you giggle and Harry hums in agreement.

“Would you mind getting a fucking room, you guys? You have two, in fact!” Niall snaps at you playfully, when you start laughing again.

“Sorry, sorry!” you clear your throat, your cheeks heating up at the comment, but luckily it’s dark enough to hide your embarrassment. Niall is always quick to make dirty jokes and tease you in a way that makes you nervous, especially when it involves Harry as well. He has made plenty of comments about you and Harry since you’ve moved in, implying that the two of you sometimes act like a couple or that you should hook up. Harry is always quick to shake them off, that’s how you know he couldn’t even take the thought seriously.

At the end of the movie you feel like it wasn’t bad, not with Harry holding you close at least.

“Will you be screaming tonight, Y/N?” Niall teases you, making you roll your eyes at him.

“Either way it’s gonna be your fault.”

“I can live with that!” he laughs, bidding his goodbye before he shuts the door of his bedroom behind him.

You do your usual evening routine, get ready to bed and by the time you’re done in the bathroom all the boys have retired into their rooms. The hallway stands dark in front of you, only a tiny bit of light coming from your bedroom since you left your bedside lamp on in there, but you still can’t help the eerie feeling that washes over you. That movie didn’t sit right with you and now you have to face the aftermath of it.

Switching the lights in the bathroom off you sprint into your bedroom, pictures from the movie flashing in your mind of the killer just jumping out of nowhere. You shut the door and lean your back against it for a moment, taking a deep breath. Tonight is going to be long.

No matter how hard you try, you just can’t fall asleep. You’re way too alerted, opening your eyes at the tiniest of sounds around you, which is unfortunate, because your window is looking over the main street, unlike two other rooms in the house, that are facing the small backyard. Harry and Louis have the luck to have those rooms.

Every time you’re about to fall asleep something from the movie sneaks into your thoughts and you get scared to death. Soon, you realize you won’t be able to sleep on your own tonight.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you wonder if Harry really meant that offer that you can sleep with him or not. Part of you is convinced it was just a joke, but when you hear someone shouting down the street you push your doubts aside and you quickly find yourself making your way to Harry’s room.

You knock on the room lightly, not wanting to wake anyone else up. The last thing you need is Niall seeing you go into Harry’s room in the middle of the night.

No answer comes from inside, but you won’t just leave it at that. Opening the door you’re facing another dark room, barely making out the furniture, but you already know the route by heart. Making it to the bed your eyes finally adjust to the darkness and you can see Harry lying on his side, sleeping peacefully. Squatting down you place a hand to his shoulder and give him a tiny shake.

“Harry?” you call out quietly, but his answer is just a huff. “Harry, it’s me,” you try again, squeezing his arm. He furrows his eyebrows before slowly blinking his eyes open, finding you in his sight.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” he asks in that groggy, low voice you love hearing in the morning so much.

“I can’t… Did you mean that I can sleep here if I’m scared?” you ask, afraid that he might just have a good laugh and send you back to your room. For a long moment, he just blinks at you before nodding his head and you feel relief washing over you.

“Sure,” he hums.

“O-okay then I’ll bring a blanket and take the floor and--”

“Shut up, you are not sleeping on the floor,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into bed with him as he scoots over, making you space on the mattress.

It’s a bit weird at first, lying in bed with Harry, especially because it’s just queen sized, so there’s not much space between the two of you, but it seems like Harry doesn’t mind it so why should you?

Your nerves are a lot calmer with Harry next to you, but maybe it’s still because of the movie or because you’re a bit anxious about the whole situation, you just still can’t relax enough to fall asleep.

“Y/N, no one is gonna kill you here,” Harry speaks up surprising you because you thought he has already fallen back asleep.

“I know, I know,” you whisper, trying to sound convincing, but you can’t fool anyone, especially not him.

He huffs deeply and before you could realize what’s happening, Harry’s arm is curled around your waist, pulling you against him, spooning you from behind, the warmth of his body wrapping your figure almost entirely.

“If a murderer comes, they will have to fight me first, alright? Now sleep,” he mumbles against your hair, squeezing you gently. All at once, you couldn’t care about killers and dark shadows around you, because Harry was right there, holding you tight and there was nowhere you wanted to be more than right there.

You slept like a baby. Harry’s closeness kept every nightmare away from you and the morning came with ease. Harry’s phone wakes the two of you up at eight, because he has a morning class at 9.30. The two of you are completely tangled up in each other, lying on your side facing each other, Harry’s arms are wrapped around you, while yours are hugging his waist. Groaning at the sound of his alarm, he rolls to his back to reach for the phone on the nightstand and then he finally turns it off. It’s bright outside, the darkness of the night finally long gone. You’re still groggy when Harry rolls back, his arm coming back around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world and in a sense, it feels like that. But as you both slowly wake up, you realize that you might be a little too close. Slowly but surely you let go of each other, rolling to your back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Hope I didn’t kick you in my sleep,” you smile at him, peeking over at him, hoping to break the awkwardness of the situation.

“No, don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, rubbing his eyes, before pushing himself up and off the bed. You follow him with your gaze as he steps to his dresser and grabs a pair of clean underwear. “I’ll put on a coffee while I shower, want one too?” he asks, though you know he could make one for you anyway.

“Sure, thank you,” you nod and he nods back, yawning as he walks out of the room, leaving you lying in his bed, a bit confused and kind of aching to be held by him again.

Two days pass by, everything is going as per usual, neither you nor Harry brings up that you spent the night in his bed that one particular time. Now it’s saturday and you all were planning to go out, but a sudden storm has cancelled your plans, so the evening turned into a cozy, lazy hangout instead of a wild party at some frat house.

Louis decided to work on a paper that’s due in two weeks, Niall has been relentlessly swiping on Tinder while you and Harry are spawled out on the couch, watching some shitty action movie that was on TV, since you both were too lazy to choose one and put it on. Deep down you’re a little happy you don’t have to spend the evening in a crowded, smelly house, drinking cheap alcohol.

Harry gets up from his seat to grab himself a drink just when Niall growls in annoyance.

“What is it?” you ask.

“They keep unmatching with me after we’ve talked a little!”

“Have you thought about the reason?” you smirk at him, knowing well that Niall probably isn’t the easiest to talk to, he surely takes it too far too soon.

“Well they probably don’t like that I ask them if I can go over,” he shrugs, making you laugh.

“You’d go over in the pouring rain?” Harry asks, returning to his spot on the couch. He puts his drink to the coffee table and instead of sitting into his previous position, leaning against the arm of the couch, he lies down, laying his head to your thigh, making your breath hitch for a moment.

“Of course not!” Niall rolls his eyes. “But I thought it would make them think I would do anything for them.”

“It makes you seem desperate,” Harry retorts, earning a questioning look from his friend. “What? It does!”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does,” you nod in agreement. “Going over in the middle of a storm just to fuck? Sounds like you’re having a hard time finding someone.”

“Women are so fucking complicated, and for what?!” he growls, before storming off to his bedroom, like an angsty teenager, leaving you and Harry alone.

He doesn’t move, his head stays on your thigh using it as a pillow. His curls are tickling the soft skin on your thigh and you have to fight the urge to play with his hair or scratch his scalp. You stay like this for the rest of the movie and when he gets up you almost want to pull him back.

“Alright, I’m fucked, I’m gonna go to bed,” he yawns, stretching his arms out into the air as he heads into his bedroom. “Good night, Y/N.”

“Night, Harry!” you call after him as you watch his frame disappear down the hallway.

Sighing, you slide down on the couch, cursing under your breath that you’re still so hung up on Harry. You really thought that you had it under control, but lately those damn butterflies are acting up in your stomach at everything he does.

“I’m pathetic,” you mumble under your breath just as the sky rumbles outside with a blinding lightning, making you jump with a squeak. “Shit,” you huff, already knowing that falling asleep will be a pain in the ass. Again.

You’ve always hated storms, they make you think that something bad is about to happen, a tree is about to fall into the window or a lightning will blow up the building. It’s kind of stupid, you know it, but you just can’t help it.

Tossing and turning, you jump every time a lightning flashes somewhere outside and a few seconds later the thunder rips through your whole body, almost making you fall off the bed.

“Oh God,” you let out a shaky breath. You have no idea how long it is until the Storm finally stops and you’d really like to have a good night's sleep. So pushing your anxious thoughts to the side, you get out of bed and head over to Harry’s room once again.

It’s such a deja vu from a few nights ago, as you gently knock on the door you wait again, but this time you actually get an answer.

“Yeah?” you hear him call out from inside and you slowly open the door, peeking your head inside. Harry is lying in bed, his head propped up against the headboard as he is scrolling through his phone. “Y/N? What’s wrong?” he asks, putting the phone aside as he sits up.

“I just, I-I know it’s stupid, but I was thinking… I don’t know--”

“Y/N, just tell me, alright? Come on in,” he gestures for you and you slip into the room, closing the door behind you before sitting to the edge of the bed next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep during storms…” you admit, looking into his eyes, hoping he gets the hint where you want to head with it. He stares back at you for a moment before he scoots over, lifting the covers up, giving you the green light to join him.

Relieved, you climb over to him, making yourself comfortable as he wraps the blanket over you, his arm immediately coming to cradle you, this time pulling you to his chest so your head is laid upon his shoulder, a hand gently placed onto his hard chest, probably right above where his butterfly tattoo is adorning his abdomen.

This is now easily your favorite place. Safe and tight in Harry’s arms, protected from anything and everything, like you’re in a little bubble as soon as you get on his bed.

Lightning strikes outside again and you shiver a little. Harry probably notices it, because he tightens his hold around you, as if it’s his way telling you that he is here and nothing bad is gonna happen. Eventually, you’re able to shut the outside out and only focus on Harry’s warmth, the touch of his hand on your arm and his even breathing. And then finally, you drift off to sleep.

This morning is different from the previous one you spent here. There’s no alarm since it’s Sunday, neither of you have anything in particular to do, so you wake up feeling rested, the Sun shining through his half drawn in curtains, no trace of last night’s storm can be noticed from where you’re lying in bed, the sky is as clear as ever. Sometime during the night you got tangled in a way where Harry is the one now cuddling you, his head lying on your chest, hugging you as if you were a giant teddy bear, his leg thrown between yours, lightly snoring against your sleep shirt. You can only see his mop of hair and the urge to play with them is back, but this time, you give in.

Leaving one hand on his back, you move the other one to his unruly locks, gently playing with one before you comb your fingers through it, lightly scratching his scalp. Harry hums in pleasure, shifting from his dreams back to reality, but he doesn’t move, just keeps humming as you massage his scalp.

“It’s not a good morning, it’s the best,” he mumbles groggily, making you chuckle at his words.

One of his hands is flat against your ribcage and the damned butterflies start dancing when you feel his fingers gently stroke your side as you keep playing with his curls. This feels so idyllic, as if you’ve been like this forever. You wish that was true.

Groaning as he stretches, Harry rolls to his back, making you instantly miss his body pressed against yours. He rubs his eyes, sighing deep as he blinks up at the ceiling a few times, then he turns his head to the side, looking at you.

Just when he is about to say something, outside his door it sounds like someone just broke a pile of plates and it’s followed by Niall’s usual annoyed growl. You both get out of bed to go and check what happened, not even thinking about how it might appear that you both are coming from Harry’s room in the morning.

Harry flings the door open and there is Niall, collecting pieces of a plate from the floor, his breakfast scattered down the hallway as well while he curses under his breath.

“What happened?” Harry asks, picking up a bigger piece from the plate.

“Fucking tripped,” he growls back, glancing up just for a moment, then back down, but then he processes that you’re standing behind Harry, in his room, in the morning. “What the fuck are you doing in Harry’s room?” he bluntly asks, quickly forgetting about the mess he just made.

“What?” you ask nervously, your pulse quickening in an instant. Harry stands up, seemingly not too bothered by Niall’s question.

“You slept in his room?!”

“She did,” Harry answers, leaning against the doorframe.

“Wait, are you two fucking?” Niall’s eyes widen, snapping back and forth between you and Harry.

“Just because two people sleep in the same bed, doesn’t mean they are fucking, Niall,” Harry chuckles, seemingly amused by the situation that’s got your stomach knotted. Louis’ door opens and he walks out, his hair a little messy, but already dressed, a mug halfway filled with coffee in his hand.

“Wha’s this circus out here?” he asks, looking around, his eyes scanning over the mess on the floor.

“Did you know these two are fucking?” Niall asks him and Harry lets his head drop back at his words.

“Are you?” Louis simply questions and you shake your head no.

“We are not. Y/N can’t sleep in a storm so she came over to mine.”

“Funny, she doesn’t come to me when she’s scared,” Niall scoffs.

“I never came to you because you don’t understand that sleeping together doesn’t mean sex,” you retort, though your ears are practically burning from the rising anxiety inside you.

“Wait, whoa. This wasn’t the first time you two slept together?”

“She was scared after your stupid horror movie too,” Harry shrugs.

“Wow, so are you guys a thing now or what?”

“Niall!” Harry growls and you’re not entirely sure what bothers you more. Niall’s shock and interrogation or the way Harry seems so cool and unbothered, like it’s no big deal. Maybe because for him it really isn’t, it’s only about the sleeping, nothing else, even though the cuddles are a little beyond the lines of friendship.

“What? I’m just asking the important stuff! Am I not allowed to tell dirty jokes to Y/N because you’ll cut my prick off?”

“You shouldn’t tell those anyway,” Louis chimes in and you nod in agreement.

Seeing that the conversation is just getting more and more awkward with each passing moment you decide to pull yourself out of it. Pushing yourself past Harry you mumble an excuse me before rushing back into your room, the three boys eyeing you curiously as you shut the door behind you, finally putting a physical barrier between you and them.

You shouldn’t be this offended, it’s not like any promises were made and you should have known better and not fall for him more than you already did. It was silly of you to think that there was anything more behind these nights spent curled up against each other, or when you woke up tangled and melted together. It was never what you hoped it to be.

Then and there you decide it’s better if you distanced yourself from him, or at least go back to how it was before. No bed sharing, no cuddling and preferably no bitter feelings.

It all goes well, because you have a pretty busy week after that day, you always have something to do and it’s not like you spent the night with Harry randomly, so it was evident that you stayed in your room so far.

But about a week later another storm was threatening to strike. The sky was gradually darkening all afternoon and now it’s only five o’clock, but it feels like eight. It’s Sunday, you’re quite exhausted since you were working until three. Niall was out somewhere with some of his coursemates and Louis went home for the weekend, won’t be back until Tuesday. It’s just you and Harry, who’s been sprawled out on the couch in only his sweatpants while you’re making yourself an early dinner so you can go to bed soon and have a good night’s sleep.

It doesn’t take long for the rain to start pouring, you’ve just gotten out of the shower when the first thunder rips through the place, making you gasp in fear. Harry’s head snaps around, looking in your way where you’re standing at the bathroom door, a questioning look in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. Ignoring his gaze, you just make your way into your bedroom, not even thinking about what could be on his mind. Is he thinking about whether you’ll ask to sleep with him again or he doesn’t care about it at all?

By the time you are ready to go to bed, the storm is fully raging outside, making your insides tremble every time you see a lightning or the thunder breaks the quietness in the house. You make one last trip to the kitchen, finding Harry leaned against the counter as he eats an apple.

“Going to bed early?” he asks as you pour yourself some water.

“Mhm,” you nod, avoiding looking at him.

“Everything alright?”

“Sure, I’m just tired,” you force a small smile onto your face just when a thunder rumbles outside, making you jump. Harry is watching you curiously and kind of expectantly, but you’re doing your best ignoring it. Instead, you just grab your water and head back to your room. “Good night.”

“Night, Y/N,” he calls after you, and you can feel his burning gaze on your back right until you close the door behind you.

Your plan to sleep a good ten hours goes right out the window. It doesn’t seem like the storm is about to calm anytime soon, so you’re stuck to suffer through it on your own. You’ll be damned to go to Harry’s, that would be an instant heart break and you just can’t take that right now. Long, torturous hours pass by with you lying awake in bed and part of you wants to go running over to Harry, but you force yourself to stay. It’s not happening tonight.

You fall asleep sometime after two in the morning when the thunder and lightning have stopped. Unfortunately, you need to wake up early in the morning, so when your phone’s alarm shakes you out of your sleep, you feel like absolute shit. Dragging yourself out of bed appears to be the hardest thing right now. As you make your way out, you are met with an all too familiar figure sitting at the small dining table, two cups of coffees in front of him, one obviously made for you.

Harry’s eyes snap up at you curiously, taking in your terrible looks as you head to the bathroom.

“Morning,” you mumble under your breath.

“Good morning’,” he nods in your way and though he doesn’t say anything else, you can tell he has a few thoughts about your current state.

Once you’re done with your morning business in there you join him at the table, barely able to keep your eyes open.

“Rough night?” he asks, eyes examining your face.

“Kinda.”

“The storm?”

You don’t answer, just nod your head. He remains silent, but you can feel that he is dying to ask another question.

Why didn’t you come over?

You’re glad he doesn’t actually asks you, because you wouldn’t be able to give either a normal answer or say anything without starting to cry. Instead, you just grab your coffee and head back into your bedroom to get ready for the day.

That week on Friday all four of you are invited to a party. At first you want to cancel, but some of your friends from classes will be there too and it’s been ages since you’ve been to a great party, so you decide to tag along with the boys.

For the first half of the evening you go your separate way, spending time with people you don’t actually live with and see every day. One drink follows the other, though you make sure you don’t go farther than getting tipsy. You’re not in the mood to deal with a nasty hangover in the morning.

Sometime after your third or fourth drink you run into Niall and he pulls you into their little circle that also involves Harry. When he sees that you’ve joined them, his eyes light up and goes out of his way to get next to you.

“I haven’t seen you in ages!” he whines, slurring his words as he wraps an arm around your shoulders to keep you at his side. He is definitely drunk, that you’re sure of.

“It’s been just about two hours, Harry,” you roll your eyes, but can’t push your smile down. You’d be lying if you said you’re not enjoying having him so close. Your dynamic hasn’t been the same since you stopped sleeping in his bed. Not that it was such a regular activity, it only happened two times.

“But I missed you, I feel like we haven’t… haven’t talked in so long!” he huffs, knitting his eyebrows together. “Have you been avoiding me?” he asks leaning closer, so your conversation can somewhat be private.

“That’s silly. Of course I haven’t!”

“But it feels like that,” he pouts with glossy eyes. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

“Sure,” you nod, the bitter taste of lying filling your mouth.

“Alright, cool,” he smirks and pulling closer he kisses into your hair before he engages with the rest of the group again, keeping his arm around you as if it wasn’t a big deal.

For the rest of the evening you simply don’t leave his side and not because he doesn’t let you, but because you don’t want to. Harry is not the only one missing the other, this week you’ve noticed that even though you’ve been keeping yourself busy, your thoughts always took you back to one particular, curly haired boy. Despite everything that’s been going on, he is your friend first and foremost who you love spending time with and talking about anything and everything.

Both of you are intoxicated, Harry a bit more than you, but you’re having a blast playing beerpong or ruining Niall’s chances with girls he is trying to pick up. You’re genuinely having an amazing time and it wouldn’t be the same without Harry.

Arriving back home your little group splits, everyone using the bathroom after the other and you’re the last one in line, because you always take the longest. By the time you’re finished, Louis and Niall are both locked up in their rooms, but Harry’s door is still open, some dim lighting illuminating the hallway. As you approach it, you find him throwing his dirty clothes into the hamper, but his head perks up when he sees you.

“Good night, H,” you sigh, quite tired and in need of a good sleep, but before you could head into your own bedroom, Harry grabs your wrist and pulls you into his. “What is it?”

“Sleep here,” he simply prompts, already leading you to the bed.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“I-I… I don’t--” you stutter, feeling flustered from his offer.

“Come on, you can’t say no,” he tells you, already crawling under his covers and then he holds them up as the invitation.

Taking a deep breath you follow him and make yourself comfortable in your almost usual spot. Harry’s arm falls over your waist in an instant, spooning you from behind as he hums pleased. But a few moments later he lifts his head, looking at you with concern in his eyes.

“You know you can say no, right? I was just joking.” Looking back at him you give him a small smile. Even drunk he makes sure you aren’t doing anything you don’t want to, but how could you not want it? You’ve been aching to sleep next to him all week, especially after the last storm when you suffered alone in your room.

“I know, Harry.”

“Alright, okay,” he nods, his head dropping back to the pillow. “I missed this,” he mumbles with a sigh.

“Yeah?”

“Mm, sleeping alone sucks,” he hums and in a split second, your heart breaks.

Harry didn’t want to sleep with you, he just wanted to sleep with someone and you were the one there. It has nothing to do with you.

You want to blame him, you want it to be his fault that your chest is now aching, knowing that it truly doesn’t mean the same thing to him it does to you, but you know you can’t. It wouldn’t be fair, so once again, you’re left with a sinking heart wrapped up into Harry’s embrace that suddenly feels burning.

“Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Harry.”

When the morning comes Harry is still sleeping deep beside you, an arm thrown over your waist, puffing warm air against the side of your head with every breath he exhales. Seeing him so peaceful warms your heart, but then you realize everything that happened last night, how he only used you because you were available and not because he wanted you.

You don’t want to wait for him to wake up and face him, your emotions would surely bring the best out of you. So carefully, you unwrap yourself from his hold and sneak out of his room, back into yours.

There’s no way you can face Harry right now, so before he could wake up you leave, planning on spending the day in the library, working on your assignments, hoping the school work will take your mind off of how badly you’ve been friendzoned.

Sometime after eleven Harry actually texts you asking where you went and you just tell him you have a shitload of school stuff to deal with. He asks if he can join you, but you tell him you’re with a group of your classmates, even though you’re sitting in an almost entirely empty library. He luckily doesn’t push it and leaves you to be. Hopefully he’ll be fine when you take another step away from him for a while to get your head straight and sort your emotions out.

You get home quite late, but not late enough, apparently. Because walking into the house you find the boys clearly getting ready to watch a movie.

“Just in time!” Niall beams. “Join us, Princess!” he laughs, grabbing himself a cola from the fridge.

“Oh, no, I have some things to work on--”

“Come on, you’ve been in the library all day, you can have a break!” Louis tells you and you know you won’t be left alone, they are just so persistent.

So you join them in your usual spot, which is of course next to Harry, though you’re trying to avoid his gaze that hasn’t left you since you arrived and by now you’re certain he knows you’re avoiding him. There’s a reason why he asked you last night if you’ve been doing it lately, he is not stupid, but this is not the time to deal with it.

With your inner crisis bubbling inside you, you completely forget to ask what you’re watching. A few minutes into the movie it becomes quite clear however.

“Is this a fucking horror movie again?” you ask, snapping at Niall, who just starts laughing.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Harry will gladly let you sleep in his bed tonight,” he teases, making your whole face heat up at his comment. Harry slaps his chest before he turns to you with concern filled eyes, but you pretend like you see nothing, turning back to the screen with your jaw clenched.

You’re fucked.

The movie is a fucking shitshow and leaves you traumatized. When it’s over, you think about why didn’t you just stand up and go into your room when you realized it’s another horror. For a change, this one was filled with demons and monsters that hide in the shadows, just what you need before going to bed. In the night. In a totally dark room.

Exiting the bathroom you’re already planning on watching something lighthearted and cheerful in your room, hoping that would make you forget the movie you just saw and give you the chance to actually sleep.

Walking past Harry’s room you see that it’s still open and you catch him expectantly looking at you when you appear in the doorway as you walk down the hallway, your eyes meeting for just a split second before you disappear from his sight and shut your bedroom door without a word behind you.

No matter how many random videos you watch on YouTube, some scenes from the movie are just imprinted into your mind and they have you trembling in fear. Every shadow looks like a demon or ghost, hiding in your room, ready to haunt and kill you and you’re on the verge of actually crying. It might not be only because of the movie, more like everything else that’s been bottled up inside you, added to the fear the movie has brought to you.

Shutting your eyes closed you try to take deep breaths and for a bit it actually seems to help, but that is until you hear the door opening. It gives you an instant heart attack and you can’t keep your tears back anymore.

A whimper leaves your mouth as the door opens and you can only see a shadow entering the room, totally not recognizing Harry in the dark.

“Y/N, hey, it’s just me! It’s okay!” he quickly clears, seeing how shaken up you are. He rushes over to the bed, one hand cupping your cheek, the other one finding your hand and before you could think, you grip it hard.

“You scared the living hell out of me!” you cry out, sobbing.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to check on you.”

Silence sets between the two of you that’s only momentarily broken by your shaky breaths as you try to calm yourself down.

“Why didn’t you come to mine after the movie if you were so scared?” he then asks, surprising you with how straightforward he is.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble, blinking the remaining of the tears away as Harry stares down at you intently.

“Why would you think you’d bother me? I like having you there.”

“But it’s… Doesn’t matter,” you sigh in defeat, but it just concerns him even more.

“No, tell me!”

“Harry, just go back to your room. I’ll be fine.”

“You definitely won’t and I’m not leaving until you don’t tell me what’s going on,” he protests firmly and you lose your patience to keep lying to him.

“You just wanted someone to sleep with yesterday, okay? You didn’t need me. And… I don’t want to depend on you more than I should.”

Harry stares back at you with a blank expression and you feel like this is going to be the end of your friendship. You have to come clean about your feelings and he’ll tell you that he doesn’t feel the same way. But then he speaks up and the tables turn faster than ever.

“Y/N, I wanted you to sleep with me last night. Not just anyone. You.”

“What?”

“I really thought we have been on the same page, but apparently, we’re not even in the same book,” he sighs, confusing you even more. “Wasn’t it suspicious how things have been between us lately? The way we slept, the mornings, did you think these are normal things to do?”

“I-I thought that… it didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Well it did,” he replies and you breath hitches in your throat. “I was trying to take it slow, see how you’d react to everything and I thought you were feeling the same way. But then last time you didn’t come to my room when there was a storm and I thought that was your way of telling me that you want to pause whatever’s been going on.”

You’re just blinking in shock, listening to his words. This is nothing you expected.

“But then you seemed like you opened back up last night and you agreed to sleep with me, thought we were back on track, but then you were nowhere to be found in the morning, avoided me all day and now you would have rather spent the night crying here alone than to come over to me. What did I do? Just tell me, because quite frankly, I have no idea what we are doing anymore, Y/N,” he sighs, clearly tired of this insane game you’ve been playing without even knowing.

“So… you did all of this, because… you…”

“Because I like you, Y/N. But there’s a possibility it’s already way more than just a strong liking,” he admits with a soft chuckle that melts you in an instant.

“Oh god, I could cry again, but not out of fear this time,” you tell him, making him laugh as you scoot closer to him on the mattress. “I feel the same way, Harry,” you softly tell him, your hands finding the base of his neck while his hands have wandered to your waist so now he is pulling you towards him until he ends up in his lap. His face is now so close, and even in the dark, you can see the cheesy smile on his pink lips.

“You’re not saying this just to keep me here because you’re scared to be alone, right?” he asks, clearly joking, earning a wholehearted laugh from you.

“No, but I guess that would be a major benefit of it.”

“I’ll protect you from all the demons and killers under one condition,” he smirks, his face already inching closer, his nose is already touching yours.

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“I get to kiss you.”

“Deal.”

You barely say this one little word, his lips are already on yours, kissing you in a way that almost knocks all the air out of your lungs. You press yourself up against him, his arms curling around you, holding you tight as if he is already protecting you from everything that scares you, though you can’t really think about the stupid horror movies now that you’re kissing Harry.

He pulls you down with himself making you lie on your back as he holds himself up above you, his lips parting from your just enough so he can look into your eyes.

“How about I kiss you every time you feel scared?” he prompts, pecking your lips gently as you pull your legs up and his hips settle between your thighs, while your hands dance down his back.

“Alright, I’m in,” you smirk at him and for a moment he just stares back at you, smiling wide, in complete awe that it’s finally happening. Then he cocks his head to the side before speaking up.

“Are you still scared?”

“Very,” you nod. “I’m shaking.”

“Good,” he grins before his lips press onto yours again.

Thank you for reading! Please like/reblog if you enjoyed!

[yeojaa]

( DEVIL IN A NEW SUIT. )

Money’s something that makes the world go around.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag.  You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.  

That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash.  You simply can’t let it go on.

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  idiots to lovers.  fluff, angst, smut.  the holy trifecta, babies!  explicit, obviously.  

tags / warnings.  mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, smut in the form of: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls don’t be irresponsible).

wc.  12.2k of nonsense.  pure nonsense, i tells ya. 

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ did what she always does aka read through this and made me a better writer and @yeoldontknow​ dealt with my big dumbass and let me cry about my pea brain to her.  i love you both sm!!!  ✨💜

author note.  the long-awaited fic is here!!  i really hope you enjoy it.  if you do, please maybe leave a comment or something?  i swung back and forth between loving and hating this so it’d really, really mean a lot.  anyway, thanks as always for reading and i adore you!  stay safe and happy and healthy!

He’s a sucker.  That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him.  It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard. 

His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove.  Sometimes, she’s by herself;  often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste.  They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique.  Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be.  You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit. 

“He has no idea.”  It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts.  “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”

How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder.  How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair?  It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie. 

(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”.  Her words, not yours.)

You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else.  Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention.  Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him.  Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.

You’d never expected him to be like this.

Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face. 

Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back gathering dust.

“He’s cute,”  she very poorly whispers, voice carrying because it always does.  She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough.  Zero tact, though.  Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble.  You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.

You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested.  “Who?”

There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags.  (God, what awful taste.)  There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best.  (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)

“Him.”

Yejin all but points him out, jerking her chin in his direction.  You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place.  Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on.  When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.

You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes.  He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW.  Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him to the point you wonder who his seamstress  is.  

But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect.  It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.  

“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?”  He upspeaks.  It’s stupidly adorable.

Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first.  A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect.  “What’s the item and the name it’s under?”  You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.

“Oh, it’s under mine.  Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” 

You’re floored.  This is Jeon Jungkook?  This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot wrapped around Barbie’s finger?  You’ve got to be kidding.

You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face.  It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers.  “I’ll grab it!  The Box bag in cloud, right?”

Jungkook can only nod dumbly.  He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends.  He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance.  It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears.  There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.  

It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.

“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend?  I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.”  Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off.  “She said she was leaving on Friday.”  Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made.  “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”

It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall.  You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.  

You do feel bad.  Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this.  For hurting this stranger.  (At least he knew?)

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”  Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality.  He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip.  He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet. 

If Yejin were on the floor with you, she’d tell you to knock it off.  Chastise you for getting involved in something you had no business being in.  (She’d be right, but you’ve always been an advocate for tough love.)  As it stands, she’s still in the back finding that stupid girl’s bag and you’re here, shaking your head, weakening Jungkook’s resolve with the edge of your teeth.  “No, she definitely said she was going away with her boyfriend.  Did you maybe give us the wrong name?”

Maybe if he weren’t so upset, he’d be more offended by the insinuation he’s stupid.  Instead, he only falters further, head mimicking yours.  Poor guy.

“I—I think there’s been a mistake.”

Yeah, you dating that gold-digger, you want to say.  Instead, you meet his stare like you haven’t just dug a thousand holes in his foundation.  “Oh, maybe.  I’m sorry.”  The apology is honest, even if the meaning behind it isn’t.  That’s a thing, right?  Apologising to make someone feel better, even when you don’t necessarily agree with it?  

God, you’re an altruist. 

“It’s fine.”  When he stutters, adorable lisp coming out to play, you know it’s not.  You applaud him for his brave face, even if it’s very poorly offered - a makeshift mask you think you could tear off with just another well-aimed word.  (You won’t.)

“Here it is!”  Yejin’s back, bouncing out from behind the counter with the giant white bag in her hands.  If she notices the atmosphere, she says nothing.  You remind yourself to tell her good job once Jungkook leaves - and you know he’ll leave the moment he’s got those silk handles in his hand.  He looks about ready to cry - or ready to fight, you’re not sure.

Once the purchase is passed over, he nods his head furiously and you swear you see a tear go flying.  You don’t have time to ask before he’s hoofing it out of the store.  

He doesn’t even notice he’s left his wallet on the counter.

By the time you snatch it up and round the corner, he’s nowhere to be found.  Probably because running in stilettos is next to impossible and he’s gotten an embarrassed head start.  Well then.

“I guess we’ll have to call him,”  you hum, turning the Prada bi-fold over and over in your hands.  It’s practically brand new, stuffed with large bills, his driver’s license, and few credit cards, including a Hyundai black card.  The same one on file that his girlfriend - maybe soon-to-be ex-girlfriend? - uses shamelessly.

Yejin’s watching you carefully, silently.  You’re counting down how long it’ll be until she asks - because you can see the curiosity swimming in her eyes, practically bulging her cheeks with the effort of keeping her questions caged behind her teeth.

Finally, after a good three minutes, she’s at your side, bony point of her chin digging a grave into your shoulder.  It’s probably not the most appropriate thing but she’s never much been one for decorum.  (You either, but still.) 

“So… what was that about?”

You don’t bother to turn when you speak, back to running through order details and matching them with customers.  “What?”

“You know— that!”  She waves her wrist in a circle, gesturing toward the space Jungkook had occupied not five minutes ago.  “He ran out of here like he was scared for his life.”

“Scared of the truth,”  you correct. 

You hadn’t thought it was possible for her to get more pale - she’s already fine porcelain, perpetually slathered in sunscreen - but she somehow does, balking at your response.  There it is. 

“What?”  There’s a reproachful edge to her words, an uncertainty that tells more than the single syllable. 

“What?”  It’s mimicry and a challenge all in one, meeting her stare from the corner of your periphery.  You can read every emotion that runs through her expression:  shock, displeasure, confusion.  

She retreats a step, bottom lip caught between her teeth.  (She really does remind you of your little sister.)  “So, you told him?”

You shrug, a noncommittal gesture that disrupts the curtain of silk that falls over your shoulder.  You hadn’t laid it out for him but surely he had an idea now.  There was no way he didn’t. 

“I pointed out a few conflicting facts.  That’s all.”  You’re not ashamed about what you’ve done.  You’d want to know if you were him.  Consider it an act of goodwill. 

The silence that meets your ears isn’t surprising but you don’t pay it any further mind.  What’s done is done.  Now he knows, or something close to it.  The chips would simply fall where they were meant to. 

You have to admit - you’re rooting for him. 

Whatever Yejin’s thinking, she keeps it to herself for the rest of the shift.  She knows better than to berate you about something like this, not that she would anyway.  Obnoxious as she can be, you have an understanding.  It strengthens your not-quite-close-friends-but-more-than-colleagues relationship. 

It’s only at the end of your shift that she brings it up again, drifting over to you as you complete your cash count for the evening. 

She holds Jungkook’s wallet in her hand, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she taps it against the edge of the counter.  “You have to call him.”

You almost lose your count, finishing with a pinched expression.  “Whoever works tomorrow morning can call him.”  You’re not brushing off the responsibility - you really could care less - but simply passing it along to the next person.  Sensible. 

As it turns out, you’re the person who works the next morning, called in because another associate has come down with a cold.  

You’re two lattes deep when you remember the wallet, tucked neatly behind the counter with a yellow sticky note posted to the front.  You suppose it’s your responsibility now.  You know if Yejin comes in tomorrow and sees it, she’ll give you her childish brand of hell. 

The line rings twice before it picks up, that oddly familiar voice crackling through the speaker.  “Hello?”

“Jungkook?”  

There’s a beat of silence followed by a careful confirmation. “Yes, that’s me?”  Upspeaking again. How cute. 

“I’m calling from the CELINE boutique.”  You can practically imagine the look on his face, eyes as wide as saucers as he recalls the awful-to-him encounter.  “You left your wallet here and I wanted to make sure you got it back.”

“O-oh, uh—“  It’s like encountering a baby bunny - or deer or something equally adorable and vulnerable.  “Thanks.  I didn’t even notice.  Um, I can come pick it up today?”  There’s another pause, the sound of fingers over a screen, and then he’s back.  “Is that okay?”

Leave it to him to have lost his wallet and yet be worried about putting someone else out.  He truly was a sucker. 

“That’s fine.  We’re open until six tonight.”  

“I’ll be there before dinner.”  As if realizing how vague that is, he continues, words running headlong into each other like he can’t get them out fast enough.  “Before six, I mean.  Um, is around five-thirty okay?” 

You want to tell him to just come whenever, that it really doesn’t matter to you, but that probably isn’t going to help the situation.  Instead, you hum a quiet sound of confirmation.  “Of course.  We’ll see you then.” 

He hangs up immediately. 

The second time you meet Jeon Jungkook, he’s just as endearing as the last.  It’s actually surprising, if you’re being honest.  You’d thought he’d be resentful or mean or any other emotion better fitting someone whose entire world had turned upside-down.

As it stands, he’s just the right-side of anxious, a hundred little sparks of uncertainty flaring beneath his skin and lighting him up in neon.  You can see him from a mile away he’s lit up so bright, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Your heart aches for him - and then it skips, almost trips over its own two feet when he wanders into the store with his hands dug deep into the pocket of his pants.

How he looks tonight is nothing like how he’d looked yesterday.  Somehow, you like it more.  The undone head-to-toe Balenciaga, the unruly curl of his dark hair.  It’s effortlessly chic - though you think it might have something to do with the fact that he’s just an attractive person.  (Good-looking people could get away with anything - even god-awful fashion faux pas.)

At the sight of you, he seems to further lose steam, eyes widening to such an extent you briefly worry for him.  Surely they’ll fall out of their sockets one day.  

“O-oh.  It’s you.”  The moment the words come, he’s blushing the colour of your red-soled shoes, horrified.  “I m-mean, just—”  He takes a deep breath, finds his footing and tries again.  “You’re the girl that helped me yesterday.”  Spoken like you, the exact girl who helped him yesterday, wouldn’t remember that fact yourself.  

“That’s right,”  you say evenly, expression neutral.  It’s almost as if that surprises him more - as if he’d expected you to shy away from the knowledge.  

The two of you stare at each other for longer than is strictly speaking necessary.  Well, you stare at him and he kind of bounces his eyes around the room.  You know he can’t be that interested in the croc stamp Belt bag behind your head or the selection of small leather goods in the glass case.  

He’s so awkward.

(You did kind of ruin his day though, so you can’t blame him.)

“So, um, my wallet?”  He’s made barely any headway, still lingering awkwardly by the front of the store.  You can’t help your smile - it’s more of a smirk - as you raise the item in question.  

“Right here.”

Jungkook glances from it to your face, then back again.  He makes the same trip twice more.  “Can I have it?”  To your surprise, he’s taken two whole steps toward you, brow furrowed.  He’s still terribly soft, rounded edges and innocent eyes, but he’s making progress.  Good job, you think.

“Of course.”  You mirror him, moving out from behind the counter.  Somehow, that’s not the right move, because his features are breaking and rearranging, big bunny teeth worrying a hole straight through his bottom lip.  You’d think he’d be more confident, more demanding, more… everything.  (You quite like that he isn’t - a complete anomaly - but you also imagine it’s also to his detriment.  Too much honey, not enough vinegar.)

This time, he closes the distance with three long strides.  It hadn’t escaped you how tall he was, the length of his gait - after all, you’d tried to run after him - but you’re still a little surprised when he’s in front of you, not a foot away, arm extended.  Palm out, he asks again, all while refusing eye contact.  “May I have it, please?” 

You hand it over with a soft laugh, pressing the grained leather into his hand.  You expect him to retreat immediately and he does - but then he turns and his expression is inscrutable.  Is he going to say thank you?  Berate you for what you’d done yesterday?

Neither, it seems.  “Why did you do it?”  There’s no anger, just an abiding sadness that laces his words, turns them the saddest shade of blue.

“Do it?”  You know what he means.  You ask anyway.

“Why did you tell me?”  Jungkook’s doing that thing again, alternating between biting his tongue and chewing his cheek as he stares at you.  You can practically see the melancholy rolling off him;  it shines dark on the depths of his irises, how his fist trembles just barely at his side.  For all his good looks and leisurely charm, you can see the effort it takes to hold himself together now.

Guilt ascends, starts somewhere deep in your stomach and turns stomach acid to butterflies.  It creeps higher and higher over your spine, locking each vertebrae until you’re immobile, unable to tear your gaze from his.  “I thought you deserved to know.”

“But why?” 

“What do you mean?”  

It’s almost comical, how both your expressions descend into bewilderment - like looking into a fun house mirror.  He’s trying to wrap his mind around your actions and you’re just trying to make sense of his confusion.  

You anticipate a response - can see it tittering on the tip of his tongue - but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head.  It dislodges a wayward curl from behind his ear, silver twinkling with the movement.  

“Thank you” is all he offers before speed-walking away.

You don’t expect to see Jeon Jungkook for a third time.  

He’s waiting for you when you end your shift on Thursday, standing somewhere between the two boutiques, loitering like some kind of gremlin.  (Except he’s dressed exceptionally well, slick black jeans and a Balenciaga tee shirt that rivals the cost of your shoes.  Of course he’d get away with hanging out in the store without being told off.)

“Excuse me.”  For once, he doesn’t sutter.  The lisp doesn’t present itself, either.  Was this the same Jungkook?  You’re not sure until you meet his stare - or try, his own skipping away the moment you make contact.

There he is.

“Yes, Jungkook?”  He flinches, as if he isn’t expecting you to know or say his name.  How can someone so big, so broad across the shoulders with a face that belongs on billboards, look like such a terrified rabbit?  It makes no sense to you.

“Can we talk?”  The stare he levels you with is unfair, too sweet and coaxing for you to even consider saying no.  You’ll still mess with him a bit though.

“We are talking.”

He sputters at that, hacks out a cough that makes you snicker openly.  It’s just so easy with him, like taking candy from a baby.  

“I mean like— talk talk.”  The set of his jaw gives away the whisper of frustration, the fleeting touch of exasperation that doesn’t allow itself to live anywhere else.  His eyes are still soft, round and glossy beneath the fluorescent storelight.  

“Sure, we can talk talk.”  

“Did you, um, want to grab dinner?”

You don’t mean to mock him (at least, not really) but he just makes everything so easy. You hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way.  “Are you asking me on a date?”  

“W-what?  No!”  Despite the immediacy of his response - the look of utter shock that cracks the careful facade - he’s burning bright, cheeks aflame with colour that licks up and over his ears.  “I just— I thought you’d want to talk somewhere else—”

“I’m kidding.  Let’s go.”

You move first, stepping past him and onto the elevator without a backwards glance.  He scampers after you, trails like a lost puppy in the wake of your shadow.  Even while you stand in the corner, waiting for the lift to meet the main floor, he keeps a careful distance, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.  

“So, what do you want to talk about?”  It seems you have to take the initiative, throwing him a curious stare as the floor number ticks down.  His gaze is trained on neon digits, unmoving.  You repeat yourself, glancing up at him, half-tempted to nudge him out of his reverie.  It’s almost like talking to a really hot brick wall.  “Jungkook?”

He tears out of his thoughts like a wayward bullet, head swivelling wildly.  “Huh?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  

“Um—”  He hesitates, not as if he doesn’t know the answer, but rather that he’s hesitant to speak it into existence.  There’s a tidal wave in the depth of his stare, a cresting wave that looks on the edge of breaking.  “—m-me?”

Brows furrow then amusement spills out.  “You want to talk about… you?”  

“That sounds bad.”  The shape of his grow prominent over his bottom lip, his mouth pulling and pursing with whatever maelstrom exists inside that pretty skull of his.  

“It’s fine.  We’ll talk at dinner.”  

He nods.  You think it means thank you.

Sitting across from each other in the Michelin-starred restaurant - a sought after spot that takes reservations weeks in advance - it’s easy to imagine Jungkook is just another guy.  Another bachelor with too much money and not enough sense, eager to sink his teeth into his next victim.  

It’s hilarious how far that is from the truth.

“What did you want to eat?”  He’s speaking into the pages of the leatherbound menu, half his face hidden.  Whether it’s a defense mechanism or just how he woos pretty girls, you’re not sure.  (You have a feeling it’s the former.)

“Whatever.”  Everything here is incredible.  You really don’t mind.

Jungkook’s face falls, folds in on itself like wet paper and you sigh a sound that further breaks apart the pillars keeping his composure in place.  His right cheek is hollowed, interior being shredded by enamel.  You take pity on him then, flipping open the menu with a great flourish. 

When the waitress - a lovely little thing whose gaze lingers on your dining partner for too long to just be polite - comes to take your order, you rattle off your usual order, doubling certain selections.  Soft-spoken as he might be, you have a feeling the size of his stomach makes up for all the mumbling and half-hearted glances.

“So?”  You level him with a stare over the rim of your glass, lavender and lemonade bursting across your tongue.  

He echoes you, wide-eyed and Bambi-like and stupidly cute.  “So?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  If you’d had a worse day, if you were a lesser person, you might be irritated by having to repeat yourself so often.  As it stands, you’re only curious, your inquisitive nature outweighing your naturally short temper. 

“Oh.”  Poor boy looks like he’s been asked an impossible question, like what’s the meaning of life or the secret to eternal youth.  He fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, turns the plaid over and over in his fingers as if it were a puzzle.  You stare at him the whole time, unflinching, unrelenting.  He’d asked you here so you damn well expect an answer.

You’re about ready to repeat yourself - fourth time’s the charm? - when he finally finds his voice.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s not the answer you’d expected.  It whacks you in the face, smacking your usual confidence out of place and shooting your carefully threaded eyebrows into your hairline.  “What?” 

He’s terribly uncomfortable, unhappy with being on the spot.  You watch the flicker of emotions through his face, the ones that creep into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the wobble of his bottom lip.  Try as he might, he can’t keep the light from his eyes - twinkling stars that bloom like newly minted stars.

“Thank you.”  It’s just that much harder when he repeats himself, edges he builds with his bare hands and a clearing of his throat.

You’re silent for a long while - long enough for the first few plates to be set before you.  You gather up shredded radish and perfectly charred beef with your chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully on the morsel.  Jungkook doesn’t move - doesn’t even reach for his chopsticks - and simply stares at you.  You might find it off-putting if it were anyone but him.

You get through half the bowl of green beans, well on your way to finishing it, when he finally begins eating, deftly transferring little bites to his bowl.

The only sound is crunching - king oyster mushroom tempura, ice from your cocktail - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it’s not uncomfortable.  A little different, sure, but altogether nice.  Like dining with an old friend.

You finally answer when half the plates are gone, another three laid out in their wake.  You’re careful not to speak with your mouth open - you notice Jungkook doesn’t either - and take a long sip of your water.  “You’re welcome, I guess.”  

Something tells you you’re always surprising him - whether intentionally or not.  His eyebrows have a tendency to shoot up, making him look even more shocked than he normally does.  (Seriously, how big are his eyes?)  You find that funny but don’t comment on it, opting to pop a silken piece of black cod into your mouth.  Your stare never falters, trained on his face as you chew thoughtfully.

“What?”  He’s had enough of your quiet observation, apples of his cheeks reminiscent of the tree in your parents’ backyard.  

“What?”  You parrot back, shameless, dark eyes twinkling at him.

“Y-you’re staring at me.”  

“You’re sitting in front of me.”

The line of his mouth hardens then, tongue rolling against his cheek in a gesture that stands out.  It’s the first glimpse of something rude, something not doe-eyed and innocent.  Oh?

“You don’t have to stare.”  Said with a speared piece of sashimi, the end of his chopsticks assaulting the poor piece of bluefin tuna like it has personally offended him.  

You reach for the same place, knock ornate wood against his, and quirk a brow when he meets your stare.  “Does it bother you, Mr. Jeon?”  The inflection is drawn out, almost mocking, only softened by the smile you offer.  

“That’s not my name.”  The bite disappears past his teeth.  You expect him to continue three chews later but he only goes for another, filling his plate and then his mouth.

“Sorry— Jungkook.  Does my staring bother you?”

It feels a little like playing with fire - holding your hand too close to a flickering flame, curious what it’ll do.  Juvenile in a way but enticing in another.  You’ve never met anyone quite like Jeon Jungkook.

“It’s rude,”  he reasons, glossy eyes meeting yours for perhaps the fifth time that evening.

“Maybe I’m just rude.”

He shakes his head then - dislodges untamed strands from behind his silver-lined ears - and sets his chopsticks down.  (Perfectly matched up, propped against the provided rest.)  “You’re not.”

You can’t keep the surprise away, the emotion threading through your brows to tie them into a little knot of consternation.  He says it so readily, as if he knows you and this isn’t one of a handful of very short, very unexpected conversations.  He’s not even looking away, meeting your stare with a confidence that surprises you.  

It lasts for all of five more seconds before he clears his throat and sips at his tea.  Anything to busy his hands, you think.

“You don’t know that,”  you finally return, after what seems like too long.

“I do.”  He nods - almost to himself - and continues, matter-of-fact.  “You care about people.  You’re… hard around the edges but you don’t mean to hurt anyone.  You want to do what’s right.  Sometimes it means you have to do things that aren’t easy.”

For once, you’re at a loss for words.  Really and truly silenced, unable to articulate anything that might beat back the kindness he’s offering.  

How the tables have turned.

He likes waffles with chocolate syrup rather than honey.  He doesn’t like whipped cream or citrus-flavoured desserts.  He has a tailor he’s gone to since he was a child, the same elderly woman he sometimes calls halmoni because she’s watched him grow up.  He decorates his apartment with the most random things:  limited edition KAWs figurines and the guitars he still hasn’t had the most practice with, one of a kind paintings from the gallery one of his best friends curates.  He buys the most expensive bottles of wine at any given restaurant not because his palate is so evolved it matters, but because it’s what he’s been taught to do.

He’s been in four serious relationships in his twenty-five years.  All of them have ended poorly, though his latest with Malibu Barbie is the first where he’d been cheated on.  (Somehow, you doubt that but you don’t voice this disbelief.)  He tends to lean towards long-term relationships with women who baby him (your words, not his).  He scoffs when you call him a serial monogamist, insists he isn’t even as you list out all the facts pointing otherwise.

“I just… don’t like wasting my time,”  he insists from behind his coffee cup.  

“You mean you don’t like the potential to be hurt.”  

Jungkook blinks at you then, Bambi eyes so big and bright you almost want to laugh.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  He seems confused - as if his reasoning is solid, irrefutable. 

“High risk, high reward, Jungkookie.”  It’s something your father had taught you years ago, the crazy old sap.  It’s probably why he’s had three divorces since you were seven years old, but you suppose it’s worked out for him now.  He’s been happily married for the last ten years - the longest relationship he’s ever had.  Youngin is good for him, though.  You like her - even if you sometimes wish she weren’t young enough to be your older sister and not his wife.

“You say that a lot.”

“I mean it when I say it.”

He’s quiet then, shoving a corner of his croissant past his lips.  When he speaks - starts to, anyway - his mouth is still full and you level him with a look that silences him until all traces of the pastry are gone.  “Girls are scary.”

You laugh.  Cackle, really.  You can’t help it.  He says it with a pout, the expression so utterly at odds with the offensively revealing shirt he wears, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest almost too much for such a quiet afternoon.  He glares at you across the table, shoves another piece of the flaky golden treat into his mouth, and waits for you to speak.  He knows you’re going to give him a piece of your mind because you always do, rebuffing 99% of the things he says.  (Sometimes for fun, often with good intentions.)

“Heights are scary.  Death is scary.  Leaving your wallet at home when you’re low on gas is scary—”

“Don’t you have Apple Pa—”

“Don’t interrupt.”  He clamps his lips shut, folding his arms across his chest.  From anyone else, it’d be a defensive gesture;  from him, it’s patient.  “Girls aren’t scary.  Having real feelings for people is scary, but that doesn’t mean you should just stay with people who don’t deserve you.” 

“Not all of us have cheater-sniffing noses.”  

You suppose he’s right but the fact still remains that he’s too nice for his own good.  Too trusting, too lenient, too blind to all the red flags.  Like he’s living life in greyscale. 

“Well, that’s what you have me for.”

The look Jungkook gives you then is incredulous, screwing his pretty face up as if he’s about to sneeze.  Instead, he laughs.  “I’m not hopeless.”

“Oh, but you are.”  You’re adamant, insistent.  He’s more comfortable with you now - sometimes teases you in a way you’d never have expected weeks ago - but he’s still so soft.  An absolute marshmallow dressed in designer duds, a heart of gold wrapped up in a bubble gum package.  

You want to protect him, teach him to fly.  Be his wingwoman until he’s soaring the skies on his own.  

You know it’s not his pride that keeps him from saying yes.  He doesn’t have an abundance of that, far too gracious to ever deny help when he really needs it.  He’s just shy, doesn’t know what he wants until it’s staring him right in the face.  

“Fine,”  he agrees after you’ve stared at him for too long.  It’s one of his weaknesses - his inability to handle attention when it’s laser-focused.  It makes him sweat, prompts his nervous habit of chewing at his bottom lip, long fingers picking at the peach fuzz on his cheeks.

“You won’t regret it.”

Jeon Jungkook has gone on six dates over the last ten days.  You know, because you’ve helped him pick out outfits for each of them, seated at the edge of his bed with your knees folded and a bag of white cheddar popcorn in your grubby little paws.

It’s not that he isn’t stylish - you both know he is - but there’s a certain finesse to dressing for dates, to knowing the likes and dislikes of your potential partner and playing to those.  

He, to no one's surprise, does not have this finesse.  If it were up to him, he’d wear his favourite clothes every day, different jeans and joggers in medium-wash denim and impossibly soft cotton.  He’d swap his Balenciaga separates in and out and stick with the finely tailored Gucci suit he calls his lucky ticket (ew).  He’d live in those stupid two-toned sneakers and barely do his hair, allowing it to become a powder puff reminiscent of old Hollywood movies.

The girls would probably still love it.  (It’s easy to love him.)

“What do you think?”  It’s low-cut black, relaxed in the shoulders and flattering in the torso.  It holds him just right, hugging the muscle that threads across his shoulders like armour, coils around his upper arms and makes his tattoos stand in stark relief where the sleeves end, mid-forearm. 

It looks good— but then again, a lot of things look good on him.  He wants great.

You answer honestly, because that’s what you do and that’s what he has you there for.  To knock him down when his (admittedly small) ego gets a little too big, remind him of his hubris like the summer sun upon his candle wax wings.  “Not bad…”

You don’t even need to finish the thought for him to be tugging the shirt over his head, back flexed, ink-strewn fingers gripping the hem.  

Not for the first time, you’re reminded of just how unfair life is. 

How had Jungkook - bona fide dork, certifiable shy guy - been gifted one of the best bodies in human existence?  (You wish you were joking.)  It was utterly absurd, a complete waste on someone who’d only learnt to utilise his good looks in the last five months you’d known him.  

“This one?”  He’s grabbing another hanger, all but thrusting it into your face.  Medium-weight cashmere.  Probably too hot for a night like tonight but you’ve seen it on him before and it hugs him like a lover, displaying his best assets (titties) and drawing attention to the narrow shape of his waist.  It’s the equivalent of a little black dress.

“Look at you go,”  you tease, mouth full of mirth and popcorn kernels.  “Throw that Juun.J trench you have overtop and you’ll be set.”

Jungkook nods sagely, as if your word is law.  You suppose it is.

“Thanks, ____,.”  He says it in that sweet way of his, eyes lost to the weight of his gratitude.  

Your response is a shrug.  “Bring me back some dessert and we’ll be even.”  You don’t know where he’s going tonight but you figure it’s one of the many restaurants you’d recommended earlier in the week when he’d started lining up his various dates.  You know there’ll be something good on the menu.  

He promises he will as he slides the turtleneck on, tucking it into the dark trousers he’d picked up days ago, and redoes the slim black Rag & Bone belt around his waist.  You have to admit - you’ve done another great job of styling him.  Simple yet painstakingly attractive, playing at all the little bits of Jungkook’s best qualities without outlining them in bright red ink.  Understated but elegant, effortless yet seriously hot.  

Maybe you should quit your day job and become the female Hitch.  That was a viable plan, right?

You’re mulling it over when you realise your walking Ken doll is making toward his bedroom door, wallet clasped in one hand and phone in the other.  “Hey!  You’re leaving already?”  It’s polite surprise that colours your words, stare drawn to the screen of your iPhone.  It’s only 6 PM and the reservation isn’t for another hour.

There’s a sheepish look creeping over his features, painting itself in delicate strokes that you spy past the line of his smile, how the skin crinkles around his eyes.  For a moment, he’s the shy Jungkook you’d met in your store and not the one that now bleeds careful confidence, filling his little black book (read: phone contacts) with names as easily as he breathes.  “I was, uh, going to stop and get f-flowers.”  A silver-lined hand scrubs across his nape, dislodges the carefully styled waves he’s settled for.

Flowers, huh?  Well, that’s certainly something new.  Good for him, you think. 

“Jeon Jungkook, going all out.”  It’s heavy on the teasing, playful mockery lending a warmth to your words.  “She’s special.”

Which you’d figured, given he was seeing her.  Repeats were rare for him now that he’d learned how to weed out the bad seeds, held his hand a little closer to his heart (at least, sometimes).  Since he’d started dating again, this would be the first time he’d be going on a second date.  It’s a big deal. 

“Yeah—“  Nervousness sparks across his face, lights up his stare like the stars in the night sky.  “I guess she is.”

You smile fondly, like a proud mother.  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”  

“I will,”  he promises, looking so giddy it makes your heart swell ten sizes.  

You don’t even think anything of it as you follow him out of his room, bag of popcorn neatly rolled under your arm and your socks slid back into place.  It’s only when he levels you with a strange stare, pauses in the shrugging on of his coat, that you return his look.  “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Leaving?”  

“Why?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?  

You don’t normally leave, usually waiting here at home for him until he returns to give you a rundown of his date (and the promised appetizer/dessert/whatever).  It feels somehow wrong to stay, though, as if you’re taking up space that doesn’t belong to you.  He’s going on a second date, after all.  Soon enough, he won’t need your help picking out clothes or deciding on a restaurant.  You won’t get to curl up on your usual corner of his sectional, wrapped up in the obnoxiously soft blanket you’d convinced him to buy one night while online shopping.

But it’s fine.  Totally, one hundred and ten percent fine.  The two of you are friends.  You’d always expected - anticipated, hoped - this day would come.  Baby boy was growing up. 

“Y’know.”  You answer a second too late and he’s still wearing that odd expression, handsome face flooded with something that looks like disappointment.  It flickers in the bits of his stare you can make out past his fringe, partially concealed by the dark silk that you know feels as soft as it looks.

“I know?”  He never tries to read your mind - knows it’s utterly useless.  

You wiggle your hand dismissively.  “Second date and all that.”  

Jungkook giggles - the same deceptively sweet sound he always makes - and finishes tugging his jacket on.  It fits him so well it should be illegal, falling to his knees and ending just shy of the intricate laces of his boots.  “Just stick around.  I’ll drive you home when I get back.”

It’s something he always does - his way of saying thank you for putting up with all of his first date jitters, his outfit changes, his worrying over how to first approach a girl on Tinder - so you don’t doubt him.  “Fine.  I’ll stay.”

He beams, caught halfway out the door.  “Tell me to break a leg.”

“Go break her back,”  you retort to the sound of his laughter.

You’re almost asleep when your phone starts going off, the vibrations jolting you awake.  It rattles across the glass table, won’t shut the hell up until you’re slamming your hand atop it, glaring at the screen as it lights up with notifications.

It’s almost 2 AM and they’re from Jungkook.  This can only mean one thing.

from jeon jungkook:  Hey. from jeon jungkook:  I’m really sorry but I won’t be home tonight. from jeon jungkook:  If you want to stay over, I can drive you back in the morning. from jeon jungkook:  Please don’t be mad.

Leave it to him to apologise for getting his dick wet - to feel bad about having a successful second date.  It makes you laugh as you stare down at the texts, tap a quick response you know will have his heart racing.  (Even after months of friendship, it’s hard not to tease him just a little bit.)

to jeon jungkook:  i officially hate you

The typing notification gives him away immediately, but the moment you do the same, he stops.  Of course.  He hates confrontation - would rather leap off a cliff-face than deal with negative emotions.  (He’d told you that once, over a night of beer and fried tteok.)

to jeon jungkook:  it’s fine!  have fun! to jeon jungkook:  turn her world upside down 😏

He doesn’t answer after that but the read receipt pops up.  Good, you think.  About time he finds someone nice.  You wonder what she’ll be like when you meet her.  

Jungkook’s third date comes with another third - you.

He drags you along to dinner, insisting there’s nothing at all weird about the fact.  He has to repeat it at least four times during the drive there, head nodding like a plastic bobblehead as he weaves in and out of traffic. 

“I want you to meet her,”  he mumbles, like that makes it better.  As if bringing a friend along to a date with that reasoning means it’s totally acceptable and not on the list of Hard No’s When Dating.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”  He’s too focused on changing lanes to answer you, signalling before seamlessly drifting over.  (He’s an impressively responsible driver, but that’s unsurprising.)  You repeat yourself.

“It’s not… weird.”  But you have a feeling that he knows how odd the request is.  Knows and doesn’t care, unfortunately.  “She wants to meet you too.”

(When had Jungkook turned into this person who argued with you?)

You somehow highly doubt that.  No girl in her right mind would leap at the chance to meet her potential beau’s wingwoman.  It’s something reserved for official status, when the foundation is set.  Still, you play into his hand, level him with a stare he should recognise.  It’s the one you throw his way any time he’s too nice, gives a mile when he shouldn’t even offer an inch.  (It doesn’t come as often anymore, but it still makes appearances once in a while.)  

“What does she even know about me?”

“That we’re friends.”  His vague response speaks volumes.  The look changes - grows into a glare that has him furtively peeking at you from the corner of his periphery.  When he speaks, it feels like a dead giveaway.  “That I really value your opinion.”

You groan, a noise so loud it rattles around in the car and interrupts the ballad playing through the speakers.

“She’s trying to figure out if I’m competition or not!”  Of course.  It’s obvious.  She wants to know what she’s getting into it before things get too serious, determine if her Prince Charming is really all that.  (He is.)  “I’m not coming to dinner.”  

“You’re already in the car,”  he reasons.  

You note he doesn’t deny your first statement, mouth rounding into a pout that should crush your resolve.  Instead, it drives you mad, irritation bubbling in your throat.

“I just won’t go in.”

“____,.”  When he says it like that, it’s hard to deny him.  Jungkook might not utilise his charms often but when he does, it’s lethal.  Undeniable with those dumb Bambi eyes of his.

“No.”

“____,,”  he repeats, almost pleading.  You can’t look at him.  You won’t.  The moment you do, you’ll be sucked into the swirling vortex that makes up his stare - a million pretty little lights caught in the brown of his iris, so many possibilities you’d lose yourself trying to explore them all.

You last a whole ten seconds before his staring becomes too much, those round eyes tracking you in the rearview mirror until you’re relenting, softening in the way that only he can cause. 

“Fine.”  You hate how it sounds rolling off your tongue, terse and a little pissed off.  You’re not actually mad.  Just worried.  You’ve seen situations like this play out - not that you’ve been in this position before - but female friends and potential girlfriends just don’t go hand-in-hand.  It takes a very special kind of person to facilitate a meeting this early and you are not that person.  You’re ragged edges, uneven temperament, distrust that you can’t help.

Jungkook knows that.  Should, anyway.  You’ve grown close over the last nearly half a year.  

When he mumbles a quiet sorry, turns to rest his chin against his knuckles as he drives, you know he means it.  He’d never put you in this position if it didn’t mean a lot to him - if his own happiness wasn’t somehow also on the line.  (Truthfully, it’s your fault.  All that self-love encouragement was coming back to bite you in the ass.)

You grumble an obligatory acceptance as the streetlights fly by.  You’ve got a reputation to uphold. 

“You’re paying for my dinner.”

“Of course.”

How many times have you pictured this same situation, watched it unfold on your television screen as the protagonist gasps wildly, hand at their throat?  How many times have you laughed at the exchange, snickering into your palm as the romantic interest makes some wild declaration of love and wins the protagonist’s heart?

Answer:  you’ve lost count.

Still, it doesn’t prepare you to be thrust beneath the spotlight, half-dreaming and terribly confused.  

“What’re you doing here?”  At any other time, it might be as reproachful as you want, full of disapproval and sleepiness.  Here and now, it’s slurred speech and the lines of your pillow dug into the softness of your cheek, lashes dusted with sleep and breath freshly minted.

Jungkook’s oddly surprised, considering he’s appeared unannounced at your doorstep at the crack of dawn (not really).  “C-can I come in?”

You don’t budge.  It’s not because you’re about to say no, but because you’re still really tired.  So tired you stare at him for a moment too long, zoning out as you drink in his appearance.  He’s wearing the clothes from last night - the same animal-print silk shirt that hangs obscenely low and reveals too much skin.  You recognise it because you’d picked it out for his date.  

(The one where he was supposed to ask Jiwon to be his girlfriend, you fail to note.)  

You repeat yourself around a yawn, ignoring the way your vowels crash into each other and barely make it to the light of day.  “What’re you doing, Jungkookie?”

“Please let me in,”  the doe-eyed prince at your door mumbles, gaze bouncing somewhere beyond your shoulder, over your face, to the wayward strands that’re the result of sleeping too well.  Everywhere but your eyes.

“Fine,”  you huff, stepping back to allow him over the threshold.  You don’t miss the way he smells - his signature cologne and something else.  If you had to guess, it’s her perfume.  It’s distinctly floral, drawing you into a garden of roses.  You don’t know if you like it.

Without a second glance, you’re shuffling away from him, dragging your slippered feet into the kitchen.  

You move on autopilot, spooning coffee grounds into the Chemex filter.  You don’t bother asking whether your surprise guest wants any - assume he does, because the fiend somehow lives on caffeine - and settle against the counter as you wait for your kettle to whistle.

You’re still so tired you feel like you might fall asleep standing up but you think you do a good enough job of levelling Jungkook with a solid stare.  “So?”

“W-what?”  

It’s been so long since you’ve last heard his stutter that it surprises you, recentres your attention from your own exhaustion and has you frowning.  Something’s happened.  Must have.  There’s no other explanation for it - for how he looks at you, so uncertain like all those months ago when you’d smashed his glass house to pieces.

“What’s going on?”  You’re demanding, full to the brim with concern as you round on him.  He flinches away as if your words have burnt him, leaning into the stainless steel side of your fridge.  

(Silly Jungkook - that won’t protect you.)

“What do you mean?”

The early hour has, luckily, dampened your usual aggression.  He’s stalling, you can tell.  You hate when he does this.  You tell him as much, glowering at him as he tries to shrink his nearly six foot frame into something small.  “You’ve showed up at my house unannounced.  What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”

He looks as if he’s on the brink of repeating himself, biting it back behind his neat white teeth when your expression grows darker, more frustrated.

It’s impossible to stay dressed in red, lethargy swathing you up like a cocoon and softening your edges.  You sigh heavily - perhaps a little overdramatically - and go about completing your coffee ritual.  Patience works best with Jungkook, you’ve learned.  (Though, he sorely tests your own sometimes.)

With a steaming mug in your hand and the other passed over to him, you gesture toward your living room.

He nods once - a small up and down of his head.  

“So.”  You try again, softer this time, warmed by the heat that permeates ceramic and settles your sleep-ravaged nerves.  You’re seated cross-legged on your couch, facing him with your back pressed to the arm rest.  He’s half-turned to you, coffee cup slotted between his thighs.  Feet turned in, mouth wobbling with the intensity of how hard he’s chewing into his bottom lip.

“I couldn’t do it.”  The words rush out too fast, tumble into each other in such a way you have to take a second to comprehend what he’s said.  Couldn’t do… it?

You stare at each other for a long while, you trying to understand and him refusing to meet your stare.  

When realisation dawns on you, you can only imagine how you look.  It must be terrifying by how Jungkook practically tries to crawl into the cushions of your couch, shoulders rising around his ears like a turtle.

“You didn’t ask her?”  It explodes out, a question that demands an answer. 

He’s staring past your head, unblinking.  You’d almost worry he was a robot if his voice weren’t so damned human, full of melancholy and rounded by his lisp.  “I c-couldn’t.  It was just…”  The shrug he offers is half-assed at best, not nearly good enough to excuse him.

“Just what?”  

“Just—”  There’s the wiggly hand gesture you do that he’s adopted, his ink-strewn hand waving through the air like a floppy chicken foot.  He thinks it’ll earn him a pass but your unrelenting glare indicates otherwise.  He deflates, hand falling back to his lap, clutching his mug like it's a makeshift security blanket.  “It didn’t feel right.”

What did that even mean?  Feel right?  

Love didn’t just appear, fully-formed and complete.  It took work and dedication and the understanding it could all come crashing down.  Didn’t he understand that?  Hadn’t you drilled that into his head?

You exhale through gritted teeth, push breath past enamel that acts like a solid steel gate.  

“Jungkook, it’s not going to just ‘feel right.’”  You’re air quoting, all tact thrown out the window.  “You like her, don’t you?”

You expect him to nod immediately.  He doesn’t. 

“Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” 

“You like her, right?”  

“I think so.”

You want to tear your own hair out.  Instead, you press the pads of your fingers into your temple - apply pressure in hopes of alleviating the tension that settles there.  “So, you like her.”  It feels a bit bad, condescending in a way;  you don’t mean it in any way but supportive.  You just want him to be happy.  “But you couldn’t ask her out because it didn’t feel right?”

“She’s not you.”  

He’s looking at you now, looks like he might have a heart attack if he does so any longer.  But he doesn’t tear his gaze away when you meet it, entire expression warped into something you don’t recognise.  Hope, maybe?  Fear?   

“What?”  You wish it were hard rather than feather light, almost lost to the cacophony in your head.

The hollow of his cheek is thrown into stark relief, the line of his jaw clenched tight.  He repeats himself even as you’re the one looking away, shaking your head as if that might will away the irksome answer.  (It won’t.)

“Don’t say things like that.”  

It’s hurt that flashes through his expression and strikes you right in the centre of your chest.  His face crumbles, brows knit together beneath his mop of shiny hair.  He looks so terribly sad - a kicked puppy, an abandoned deer.  Bambi, through and through.

“You asked why I didn’t do it,”  he reasons in a voice far more solid than he looks.

“I didn’t think you’d say something so ridiculous.”  It’s cruel.  “You’re making a bad choice.  You’re into this girl.  Don’t be dumb.”

His features rearrange, then so do his limbs, entire body lifting from his seat in jerky, disjointed movements.  “I’m not dumb.”  There’s a reproachful quality to his words, a distaste he doesn’t bother to mask.  It’s not something you’ve ever faced, surprising you enough to draw your eyes to his face.  

He doesn’t look like the Jungkook you know.  

When he leaves - sets his cup in the sink and storms out the way he’d come before you have time to stop him - you wonder if you ever knew him at all.

“Okay.  Spill.”

Yejin’s tired of your abrasiveness, tired of having her head bitten off every time she tries to approach you with a question.  You can’t blame her.  You’ve felt like shit the last week, sleep-deprived and generally pissed off.  

All because of a doe-eyed idiot.  

“What?”  It’s less snark, more sigh.  You’re counting down the minutes until you’re free, until you can curl back up in your bed and try to sleep like you’ve done the last four days.  

“What’s going on with you?”  

“Nothing.”  

“Bullshit,”  she hums, trailing after you as you move behind the counter.  “You’ve been in a bad mood all week.  I’ve never seen you this upset like, ever.”  She’s right, of course.  You’ve always been very careful to keep business separate, pushing the customer service agenda no matter what.  “Did something happen?”  

You grit your teeth.  An expletive careens off your tongue when you slam the tip of your finger within the drawer you’d just shut.

“____,”  she tries again, concerned.  

“Nothing happened.”

“See, I don’t believe that because like, look at you!”  She gesticulates wildly, adorned wrists clinking loudly.  “You look like hell—”

“Thanks.”

“—and you’re being clumsy and like, I think I know you well enough.  So just tell me?”

You hate that she’s right.  It doesn’t mean you’ll relent, too caught up in your own strange brand of strength to unload.  (Maybe it’d be helpful.  Probably.  But you’ve never found comfort in other people.  At least, not like this.)

“Yejin.”  Her name stops her in her tracks, hurried and insistent as you pull your coat on.  “It’s fine.  Really.”  You’re swallowing your pride - practically choking on it - as you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile.  “I just need to get some sleep.”  And figure out what the hell to do about Jungkook, but that’s a can of worms you refuse to open and certainly not here.

Maybe at home, over a glass of wine, fueled by liquid courage.  

The bottle of Côtes du Rhône has aided you more than you’d hoped, offered an armour that slinks over your shoulders and drives your fingers to action.  It’s prompted something - started the ball rolling.

(Idly, you think that might not have been a very good idea, but it’s too late to care now.)

“You’re here.”  You being him and him being Jeon Jungkook, hair damp and imposing frame draped in an oversized sweater.  He looks terribly uncomfortable standing in your doorway - more so than he had days ago - hands shoved into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, dumb sneakers pigeon-toed as if he’s ready to take flight.

“Y-you asked,”  he mutters, refusing to meet your stare.  At least, you think he’s refusing.  It’s a little hard to focus when there’s this fine film turning everything hazy, the bitter taste of wine heavy on your tongue.  

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy then, though he never quite meets your eyes.  It’s a smart tactic - level you with a look then immediately bounce it away.  It has you coming back for more, eager to refocus his fretful gaze until it’s locked with your own.

“Will you come in?”  You sidestep, give him enough space that he can enter without feeling suffocated.  He still hesitates, takes a second too long in deciding.  “I won’t bite.”

You don’t miss the better promise that comes under his breath.

“So.”  This feels oddly familiar, him backed into the corner of your couch again while you settle across from him.  He hums a noise but offers nothing further.  

This is how it’ll be then.  Fine.  If he wants to be this way.

“You like me.”

He sputters - doesn’t mean to, by how big his eyes go.  He hadn’t expected it to come barreling out of your mouth.  “I—  I don’t—  I didn’t say that.” 

If it were anyone but him, you’d take his reticence as rudeness.  

“Tell me why.”

The poor boy blinks, stares at you full on now.  Can’t look away, locked in the intensity of your stare.  

“W-what?”

“Tell me.”  You sip carefully at the liquid in your glass, swirl it ‘round and ‘round.  “You said that girl wasn’t me but you haven’t made a case as to why that matters.  What have I got that she doesn’t?”  

“You’re serious?”  

“As a heart attack, Jungkookie.”

The brunet swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.  You think he might say no, outright refuse.  You don’t expect him to start rattling things off like the list lives in his head, answers printed against the darks of his eyelids.  

“You’re funny.  You’re honest.  You speak your mind.”  You don’t mean to scoff but his reasons are so shallow - so easily found in other people.  He must read the doubt in your expression, pushing on to cut you off from doing the same to him.  “Y-you care about people even when you pretend like you don’t.  You’re just as scared of being hurt as I am.”  

For the first time in a long time - in years and years - you feel seen.  As if he’s pulled back the cover of your unpublished draft, memorised the redlines and notes in the margins.  

“I don’t—”

“You have this face you make when you’re proud of me.”  He’s turning his own fingers over in his lap, knuckles white from the strain of locking them together and undoing them again.  “When I do something you approve of or when I make you laugh.”  

There’s something thick in your throat.  

“You make me want to try.”  He clears his own, speaks so softly you have to strain to hear it.  “Y-you make things not so scary.”  

It grows heavier, harder to breathe as you stare at the man sitting across from you.  He’s focused wholly on his hands, too caught up in his words to help the way he plucks at his skin, fiddles with the silver chain that loops around his wrist.

“You know what I need, even before I know myself.  You make me laugh.”  He laughs, an almost choked sound that fizzles and rattles bashfully. “You look really, really good in your work skirt.”  You know the one he means - all black, pencil-fit.  Makes your legs look a mile long, despite the fact that they aren’t.  

You can’t help but join him, a little breathless, with a strange sensation behind your ribs.  Like sunshine on a cold day, filtering past the walls you’ve put up, streaming through the windows that’d replaced drywall when Jungkook had waltzed into your life with his fluffy hair and boyish laugh.

When you speak, you don’t even believe your own words.  They come of their own accord - a defense mechanism.  “I can’t.”

As if he knows - as if he’s got a polygraph going, Jungkook shakes his head, meets your eyes and holds you there with the intensity of his attention.  “Can’t or won’t?”

“I—”

“I’m not asking for the world here.  Just a chance.”  He’s got a peculiar look on his face.  “Don’t you think you owe it to me?”

“Excuse me?” 

All of a sudden, he’s close.  Closer than you’d expect, far closer than he should be.  There’s nothing beyond his expression, the way his eyes twinkle under the dimmed apartment lights as he stares you down.  The scent of his cologne is cloying now, the fading nectarine hint of his shampoo making your mouth water.  

“You kind of ruined my life.  I think this makes us fair.”

You sputter, gasp, make sounds that careen off your tongue and fill the air with nonsense.  You’d ruined his life?  (You’d made it better - made him see the light, you thought.)  You’re working to find your voice, ready to tear into him for this abrupt accusation.

Then he’s giggling, nose scrunched and delight filtering past his teeth.  

“I’m kidding.”  

It feels like whiplash.  You’ve created a monster.  

“But you do owe me, I think.  So why not?”

You only have yourself to blame when you say yes, conceding to his pretty eyes and sweet smile.

Dating Jungkook is easy - as effortless as breathing.  He’s a bona fide dreamboat plucked from your wildest dreams. 

He texts when he says he will and picks you up every night, stamping a kiss to your cheek the moment you’ve clocked out.  He holds your hand and refuses to let go, rubbing soothing circles over your wrist when you’re tired or stressed or annoyed.  He brings flowers to every date - insists on them even when you tell him they’re a waste of money.  He knows your coffee order, has learned the art of the pour over when he wakes up before you.  

You understand now, why he’d stayed with women who were terrible for him (to him).  If you were them, you wouldn’t have let him go either.  Would lock him up in an old tower like your own personal Rapunzel.

(You say that because you’ve been on a Disney movie binge.  He is, unsurprisingly, very into these sorts of things.)

“Open it,”  he pleads, pushing the luxurious pink box towards you.

You stare down at the lid, the Agent Provocateur label glaring back at you.  You can’t help how you laugh, sound bouncing around his bedroom.  “Are you trying to tell me something, Jungkookie?”

Your lover - not boyfriend, because you haven’t had the talk and it’s still new and you’ve never been this careful before - rolls his eyes, pushes the box closer with a huff.  It’s adorable.  

“Just open it.”

You finger the soft bow strapped across the top, play with the neatly cut ends.  You can feel the impatience radiating off Jungkook, feel those pretty doe eyes boring holes into the top of your head.  You take your time even more now, unravelling the ribbon with slow, measured twists of your wrist.  

Whatever you’d expected to find nestled among the tissue paper, this isn’t it.  

You’d imagined he’d be into something feminine, all pristine white lace and scalloped cups.  Something he could brush his cheek against, run his fingers over.  

Tucked within the box is something that doesn’t even earn the title of lingerie, a few flimsy straps bonded together.  Blush pink satin and dressed with buckles, you turn it over in your hands, trying to make sense of the way it all connects.  Surely there’s more to this.  Surely, darling innocent Jeon Jungkook doesn’t expect you to wear just this?

“Do you like it?”  You can sense the eagerness in his voice, that desire he has to please that seems to never go away.  

“What is it?”

“It’s a playsuit.”  

“A playsuit?”  You’re no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom but this— this looks like it’s meant to harness a dog in.  Would it even fit?  Soft as it is, it seems terribly restrictive, made for someone with model proportions and no body fat at all.

He nods, round eyes so bright, so hopeful, you can’t voice your concerns.  “Will you wear it?”

It fits you better than you’d expected.  Or at least, you think it does.  If Jungkook’s reaction was any indication, it’s heaven sent - the perfect gift wrapping for a present he’s been dying to claim. 

The buckles you’d studied earlier - that had taken you too long to strap together - dig into the tender flesh of your hips, the shape of his fingers imprinted along the metal.  He grips you so tight you think you might bruise, left with a reminder of his love for weeks.

“S-so wet,”  he groans, sound dropping into an almost whine as the swollen mushroom head of his cock brushes through your folds.  The satin of the playsuit has been long since tugged aside, stained with your arousal as it cuts into the softness of your thighs.  He repeats the motion once, twice, coats your clit in pre-cum that leaks out of the slit and adds another layer of slick.  “So ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod dumbly, drool around the two fingers he’s got slotted against your cheek, ring finger pressed down over your tongue.  

“Use your words, gorgeous.”  As if you can, as if you’re not riding the high of your last orgasm and about to come apart beneath his playful teasing.

The palm of his hand meets your overstimulated clit with a sharp smack, the cold of his teeth bared against your neck.  He doesn’t like when you don’t answer - much prefers to make an effort even if it’s indiscernible.

“What did I say?”  

Something garbled comes, a plea as much as a sob.  Another hit lands, just shy of the pearl that throbs with need and pain, landing instead on the sensitive, already red skin of your inner thigh.  He soothes it this time around, massages your own wetness into the roses that bloom beneath his touch.

When he speaks again, it’s so utterly sweet, tender as can be.  The Jungkook you’ve known for months and not the devil in disguise.  

“You like this, don’t you?”  His kisses are searing, laced with reverence that feels at odds with the way he forces your gag reflex, taps his curved cock against your pussy.  “You like what I’m doing?”

“Y-yes,”  you cry, spit pooling past the sides of your mouth, dripping lewdly across your breasts.  The hand cradling your chin is all but drenched, dark ink thrown into stark relief by the way it slides over his skin.  Jungkook hums against your cheek, licks a fat stripe from shoulder to ear.  

“Good girl.”  Two fingers spread across over your heat, pointer and index sliding over your lips.  You’re spread obscenely - can see it in the mirror that rests against the far wall.  Can see how the head of his cock peeks between your thighs, runs the same path over and over with each languid, slow roll of his hips.  “Such a good girl for me.  My perfect girl.”

Your shoulders shake with the effort you put into nodding, throat clenching on reflex when the three fingers in your mouth flatten over your tongue, hold you steady in place.

“Pretty girl wants more, doesn’t she?  Wants me to fill her up?”

He’s teasing you, the bastard.  Dragging his aching erection against your cunt as you writhe against him, desperate.  It’s amusing to him - you can read the delight in the reflection, see it shining bright like a beacon when he pulls his hand away and recentres it across your chest.  Digits tease at the already pebbled buds, swollen and sensitive from how hard he’d sucked them into his mouth earlier.

“Say it.  Say you want me.”

You do, without hesitation, without fear.  You know he’ll catch you.  “I want you.”  

He sinks into you the same instant the words fall, holds you tight against him when your entire body begins buzzing and threatens to do the same.  Your walls feel like a vice grip around him, greedily sucking in his cock as he slams home, ruts into you like a wild animal.  

Strong as he is, he’s weak to the noises you make - the broken sobs that spill off your tongue and make up the prettiest sound he’s ever heard - and how you feel absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  The muscle in his thighs strain, pleasure vibrating up the notches of his spine, setting every nerve ending alight with its ascent.

“B-be mine,”  he returns, practically begging as he spreads you wide, making you take everything he has to offer.  Heart and soul and stupidly huge, perfect cock.

“I am.  I am.  I am,”  you chant, tears welling along your lash line.  They fall when his rhythm stutters, when the heat overwhelms and you’re coming for the third time that night, crying his name like it’s the only word you know.  

They continue to pour, carve trails down your reddened cheeks as you reach nirvana, wait for moment he’s right there with you.  It doesn’t take long - a few more punishing thrusts into your fluttering heat - and then he’s found his bliss, crying into the silk of your hair, spilling inside you. 

It doesn’t happen how you thought it would - a shy question poised over dinner, sealed with a sweet kiss on the way to the car - but it means just as much.  Breaks you apart as it rebuilds you, fills you up as it splits your seams.

You’re his and he’s always been yours. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @shaybtsforever @we-found-wonderland-in-1989 @justanothergirlfromeurope @jalexad @bonnyskies @coffeeismylife28 @haeilove @purplespaceymermaid @sunsetsnsirens-blog @beingbeings​ @veronawrites​ @notmontae97​ @papillonsgf​ i’m really hoping i didn’t miss anyone e___e

[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!

[kingsofeverything]

Sunday Snippet

I was tagged by @laynefaire @disgruntledkittenface and @wadey-wilson to share a snippet, so here’s a bit of my @soulmatesabroad fic:

“Maps, maps, maps,” Harry says, shuffling them in his hands. “North Island, South Island, both islands, and some city maps, too.”

“Do you collect them or something?” Louis asks because he doesn’t want to take them if that’s the case.

“Nah, I got them when I first came to New Zealand. Didn’t make sense to throw them out,” Harry says, handing them over to Louis, and giving him a crooked grin. “And now they’re useful.”

“I appreciate it,” Louis says, looking at the folded maps. “Can I pay you?”

“I don't want your money.” Harry scoffs, then purses his lips. “But if… if you’re interested in, um… getting to know each other while you’re here…”

Louis closes his eyes, then slowly opens them, but Harry is still standing there biting his lower lip. “No, um… No, I— No.”

“Three noes. Alright,” Harry presses his lips together and nods.

“You did just proposition me, didn’t you?” Louis asks, and Harry does a little half-shrug with a closed mouth smile. “It’s flattering. I mean, look at you. But I’m not the, um… fling type.”

“Well, um… We did just meet today,” Harry says. “Might change your mind.”

Frowning, Louis says, “I’ll let you know.”

“Right, so… I’ll walk you back,” Harry offers, reaching for the door.

“Think I can find the way,” Louis says, stepping outside and hoping his glasses darken quickly in the sun.

“Well, I’m headed that way, and it’d be awkward to follow you,” Harry says as he follows Louis down the steps.

“More awkward than trying to flirt your way into an affair with a man twice your age?” Louis asks, not turning to look behind him as he walks down the path.

“I’m not half your age,” Harry says, raising his voice slightly, but keeping his distance. “I’m twenty-seven.”

“Funny how that doesn’t change my mind,” Louis says.

“Hey, do you…” Harry trails off, and Louis finally glances back. “Do you always wear grey joggers?”

“No,” Louis answers, looking down at his clothes. “Why?”

“Because you were wearing a lighter pair earlier when I picked you up at the airport, and now you’re wearing these dark grey ones, and like, both are… both fit you well is all.”

Tugging on the hem of his jumper as he walks, and pretending Harry’s words have no effect, Louis says, “I can’t tell if you’re trying to give me a compliment.”

“Your arse looks amazing,” Harry says, and Louis spins around, pointing the stack of maps at him, ready to tell him off, but he already looks sheepish as he apologizes, “Sorry?” Scowling, Louis starts down the path again, and Harry explains, “It’s the fabric. I’m not… I’m not flirting. I’m telling you that the grey joggers… the fabric drapes in a way… it accents certain things.”

“Like my arse?” Louis asks without turning around.

“And your dick,” Harry whispers, quickly tacking on another, “Sorry.”

Still walking, Louis lifts the hem of his jumper and looks down, eyes going wide and cheeks heating when he sees exactly what Harry's talking about. “I didn't realize. And no, I don’t always wear grey joggers.”

“Okay. Good. That’s good.”

“Is it?” Louis asks, stopping when he reaches the end of the path and turning to watch Harry curiously. “Thought you liked them?”

“I do,” Harry says, gaze darting down past Louis’ waist, and back up. The early evening sun hits Harry’s eyes and the pale sea green flickers with gold. “But if you’re, you know, not interested, I’m glad I won’t have to see you in grey joggers every day.”

Shaking his head, Louis makes himself look away, adjusting his glasses. “You’re a bit odd, you know?”

“Not the first time I’ve been told that,” Harry says, reaching and tapping the maps in Louis’ hand. “Hope they’re what you need.”

“Should be, yeah,” Louis says, taking a step backwards. “Thanks.”

“And, um…” Harry grimaces slightly, reaching back to scratch the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry. I don’t normally fall all over myself flirting with, um…”

Louis fills in the blank for him. “Older men?”

“Anyone,” Harry says, tipping his head to the side. “I mean, I do flirt. I’m just not typically this, um… ballsy about it.”

“Good to know I bring out the best in you,” Louis says.

“Anyway, I apologize,” Harry says, sounding sincere. He lifts the camera still slung around his neck, and aims it at the pool. “I should take some more shots while the light’s good, but, um… I’ll see you later.”

“See you later,” Louis repeats, waving with the maps. “Thanks again.”

Harry wiggles his fingers in a wave, and Louis can feel him watching as he walks away.

Tagging @brightgolden @uhoh-but-yeah-alright @crinkle-eyed-boo @beelou @louandhazaf @lululawrence @becomeawendybird @londonfoginacup @greenfeelings @evilovesyou @maelstromroots @pocketsunshineharry @runaway-train-works @realitybetterthanfiction @tommosgun @homosociallyyours and anyone else who sees this :)

[1ddotdhq]

💿Sun 13 Dec ‘20💙

Happy Birthday, Fine Line! Have a Louis show! (Seriously, why can’t I get cool shows for my birthday like that??). So today’s been a busy week, huh? 

It is, of course, Fine Line’s anniversary, and the celebration kicked off last night, with a twitter emoji (it's Harrrry! Doing the FL pose so so tiny!) and the DYKWYA website changing. It’s pink and black and blue and white, and now tells us that we’re “loyal” and “marvelous” and “memorable” and “powerful” and “rare” and “real” and “staying six feet apart” (or 70 other lovely options). So either HSHQ got their thesaurus out, or they tuned into Louis’ show last night, because that’s EXACTLY how I would describe it. Anyways, the day started with a Harry sighting! Well, a video from last week that is, of him doing a MakeaWish FaceTime in a blue snapback. And then there was a Harry Lambert interview, where he directly addressed the discourse around Harry’s fashion choices, saying, “Harry will never wear something that he doesn’t want to wear...I always say, 'I‘m not doing my job if I’m making someone wear things' because I just think if someone gets comfortable in what they’re wearing, then it doesn’t matter if I think it looks good.” He went on to say, “There’s never an element of me forcing him to wear anything”. So - TAKE THAT, transphobes! We all recognize that saying “the mean gay man is making Harry look gay/genderqueer” is, uh, a REALLY bad take, right? Anyways, hopefully that’s the end of it, but we all know it won’t be. He also told us that Harry chose the (fake) pearls, asking “can I just wear these every day?” and they were only replaced with real ones after that strand broke, that he tried to get H out of the Vans for the Golden vid but he said nah, and about the Golden and WS videos “I kind of saw it as the same man just in a different place in the world” which, well- yeah? But the implication that that man was not Harry is interesting. Aside from that, we got some more terrible merch from HSHQ (including a shirt that is a glove with legs stuck on it, wtf), a few celebratory tweets from HSHQ, The Forum, Jeff Azoff (there's a theme here lol) etc, AND! A post from Harry himself: “I couldn’t be more grateful for you all continually finding new ways to change my life. Thank you for listening, and for everything else. I love you always, but especially today. H”. What? That’s his name, isn’t it? 

But, of course, H wasn’t the only one celebrating online today! Louis came back and answered some of our questions about the show. The first is that he sold over - are you ready for this? - OVER 160,000 tickets for the show, making it the biggest online show of 2020 by a solo male artist, and the third largest overall of the year. Even the Sun had to admit how “exceptional” that is, describing the show as "the equivalent of eight nights at London’s O2 Arena." Doing the math, this means he raised over $3.1 million from ticket sales alone! HOLY SHIT! Hearing that, Louis came on twitter to say (in reply to a quote by his PR company lmao), “This is truly incredible. No major label, no radio, yet here we are. The feeling of support I get from you all every time I do something is unbelievable. Forever Thankful! And they never see us coming!”. Of course, this incited another round of label discourse, wondering if this means he is still an unsigned artist. Does this simply mean the livestream wasn't put on by a label, yes, does Louis absolutely know about the discourse and is he being deliberate, I would also say unmistakeably yes. Which is not to say we know ELSE it might mean -- is he signed to an indie? Still label shopping and waving how much more they need him than vice versa in the hopefuls' faces? Signed but the contract doesn't start until there's a record in play (which when you negotiate your own contract and establish artistic freedom, as we can be very sure was Louis' priority, is what labels DO - they don’t manage every aspect of an artists career)? Signed by a major label, but shading the FUCK out of Syco about radio play for Walls? What we DO know is that it wasn't a label that put the livestream on, and damn if that doesn’t make it 1000% more badass. “Memorable”, “powerful”, and “rare” indeed! He’s still early in the process of LT2, as he told us yesterday, so we might have to wait a little longer to figure out what’s happening business-wise, but he made sure to tell everyone that his fans were an integral part of his processing the most inspiring way possible: “the power and the magic comes from the people you guys,” I COULD CRY that's MY inspirational leader THANK YOU. He goes on to say “don't undermine your role in all this... together with your support we're unstoppable!” He also called us “fucking relentless” (god knows that's true) as Walls hit the charts AGAIN, and talked about how the money raised will go a long way. “WE did that!!”

And with that, let’s talk a little bit more about last night’s (“bold”, “extraordinary”) show! ‘‘Copy’ is making its rounds on the internet, but YouTube continues to take down recordings of the show, which SUCKS, because everyone should be able to see it! Maybe in a few days when some time has passed, they’ll let it go up without an issue, or maybe they'll answer our pleas (come through one more time Louis!) and put out a DVD (and live album too how about, YES? Yes.), til then there are the downloads going around tumblr! Good thing we got Louis' seal of approval or just imagine the discourse. The ‘H’ shirt Louis was wearing last night is a Reebok shirt, which was being distributed in a few different places, such one where you could get a discount if you used the code ‘HL40’ and another where it was $28, lol. Was it the loudest Louis shirt ever- I mean I would say an unqualified NO but many are voting YES and are reeling so that's really fun! Welcome to the gang guys. Not likely to win any awards for being loud with such incredible competition but still very good SBBing-- Louis was wearing a stuffed bear t shirt in rehearsal pics. When you know you know, I guess! ;) The band is also soaking in the praises (as they should!) and have been re-posting fans’ stories on Instagram all day (as did LTHQ) - cheers, boys! 

Today’s Liam and Roman alarm was ALL us (well, not allll us, Roman did explain that the alarms would feature fans every Sunday, but then he handed the mic over). “Waking up to Liam and Roman is the best thing EVER! I don’t know why it gives me so much serotonin,” said one fan. I do! It’s because Liam is a real, live puppy dog and he’s so genuinely sweet to his fans. Love him lots, but I love him even MORE when he’s ON the advent alarm!

[crinkle-eyed-boo]

Tuesday Snippet

I was tagged by @disgruntledkittenface @wadey-wilson and @kingsofeverything on Sunday to share a snippet of my current WIP. I knew EXACTLY what I wanted to share on Sunday, but the problem was, it wasn’t written yet. 

BUT IT IS NOW. 

Enjoy a snip from chapter four of Arise, Fair Sun...

“So I was thinking about that lift we’ve been having trouble with,” Louis says as they set out towards the train station. “There’s a pool at Equinox, what if we tried working on it in the water?” 

“Like they do in Dirty Dancing?” 

“I mean, it worked for Baby and Johnny,” Louis says. “Why not us?” 

Louis does have somewhat of a point. The overhead press lift they’ve been struggling with has a similar position to Baby and Johnny’s climactic lift in Dirty Dancing, except Louis is on his knees and has to sit back on his heels and then press back up to his knees three times, all while holding Harry in the air above him. It’s one of the signature moves in the balcony scene pas de deux and Liam really wants to keep it in the choreography. 

It’s also really fucking hard. 

And the more Harry thinks about it, practicing it in water will be of no help to them.

“You have to be on your knees for the lift though,” Harry points out, taking a slurp of iced coffee. “We’d have to be in really shallow water which, like, defeats the whole purpose of being in the water if you drop me. I’d break my neck.” 

“So we practice in deeper water just to get a feel for it.” 

“Y’know, I don’t understand why Johnny says water is the best place to practice lifts,” Harry muses. “It doesn’t make any sense to me. Like how in the hell does it help them?” 

Louis glances over at him with a quizzical expression. 

“Seriously,” Harry continues. “What good does practicing in water do? Baby needs a running start to do that lift, Louis. You see that when they are practicing it in the field. You can’t run in water! He’s just deadlifting her and she’s got her hands on his shoulders to help with the momentum. It’s not at all how the lift is supposed to go. How is that a good way to learn?” 

“Well, like you said, if they fall out of the lift, there’s less chance of getting hurt,” Louis explains. “That’s one point in the water’s favor. And everyone’s gotta start somewhere, princess. At least she’s learning the right position in the air and he’s learning how to balance her, that’s the most important part.” 

“There’s no good in learning something if you’re learning it the wrong way!” Harry insists. “They balk at doing the lift in the performance at the Sheldrake because they never really practiced it on the ground.” 

“They balk at the lift because Baby hesitates,” Louis counters as they clamber down the stairs into the train station, dodging around commuters exiting the station. “The whole time Johnny tells her that she can’t hesitate, that she has to trust him and she still doesn’t at that point. It’s like, their entire relationship arc in one scene.” 

“Well maybe she would have trusted him if they had actually practiced the lift the right way,” Harry grumbles, fishing his MetroCard out of the sleeve on the back of his phone, “instead of manufacturing a sexy scenario in the water as an excuse to get all up close and personal.” 

“You are unbelievable,” Louis huffs, shaking his head as he swipes his MetroCard and steps through the turnstile. “Are you actually trying to ruin Dirty Dancing for me?” 

“I love Dirty Dancing, I really do,” Harry protests as they head down the ramp to the A train. He glances up at the countdown clock, seeing that a train is due in three minutes. “It’s just that there are parts where, as a dancer, you really have to suspend your disbelief. It’s like that with every dance movie though, they’re all unrealistic.” 

“I beg your pardon,” Louis gasps in offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Turning Pointe is incredibly realistic.” 

“Louis, her pointe shoes change from pink to red mid-performance,” Harry deadpans. “Not to mention the fact that she’s suddenly got a smoky eye look and that crazy hair-do with all the ribbons. Like, when did she have time to do all that?” 

“Aha!” Louis cries triumphantly. “So you have seen my movie.” 

Harry fishmouths. 

Shit. 

He let Louis back him right into that corner. 

Tagging you all back plus @indiaalphawhiskey @myfineline @louandhazaf @justalarryblog @jacaranda-bloom @lululawrence @uhoh-but-yeah-alright @allwaswell16 @hazzabeeforlou @haztobegood @reminiscingintherain