#magicshopsgate

Pairings:Jungkook x female reader

Rating: 18+ | Mature | Explicit

Word Count:16k | read on ao3

Synopsis: You’ve just been laid off, and all you want to do is eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget. Unfortunately, the neighborhood block party is tonight, and the festivities turn downright chaotic when the entire city loses power. Don’t fret, though. Jungkook will help take your mind off things for a while.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Strangers to lovers, FLUFF with a capital FLUFF, Yugyeom makes an appearance, humor, comfort, smut (starts out with sweet, vanilla sex and masturbation, turns into biting, hickeys, fingering, oral sex [female receiving, male receiving], edging, protected vaginal sex, playful spanking, overstimulation, spitting), drinking / drinking games, drug use (weed edibles).

Preview:

Eyes wet with steaming, streaming tears, you let the bodies push you back.

Back to the elevator.

Back down to the lobby.

And back to the curb outside.

Wherehe looks up and finds your twisted, nauseated expression.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You didn’t see him when you stepped back onto the sidewalk. Even now, you only see him in parts.

Bent fingers clutch his hoodie’s drawstring, pulling left, then right. The denim of the jacket over it shifts slightly as he does. Full lips rest against each other lightly, an interrupted, absent-minded whistle reforming into more words.

“You dropped something.”

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Thanks and hope you enjoy!

What makes a good manager? Empathy? Organization? Know-how? Whatever mix of qualities, are they innate, or does it come from steadily and patiently rising through the ranks with your allies? Are good leaders born or made?

You don’t think you’ll ever be sure of what makes a good manager. But what you are definitely sure about is what makes a badmanager. 

Bad managers are the type of people who, when given a choice, elect to have you come in for your office job all week for your usual 8 to 5, and wait until Friday afternoon to inform you that you have been let go, even though they got the call from leadership on Monday morning.

You grumble as you shift your cardboard box of belongings to your other arm in order to make the last leg of your journey, every single one of your pores emptying twenty-fold their volume into the fibers of your polyester blend. Couldn’t you have been sacked in the fall? On top of having an additional couple of months to figure your shit out, you wouldn’t be drenched.

It’s 7 by the time you’re stomping around the corner to your block. There’s a family-sized bag of pita chips, a pail of hummus, and an edible patiently waiting for you.

If only there weren’t so many people blocking the way to your door.

Crumpled ghosts of flyers float past you. Their sans-serif font and centered alignment. The drawing of an old-school boombox with music spilling out of it. The date. The goddamned time. 

“Fuck,” you sigh, unable to hear even yourself under millennial R&B samples carrying Gen Z slang. 

Shoulders slumping, you try to trudge through the crowd that doesn’t part, draining energy quickly by the time you make your sixth and seventh attempt, even using the sharp corners of your box to try to snowplow your way through the increasingly drunken bodies that won’t feel any pain until the morning. 

Eyes wet with steaming, streaming tears, you let the bodies push you back.

Back to the elevator.

Back down to the lobby.

And back to the curb outside.

Wherehelooks up and finds your twisted, nauseated expression.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You didn’t see him when you stepped back onto the sidewalk. Even now, you only see him in parts.

Bent fingers clutch his hoodie’s drawstring, pulling left, then right. The denim of the jacket over it shifts slightly as he does. Full lips rest against each other lightly, an interrupted, absent-minded whistle reforming into more words.

“You dropped something.”

The Hulk bobblehead, given to you in celebration of getting this job in the first place, proves to be more lasting than your presence in the office. 

When you see it in a puddle by your feet, your heart sinks a little. 

And, ever-so-slightly, so does the box in your grip, as you jostle around to allow yourself to reach down and pick it up.

Before you can, though, bent fingers have let go of the drawstring and curl around The Hulk’s head instead. Green abs and purple shorts wiggle from its spring, despite what seems to be The Hulk’s unrelenting protest. 

You look up at the owner of those bent fingers, form crouched in front of you, still only able to perceive him in parts. Four wrinkles at the bridge of his nose. An amused smirk. 

“Ha ha!”

He studies The Hulk’s face, and his right brow falls into a slanted line in perfect mimicry.

“Raaawwrrr!” 

The Hulk’s body wiggles violently as bent fingers shake him back and forth. 

“HULK SMAAAASH!”

You don’t mean to smile. 

His smile is about to meet you too, but his eyes start to take up more space, widening at the sight of slightly shiny lines on your cheeks, carving your skin out like flowing rivers cutting through sienna rock.

“Hey! It’s OK!”

A sleeve rises into view. It moves in quick, small motions, back and forth. 

“Just gotta c-clean him up a little here and—” 

The Hulk suddenly grows ten times in size, now dangling on its spring, right in front of your face.

“See?? N-no harm done!!”

You sniffle.

Bent fingers gently set The Hulk back into the box, in a gap between your empty, gray mesh pen cup and your prized, powder blue stapler. 

You sniffle again. 

You love stapling. 

So final, so sure, that satisfying, crisp metal crunch!

You think you hear that crunch as this stranger’s bright eyes are putting it all together.

As are you, bits and pieces of this stranger now stitching together into a concerned but welcoming face, much too kind, and dangerously easy to open up to. Especially for someone in your state. 

Your fingers dig into your cardboard box.

“Thanks,” you say, relieved that your voice sounds so steady.

He lifts his eyes from the powder blue stapler and watches as you lift your upper arm to your right cheek. 

You dab your tears.

You frown at the sight of black streaks on your blouse. 

And then you startle at the feel of denim against your left cheek.

You watch as this stranger takes a step back.

The fact that he doesn’t seem to notice or care about the black streaks on hissleeve makes you care less about the black streaks on yours.

You feel a little lighter. From what it looks like, about three wisps of Pat McGrath FetishEyes lighter.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just—”

“No, that was… that was nice of you,” you say, starting to become impressed at just how steady your voice is. “Thank you.”

He nods. “Can I help you with anything else?” He holds his hands out a little, wrists coming out of his sleeves. “Take that box for you?”

“I’m good,” you say. 

He’s kind for softening his doubtful look, but his head tilt gives his thoughts away.

“Really,” you insist.

And you insist to yourself that you really don’t mean to smile. You’re surprised that you do. 

He mirrors it, his eyes following his lips, which follow yours, copying perfectly the slightly sad pout that you’re too aware that you’re making, and that tells him that his head tilt is absolutely warranted. 

“If you say so.”

Your smile fades a little as you look back down to the box, still in your grip, resting against your stomach. 

You look back up and watch as he curiously peruses the box’s content. 

“Whatis all this stuff?” he asks.

You look back over at the crowd now spilling out of your apartment building. 

“Um…”

Your brain is moving too fast, keeping you from being able to expand on the complexity of the matter. The words settling in the back of your throat are reduced to grade school-level syntax that matches the grade school-level emotions that you’re trying to hold at bay. 

This is all Desk Stuff. 

Desk Stuff belongs on a Desk. 

But you no longer have a Desk. 

You no longer even have an Office. 

Or a Job. 

And all you seem to be able to do about it, at least, for right now, is cry.

“Just… stuff.”

How is your voice still so steady when your stomach and chest are churning and burning, flip-flopping positions in your body in an attempt to escape this disaster?

To escape you?

He seems to realize now. There’s even a hint of — ugh — pity in his eyes. 

You want to explain that you’re stronger than this. It’s just that your Job, and your Office, and your Desk were so rare. Beautifully, wonderfully, hilariously rare. Just like your powder blue stapler is rare, and it’s even rarer to see it not at the ready under a mix of sunlight and fluorescent lighting but settled against hastily packed bits and bobs in a box open to the night air.

“You need to keep any of it?” he asks. 

The realization feels weirdly cold in your chest. “No,” you say.

“Youwantto keep any of it?”

You shrug. 

His head straightens suddenly. 

“Not even The Hulk??”

He looks so excited.

You really, really don’t mean to smile. You’re surprised that you do. That you still can. 

You even chuckle, softly, three tiny stops and starts of that steady, warm voice. 

“Why?You want him?”

“Well, y-yeah — he’s The Hulk!!”

You hold the box out and up to him. 

“Take him, then. Give him a nice home.”

Bent fingers wrap around The Hulk’s head. He lifts The Hulk out of the box and places it into the left chest pocket of his denim jacket, patting it caringly, for safekeeping. 

The Hulk’s eyes peek out at you over the lip.

“Nowyou pick something,” he tells you.

You look up from The Hulk’s eyes and stare questioningly into the eyes of this alarmingly kind stranger.

“You wanna keep at least one thing, right?” he asks. He peeks back down into the box. “Anything important? Or, just, y’know.” He looks back at you. “Special?”

You think again of the satisfying crunch of metal. 

And then you smile down at your powder blue stapler. 

You hug the box against your chest with one arm and pull the stapler out with your free hand. 

He smiles again, and claps his hands with glee.

The Hulk nods.

And, as you nod back, you catch a glimpse of the alleyway. 

Your gaze settles on the too-bright blue paint sadly used for something as putrid as a dumpster. 

Your feet take you there, and they, along with your calves, and thighs, and arms, and shoulders, and back, thank you immensely as you toss all the rest inside. 

That box looks so small now, amongst everything else. The longer you stare at it, you can’t even really see it anymore, as it gets lost in so many things that also don’t matter.

With your arms free, you get the impulse to pull your phone from your back pocket. But you don’t want to see the flurry of messages that are probably waiting for you.

Instead, you turn and walk back to the curb, where he is still standing and watching you. 

Your feet take you back to him, arm at your side, the stapler fold hanging off your finger, its handle and base taking turns swinging as you walk, powder blue grazing the side of your polyester-covered thigh. 

You stand in front of him, feeling so much lighter. 

“Uh, thanks,” you say. “Again.”

He smiles. 

Now that the weight is off of your shoulders, you can take in more. The sound of street traffic buzzing around you. Honks, and music, and chatter. 

The crowd around your apartment building has doubled if not tripled in size. 

“Live here?” he asks. 

You nod, and your shoulders sink. “But the block party completely slipped my mind.” You sigh and wonder how long it will take for the crowd to dissipate. “All I wanna do is eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget today ever happened.”

“What’s stopping you?” he asks. 

You furrow your brow and gesture to the drunken, obnoxious mass blocking your way in. 

“Just gotta fight your way through a little, is all,” he says. “C’mon!”

Instead of complaining about having to do anything other than what you want to, you figure that following this guy, with his broad frame, tall stature, and friendly face, will help you work smart and not hard.

So you follow him. 

He moves through the crowd with ease, swimming with the current, instead of fighting his way upstream. 

He offers you protection from the worst hits. Errant slaps and elbows here and there as people reach for each other. A near-collision with a keg stand. 

But people still cut in front of you. By the fourth or fifth instance, you wonder why this always happens when you’re in a crowd, or whether you can consider it a “cut” when you don’t even seem to register on people’s radar.

You watch as his head bobs along, nearly out of sight. And then, when he’s too far away, you start to feel the tide turning again, pulling you back out into the vast ocean. 

You’re nearly all the way back by the lobby doors when his face pops out of the crowd. 

“Hey!” he exclaims. 

He throws his arm out, hand open, palm upturned. A life saver on a rope thick, straight, and strong.

You grab it.

You watch as his hand turns over and determinedly pulls you into him.

And you lock eyes briefly before he swirls you around and puts you in front of the crowd, daring you to meet it face-to-face.

He stands behind you but places his hands firmly on your shoulders.

You grip the stapler tight in your hand. 

And then, with his guidance, you start to move through the crowd. 

Part the crowd. 

It’s much easier than you thought. But you knew that. You used to do this all the time, without even thinking. Shoulders back. Hair tossed just so. Beaming with all the wise, unthreatened confidence that years of a magical mix of expertise and bullshit have bestowed upon you.

They, and he, bring you right next to the elevators, and, thinking this is it, you go to punch the button. 

But he steers you toward the stairs instead.

He leans down into you, pressing against your back, his lips brushing against your right ear. 

“Let’s go this way.”

The music and chatter is so loud that even though you feel his chest straining, it sounds like a whisper. 

You think about what’s waiting for you at home. 

The chips. The hummus. The last three squares of your weed-infused chocolates. All designed to help you settle your mind and forget about this whole, wretched day.

Then again, maybe there are other ways to forget.

You shove your powder stapler into your pocket and nod, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already angling you toward the stairs, and chases your steps as you both climb. 

You feel his hands slide down your shoulders, then arms, then into the crooks of your slightly folded elbows, your right hand still touting your stapler, your left hand not fully grasping but angled to feel along the railing so that you have something to hold onto if you trip over one of these people sitting on the steps.

He’s right by your side. Grabs hold of you to help keep you steady when someone suddenly moves to get up. When he lets you go at the top of the stairs, you’re almost sad the building has elevators at all. 

“You know the Chans?” he asks.

You register the smell of egg rolls and dumplings and fries and cheese and sugar before you notice that the people who happen to be on this floor are too busy stuffing their faces to really talk. It’s quieter here. Thankfully.

“No,” you mumble, as he walks next to you, moving in lockstep down the hall and slightly to the right. “I don’t really know anybody else in the building.”

“Just moved in?”

“Been here three… wait… four?” You grimace. “Years?”

His eyebrows rise at the speed with which his own mother would race a cake over to every new neighbor on their street. 

“I’ll introduce you!” he says, swinging around you and standing perpendicular to your path to let you know that this next, slightly ajar door will lead you to The Chans. 

He knocks on the door. 

It opens, suddenly, and fully, and a woman grins happily at the both of you before settling into his warm, eager gaze. 

“Jungkook-ah,” she chides playfully, “I told you to come as soon as the party started! We’re already almost out of—”

He — or, well, Jungkook, apparently — rushes inside the apartment toward the kitchen, leaving you standing there in the hallway. 

The woman turns to you, still carrying fondness in her eyes. “Hi!”

“Hi,” you say, as pleasantly as you can. 

The woman takes in the sight of you, though she frowns when she looks down by your hip.

“Is… that… a stapler in your pocket?” 

Your brain starts to move too fast again. 

Desk. Office. Job.

But then she giggles. 

“Or are you just happy to see me?”

Jungkook mumbles something resembling an introduction after you follow “Miff-iff Cham” through the busy, glowing living room and into the kitchen. 

“Did you even think to get your friend a drink??” Mrs. Chan asks, reaching not for the plenty of plastic flatware but into the cupboards for a porcelain bowl. 

Jungkook mumbles something else, a chomped egg roll raised to his lips, cheeks bulging out, and a bit of fried wrapper sticking out of the corner of his mouth. 

“This boy,” Mrs. Chan laughs, shaking her head. “He devours everything in sight!” As she talks, she walks down the line of her counter, scooping up a bit of everything from her various pots and pans and plopping it into your bowl. “If we didn’t feed him real food, he’d eat garbage off the street! Like one of those fat pigeons!”

Jungkook protests, still unintelligible, but wounded, and passionate, given that flakes of egg roll wrapper fly out of his mouth. 

“Please, Jungkook, you’re so sensitive! Have you seen you?” Mrs. Chan says with a roll of her eyes. “Although, if you keep inhaling these egg rolls…”

She softens at Jungkook’s worried expression.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you fat. I just meant— Ugh, what else eats tra— Like a raccoon, then. How’s that, huh? Jungkook-ah? My little fluffy, sneaky, grabby-hands raccoon?”

Mrs. Chan shoves the now-full bowl into your open hands and makes grabby-hands with her own, pinching his full cheeks, cooing more… weird?… but sweet, raccoon-based compliments at him, which makes him smile happily, and close his eyes at her caring touch. 

You bring the bowl up to your face and breathe in the mouth-watering scent of all of this delicious, home-cooked, made-with-love morsels of amazing food.

Foroncetoday, someone has served you a pile of nothing but goodness.

You smile gratefully and take the chopsticks that Mrs. Chan gives to you. And then you take your place next to Jungkook, backs to the sink, both of you leaning back slightly as you eat. 

“Now, I didn’t catch your name,” Mrs. Chan tells you, stirring a spoon into one of the pots. 

As you finally say it, you can’t help but feel Jungkook paying you close attention — such close attention, mind you, that you swear he’s nearly pressing his smile onto your cheek.

“I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself,” you go on, flashing a look at Jungkook before adding, “I’ve just been so busy…”

Desk. Office. Job.

The rest of the sentence that you were goingto say travels down your throat like the unchewed walnut that slipped by. 

You cough. Clear your throat the best you can. And pick up what you can recover.

“…atwork.”

“Ah, well, whatever! I’m happy we get to meet now,” Mrs. Chan says lightly.

The air with which she says it. So ethereal. It makes you feel a little better.

“I’m Chan Jia,” she goes on, “and my husband Feng and I have lived here pretty much all our lives, and, uh, we really like to cook! Even when half the city isn’ton our doorstep.”

Your eyes hang wide. “You’re amazing at it,” you say, through cheeks fuller than Jungkook’s. “The walnut chicken in particular is, mmm, god, so good.”

Mrs. Chan beams with pride. “Glad you like it! And that you came so hungry.”

More people spill into the Chans’ living room, and Mrs. Chan reaches for some of the paper plates and plastic flatware. 

“Get her something to drink, Jungkook-ah!”

He nods obediently and yells out an earnest, “Thank you!”

You scarf down the last bite in your bowl and start to calculate what seconds you want — definitely the walnut chicken, and maybe the lo mein — when Jungkook sticks a fresh egg roll in your face. 

“C’mon!”

He stuffs the egg roll into your mouth and takes your empty bowl from your hands, setting it in the filling kitchen sink. 

He takes your right wrist and tugs on it, leading you back out to the hall. 

You bite down on the egg roll and catch the other half in your left hand, grumbling, “I wasn’t done!” as you desperately try to chew and get the delicious pork filling and perfect golden crackles down your gullet. 

“Oh, sorry,” Jungkook says. “Seemed like you were.”

“Well!” You raise your left hand and bite into the second half. “I wasn’t!”

“Well, your bowl was empty, and you emptied it kinda fast, like, shockinglyfast, so I thought it was time for dessert—”

You polish off the egg roll as your feet plant themselves in place. “What is this? Who even areyou anyway??”

He smiles. “I’m Jungkook!”

“Yeah, caught that,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Seriously, though! I don’t really know who you—”

Someone splits the two of you, excited to bring one of two waffle ice cream cones to someone downstairs.

“—w-who you are, or if you even live here,” you continue, watching as they round the corner, jogging down the steps with what looks like pistachio ice cream in one hand and some kind of chocolate in the other. 

You turn back to Jungkook. 

“And all these people? I don’t know who theyare, and I just really—”

“But now you know Mrs. Chan,” Jungkook says, “and I guess by extension you kinda know Mr. Chan. There was a photo of him on the left wall by the—”

A group of young girls giggle as they exit one of the other apartments on this floor, each of them carrying baskets of freshly baked cookies.

Jungkook playfully yoink!s a couple from the last girl’s basket, and she teasingly slaps Jungkook’s arm as he feigns pain. 

They laugh at each other, and then, he wiggles his eyebrows and nods upward. 

“Oppa!” she whines.

He brings his shoulders up to his earlobes and wiggles his eyebrows even harder.

She rolls her eyes and hands him two more cookies, and she scurries to rejoin her group.

You glare at him.

He blinks at you. Pushes out his lips. 

“So…”

He holds out his arm.

“Is it time for dessert?”

You frown.

He wiggles the cookie around.

“Huuuuuh?”

Begrudgingly, you snatch the cookie that he’s offering.

Chocolate chip with toffee chunks and gooey caramel in the center.

It’s goddamn incredible.

“Iseveryoneon this floor a chef?!” you exclaim in surprise, crumbs flinging from your lips.

Jungkook looks up at the ceiling again as he counts. His unfolding pinky denotes The Chans in 2A, duh. His ring finger counts the Jeups and their three lovely daughters in 2D. His middle finger stands for the Gal brothers and their new ice cream machine, or, well, oldice cream machine, since their shop got the new one—

“Kinda, actually,” Jungkook answers, looking back at you, still counting the others in his head while holding the three other cookies between his thumb and index finger. “Although I guess the Jeups and the Gals are more… bakers? But I don’t think you say that for ice cream.” 

He plumps his bottom lip, chin wrinkling. 

“What do you call someone who makes ice cream for a living?”

You roll your eyes as you polish off your cookie.

“Hey, I thought we were doing it?” he asks. “Shoot. Maybe I’m doing it wrong?”

“Doingwhat?”

“What you wanted to do.”

Toffee and chocolate are swirling together heavenly in your mouth, but you keep glaring at him. You layer more fire into it. Frown harder. Scowl meaner. If you look angry enough, maybe he’ll give you a second cookie out of fear, and you don’t have to admit how boggled you are.

“You said that all you wanted to do was eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget,” Jungkook recalls. “So we’re taking care of the eating part.”

You pull back a little on the glare. 

“I would’ve appreciated getting to eat more of that walnut chicken.”

Jungkook’s eyes and grin thin out. 

“We can go back. Or…?”

He holds out another cookie to you.

Which you slowly take.

And in return, you let go of the glower.

You turn the cookie over in your hands. Raise it to your lips.

Jungkook nods encouragingly.

You take a bite.

Peanut butter. With little chocolate candies. That are also filled with peanut butter.

Your pesky smile makes another reappearance.

“Now,” Jungkook says triumphantly, biting into two cookies at once and recalling, “Mrs. Chan said,” as he gets those cookies down to half-size with his huge bites, “god this is fucking good,” smacking as he talks, “to get you a drink. So c’mon!”

He holds out his hand again. Devoid of any cookies.

You take it anyway.

And he leads you to the elevator.

“Can I get a copy of the itinerary?” you ask, puzzled by all your traipsing. 

Jungkook drums on the elevator doors with his knuckles before giving the right one a slap and pushing the call button. “It’s just block party physics,” he explains. “You saw all those kegs and coolers when you came in, right?”

You nod.

“Gotta keep beer on the ground floor. Nice way to say hi to people. And nobody wants to lug all that shit up all these floors. But people are doing stuff in their apartments, too. More drinks, and food, and games.”

You take a second to take Jungkook in from toe to head. White, worn sneakers, with blue details. Baggy pants. Thin, white hoodie. Denim jacket. Fluffed hair, crinkled and thin eyes, wrinkled nose, and an easy, big smile. Like he’s just hanging out at home.

“Party physics,” you repeat.

The elevator doors open, and you both step in, Jungkook leaning against the railing in the back, and you facing him with a smirk.

“Of which you just happen to be a scholar?”

Jungkook grins. “That, and, uh…”

He gestures to one of the flyers on the elevator bulletin board behind you. It’s not as crumpled as the ones that blew by you earlier. But it is drooping, the tape holding up its top two corners having lost its stickiness over the past few weeks.

You smooth the paper out.

And then you reach into your pocket.

For your powder blue stapler.

You staple each corner into the cork, and you see what Jungkook is talking about. Below the boombox drawing and general details is a whole spreadsheet of details. A murder mystery party on floor twelve. A dance party on floor seven. Karaoke on floor six. Movies on floor eight. 

Nothing on floor nine. You’re one of just a few people who live there. That floor doesn’t get great light, or a great view, facing the north, ignored side of the block. But that doesn’t matter to you. You like it quiet. That’s why you’re all there.

For some reason, you feel a little sick at the thought of riding up to floor nine.

So you’re grateful that you stop, for now, on floor five.

It boasts a crowd just a tad smaller than the one on the first floor, but the energy seems easier. Lively, but less brash.

When Jungkook sees your relieved smile, he takes it as a sign that he’s doing somethingright.

“Where should we start?” he asks, looking around at all the open doors. As you re-holster your stapler, his head darts left and right, checking your reaction with each option he presents.

“Board games! Ooh, OK, ‘ya seem to like that. We’ll put that on the list. We could also check out that poker game, which we passed back there. And there’s—”

You pull Jungkook’s arm toward you with such force that his nose bumps into your cheek. You laugh together, your eyes shining a bit brighter.

“That.”

You point.

“I wanna do that.”

Given your professional, cool-toned business separates; your seemingly strategic nature; your, quite frankly, super uptight vibe; and the way your eyes initially widened at the proposal to join the board game room, Jungkook wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who had even a passing interest in drinking games. Especiallyflip cup.

Yet, here you are, standing on top of Kim Yugyeom’s mother’s old kitchen table, the front of your blouse stained with sangria, and both of your hands victoriously pumping two empty, crushed plastic cups into the air.

Funny how the thing that always kept you from playing flip cup was the beer.

And you were extraordinary. How you downed each drink. How, like your voice has been so far this evening, you were able to stay so composed. How that gave you such an advantage with each flip. How everyone in the room cheered you on, shocked by how you hadn’t stuttered on a single cup. How Jungkook almost caught up, but you were able to rally and down two more full cups of sangria than you probably should have.

“Howwwww have I not plaaaaayedthisgaaaaame before?!” you ask, delirious from your winner’s rush. And maybe the sangria.

“You haven’t?!” a laughing Yugyeom adds, as he helps you down from his table. “Would’ve thought you were a pro!”

A little unsteady on your feet, and happily so, you lean into him, melting at his strong form and touch before pouring into one of the chairs nearby.

“Alright there, champ?” Yugyeom chuckles.

He watches you wiggle happily in your seat, one strong wiggle forcing you to lean a bit too much to the right. 

“Haha, fuck, let me get you some damn water!”

Jungkook lands in the chair next to you, propping you up and giggling at your blissful humming. 

Your eyes meet his. “Oh, what’s this?” You raise your left hand up. “Hmm?” Your palm grazes the tip of his nose, and your eyes widen with excitement, as his widen to try to find out what’s wrong with your hand. 

“Oh!” you smile.

Equally thrilled and perplexed, Jungkook moves to give you a high five?

But you dodge him with a grin. 

“Uh-oh!” 

Your wrist goes slack. Delighted, you do an arm wave, letting it flow through up to your shoulders, through to your trunk, and onwards to your other arm, which flows up and around from your side and around, down your opposite shoulder and through your forearm, fingers gathering to a point and tipping back Jungkook’s open forehead.

Jungkook lets out a spirited laugh that perks up your spine.

As you watch with interest, he furrows his brow and opens his mouth in fake offense. His head bobs forward, and he lets the wave travel throughout his entire body, each muscle isolation smoothing into the next. 

He gets up and starts to dance, suddenly going rigid as he starts to pop and lock, hips moving with more precision than you would have anticipated, his baggy clothes suddenly looking sharp, his body halving, and The Hulk slipping out a little, bobbling along with him. 

Yugyeom rejoins you, and him, cheering and catching the wave in his chest from Jungkook’s lightning rod of a hand and letting it travel through his black hoodie-covered torso, down to his legs, the frayed rips of his light blue jeans swaying as his muscles take turns relaxing and constricting, traveling back up to his other arm, and down to the hand that is holding two water bottles: one for Jungkook, and one for you.

You giggle and shiver as Yugyeom places the cold plastic against your neck, fingers grazing his as you take over the grip of the bottle.

This is… nice.

“What else can we play??” you ask brightly, letting the bottle linger for a moment before lifting it, and unscrewing the cap. “What other games are there?”

“Should probably slow down on the drinking ones,” Jungkook rightfully decides, as you start to slump again.

He takes a step back to you, and your left cheek rests on his right hip.

Feeling so comfortable, you close your eyes for a moment, missing Yugyeom’s intrigued smirk, and Jungkook’s helpless nose scrunch.

“Leaving so soon?” Yugyeom asks, tossing him the other bottle.

Jungkook looks down and notes your hazy, unfocused eyes, as well as your clumsy fingers still working at the water bottle cap. 

“After this water break.”

“Well, swing by again later,” Yugyeom tells you, as your eyes flutter open. “I need to avenge my humiliated friend here. Or get the chance to, at least.”

Jungkook pouts. “Humiliated?”

“Only Jungkook can save himself,” you say, much too haughty for someone who has taken about thirty whole seconds to open a water bottle, “but depending on how tonight goes, I might take you on as another trophy. I mean victim. I mean opponent.”

Yugyeom shakes his head at your self-assuredness, looking over at Jungkook to see if he’s clocking this, and finding he’s only chuckling as you close your eyes and eagerly drink.

“Where’d you find her?” Yugyeom asks, as Jungkook looks back at him.

“Obviously by the dumpsters, given all the trash talk,” Jungkook jokes.

You choke on your water and laugh, the back of your hand rising to your lips as you open your eyes again and catch your breath.

“No, really,” Yugyeom goes on, smiling at you and shoving his hands into his back pockets, chest puffing out with a relaxing breath. “You live on the block?”

You point up at the ceiling. “Ninth floor.”

“Thehermitfloor?” Yugyeom asks, surprised.

You left your left shoulder from Jungkook’s hip and tilt your head toward it. “I crawled out of my cave today. And saw Jungkook on the curb.”

Yugyeom looks over at Jungkook again, who just smiles. 

He meets Jungkook’s smile with a pleased chuckle.

“I mean it. Come back later. I still wanna hang.” He narrows his eyes at you and wiggles his eyebrows. “I want a go with the resident flip cup champ.”

You wink at him as you bring the water bottle back to your lips. 

Before Yugyeom takes his leave, he reaches out his hand, slightly dampened from the condensation on those ice-cold water bottles, to Jungkook. Their right hands clasp together, and they bring their right shoulders forward to one another, chests bumping together tightly. 

Yugyeom slaps Jungkook’s back.

He mumbles something.

Jungkook scoffs with a grin.

And then they part, Yugyeom flashing you another smile before he heads back toward his kitchen table.

Jungkook crouches down and wipes his hand on his thigh. You watch his fingers spreading across. His palm rubbing down toward his knee, and then back up again.

“Oh my god,” he says. 

You straighten and snap your eyes to his, feeling caught. “What??”

“I think you’re…”

Jungkook shoots you an open-mouthed, told-you-so smile. 

“…havingfun??”

“Absolutely not,” you say, trying your best to sneer.

“You’re smiling!” Jungkook taps his finger on your cheek. 

You swat his hand away, giggling and thinking fondly of him teasing those three girls with the cookies. You haven’t really stopped smiling since.

“You’relaaaugh-iiiiing!”

You roll your eyes. “So what if I am?”

Jungkook watches as you screw the water bottle’s cap back on and set it down, next to the right leg of your chair.

“Are you?” he asks gently. “H-having fun?”

He wants you. 

To have fun, that is. 

He wants you to have fun because you so clearly hadn’t earlier that day. He’s good at fun. At least, he’s always thought he is. In much the same way that Mrs. Chan is good at walnut chicken, and the Jeups are good at cookies, and the Gal brothers are good at ice cream. 

He’s always thought that he’s been good at fun. Things have gotten a little busier, as life does. He hasn’t talked to as many people in a while. He definitely hasn’t gotten to swing by Yugyeom’s nearly as often, and he’s missed his check-ins with Yugyeom’s wonderful neighbors. While standing out there on the curb, peering up at your building, he wondered if he’d changed.

But, if you’re having fun, given the day that you’ve had, then that means he hasn’t.

He’s still good at fun.

Maybe if you knew this was kind of about him, it wouldn’t feel so strange for someone to want you to have fun when just a couple of hours ago, the bubble of your perfectly pleasant life burst at the discovery that people who celebrated your birthday, who clinked drinks with you at happy hour, who left you funny sticky notes on your desk, who shared the load when work got overwhelming — people who were supposedly invested in you — didn’t actuallycare all that much.

Do you even deserve it? Fun? When you are so easily discarded? 

Jungkook clearly deserves it. He’s only just met you, by some dumpsters no less, and he’s still, inexplicably, trying so hard.

You feel your heavy heart pulling you under.

But then, you catch sight of The Hulk tucked into Jungkook’s pocket.

“I am.” You grin. “I am having a lot of fun.”

He brightens. Sits a little taller.

“Good!” His eyes close nearly all the way, and his two front teeth bunch up his lips. “I knew you were.”

He jumps to his feet. “Feeling up to more games? Maybe those board games?”

The sangria is starting to catch you, mixing with the swirl of emotions bogging down your heavy, heavy heart. You need to do something to let it out.

“Which floor had the karaoke?” you ask. “Six?”

“Quit hogging the mic!” 

You spin around and scream the next lyrics at this surly, thin-lipped man, mashing whatever he can into a lour look of extreme disapproval. 

The next part of this song is iconic, and masterful. You know each of the vocal parts in the lush swell of the breakdown, but this occasion calls for the throughline, the main melody, to drive the point home.

“NEVER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!” you belt, pointing at Thin Lips, shimmying as you dance around him in a circle. 

“NEH! VER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!”  

You put a resonant sting on the syncopated quarter notes that carry into the next measure, tapping your toes on each eighth-note of this manifesto. 

“NEH!!! VER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!”  

Exaggerating even more, you pull your lips into a mocking pout, and you descend down the harmonic scale. 

“NEHHHH-VER GONNA GET IT—”

Brazen, and drawing a bit of power from the room clapping and laughing around you, you grab the handle of your stapler, aim it at Thin Lips’ cleft chin, and clap the hammer against the anvil on each note. 

“WOO-WOO-WOO-WOOOOOOO!!!!”

“THE FUCK—”

“Shik.”

You aren’t sure when Jungkook got up from his seat on the Hans-in-6F’s couch, but now, he’s next to you, arms folded, chest slightly bouncing from holding in his laughter.

Thin-lipped Shik glares at him, and you start circling around Jungkook instead, singing the second half of the breakdown a little softer, but swaying your stapler in the air.

Jungkook’s eyes, which have been following you this whole time, spread out to the rest of the room, everyone chanting and clapping along. “We’re all having a good time.”

“She’s sung like a hundred songs!” Shik protests. “I want a turn!”

At the whiff of vodka that follows, Jungkook negotiates, “One more song, alright?” 

He speaks kindly, with the kind of smile that people born with goodness and light at their core can share. But he puffs himself up when he says it. He unfolds his arms, and his chest inflates. He flexes his right hand. Just in case.

Shik sighs. “Fine. But make it something pleasant. She’s been screamingfor the past hour.”

He takes Jungkook’s seat on the couch, seemingly discontent unless he’s taking things from other people. 

But it’s fine. The energy is dissipating anyway, En Vogue starting to decrescendo and queue up your next show-stopping performance.

“Hey.” Jungkook’s unflexed right hand lands softly on your shoulder. “Diva.”

You turn and smile at him.

“Wanna do one last song?”

Panting, and jamming your stapler back into your pocket, you slow your dancing feet to a mere sway, pouring your weight to the left, then to the right.

“OK,” you say, mind starting to wander, “but let me pick something different.” Your eyes widen a bit. “Would you wanna sing something with me?”

Jungkook beams. “Yeah!” 

As you scroll through your private YouTube playlist of karaoke faves, he stands a little closer. Looks over your shoulder with curiosity. Giggles softly when your thumb tugs at ones that he likes, too.

He smells good.

“Ooh!”

You startle back at his sudden exclamation and bump into his chest. 

And he just lets you.

“You, uh, know this one ?” you ask, thumb hovering over a picture of two silhouettes.

“I love that one.”

“Me too.”

A shared glance between you tells you how much.

Jungkook hums. “Then start us off.”

Growing up, you’d wished that the karaoke industry would work faster. Churn out more microchips that held more than just the 70s and 80s ballads that your family sang in the same rotation at every holiday, birthday, christening, graduation, wedding, hell, every Saturday morning, while you each took charge of scrubbing a different part of the house… 

Nowadays, karaoke versions of songs aren’t hard to find. Literally every song is essentially at your fingertips. But with every song at your fingertips, it’s becoming harder and harder to find people who know what you know. Like what you like.  

As Jungkook reaches for the other mic, still charging on its base, you play the instrumental.

And you raise your mic to your mouth.

“I keep so much of me hidden. Can’t lie. No, I’ve got this pain inside. Most times I never admit it. But with you, no, I don’t want to hide.”

Jungkook bites his lip as you sing. You aren’t the most gymnastic singer, but you have such a pleasant voice. And he’s not the only one who thinks so. A hush has fallen over the entire room, and even Shik is captivated by the way you’ve softened the air around you. 

“What’s there all the time. And weighs on my mind. My friends say they listen. But honestly, I don’t think that they get me like you do. You don’t have to try. I come unfolded with the things I hold inside. I have never told no one but you.”

How long have you been singing? Has it been an hour? Two?

Maybe people don’t tire of you as easily as you thought.

Your heart feels a little lighter.

And you let Jungkook fill the space that remains.

“When I’m with you, I feel different.”

In just one line, you discover that if Jungkook’s voice were a drink, it would be a toasted marshmallow mocha. If Jungkook’s voice were a feeling, it would be your bare legs meeting the backseat of the car on a tempered summer day. If Jungkook’s voice were a hand, it would cup your cheek and hold your face up to make sure you didn’t miss the sight of a falling star. 

“Like I can’t just be your warmness, oh baby…”

His vocal runs are hurdles and sprints and marathons in equal turns, voice strong and whole as he dips in and out of notes and syllables, playing with time, and tickling your lighter, and lighter, and even lighter, heart.

“I’ve been through some tough things in my life. And it’s so easy to tell you.”

You believe him.

You believe him so strongly that you almost miss your cue to join him again at the chorus, singing an octave apart, matching him note for note, voice bending and gliding a little easier. Freer.

But then everything juststops.

The music. Your voices. The energy.

It all comes to a halt.

Other voices start to overlap. Curses, and concern.

A small circle of bright, invasive light appears. And then another. And another.

They catch people in slices.

Frowns. Fists. 

Eyes. No two sets meeting.

Except, somehow, yours and Jungkook’s.

“Everyone OK?” someone asks, as more and more tiny spotlights rove around the room. 

“Apparently it’s the whole building!”

“The whole block?”

“Look out the window!”

“Yeah, it’s the whole city!”

Whines start to fill the room. Then groans. Then yells.

“Fuck,” you hear Jungkook whisper, “people are gonna lose it pretty quickly.”

You feel a hand grab yours and yank you toward them.

“It’s me.”

But you knew that.

And now you know that the center of his body, the notch where his pecs and the top of his abs meet and surrender to one another, seems to be a perfect spot for your hand to rest. And your hand resting there makes up for all the blows that your feet and shins and hips take as you fight your way through the distressed crowd.

“Door.”

You don’t see or feel it. Jungkook’s already holding it open for you, leading you through by jutting out his chest and letting you know where he is, which is right there, still curved around your hand.

His hand leaves yours and slides down your side, circling around your back, incidentally following the line of the band of your bra. His forearm pins you to him, and you feel your body bending with his as he shuffles you through to the hall. His chin rests on the top of your head, and your temple cushions against his collarbone.

Baby powder.

Bodes beat against your back, and you take in a sharp breath, your fingers balling into fists. One hand is still safely settled into that notch below Jungkook’s chest. Your other arm is pressed to your side, hugged by Jungkook’s armpit, your hand swinging down and closing around—

“Wait, shit, I’m still holding the mic?”

“It’s OK,” he tells you. “Everything’s OK.”

But something catches his attention.

“Deji?!”

You feel Jungkook’s chest tighten around your fist.

“Deji!!”

“Mr. Jeup?” Jungkook calls out, hoping his voice can meet hers despite the building wails.

“Jungkook-ah?”

“Yes, it’s Jungkook!” 

The collective spotlights help Jungkook and Mr. Jeup find each other across the hall, and Jungkook leads him, and you, to a spot close to the staircase railing.

Mr. Jeup has soaked through the collar of his shirt.

“I can’t find Deji,” he says breathlessly. “I’d already been looking for her for a couple of hours, but she got separated from her unnies—” He clicks his teeth. “Always trailing behind.”

You think of the sweet girl slapping Jungkook’s hand away from her basket of cookies.

“We’ll find her.” 

From what you can tell, Jungkook’s voice is enough to reassure Mr. Jeup, as the slices of him that you get look more and more relieved. 

“Go home and check in with Mrs. Jeup and the girls,” Jungkook tells him. “My friend and I will go up floor by floor. I’ll text you the moment I see her.”

Mr. Jeup shakes his head. “We should’ve just gotten her a phone. Like she wanted.”

“She won’t be far. She knows your rules.” A slice of light catches Jungkook’s smile, as fond as when he had exchanged those cute giggles with her earlier. “And, though it might not seem like it, she always follows them.”

Mr. Jeup nods. “Thanks, Jungkook. Let me know.”

Shades of Mr. Jeup make their way along the railing, following it carefully as he makes his way back downstairs.

“I’ll formally introduce you another time,” he says apologetically.

Jungkook can’t be so hospitable, or demented, to be thinking about a formal introduction in this fraught situation. 

But then you think of how he and Deji teased each other. Their familiar, funny way. How she gave him four cookies as a treat.

Or a payment.

A placid smile spreads across your face. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

Jungkook chuckles.

“C’mon.”

“When will it come back on??”

“We wanna watch!”

“It was just about to get to the good part!”

“Give it a few more minutes,” a voice, more mature than the others, calls out. “Give the backup generators a little bit of time to kick in.”

“They’re not going to,” another older voice says in response. “It’s been too long. I’m betting they’re down as well.”

“Stop it!” the first hisses. “You’ll scare them!”

As predicted, the younger voices start to clamor.

“What??”

“So when will the power come back on?”

“I’m getting hot!”

“Me too! I’m starting to sweat!”

“Eeeewww!”

“Helloooooo!” 

Jungkook calls brightly from the hallway through the opening door, slowly revealing a group of kids in the living room, and a couple on the couch, outlined against a soft half-sphere of candlelight. 

“Yon! Yeo!”

“Jungkookie!”

The woman on the left jumps up from the couch, and the woman on the right just nods.

You sigh softly when, in the center back of the group of kids, all of them lying on top of each other, having kicked off their blankets and facing a blank, white bed sheet hanging on a cleared clothing rack, you see Deji, sitting with her legs criss-crossed.

And next to a boy.

Jungkook lets go of your hand, but not without glancing at you to make sure it’s OK to.

You smile and nod, lingering in the doorway and watching him tiptoe in the gaps between squishy, teeny arms and legs to crouch down next to Deji, and this boy.

Deji gives Jungkook a high five, and you smirk to yourself as he pulls his phone out from his back pocket, sighing with relief as he starts to type.

The woman who waved gets up and walks over to you, leaning on a bookshelf by the door and folding her arms.

“I’m Yon,” she replies. “And that’s Yeo.” 

She jerks her thumb behind her.

Staring straight ahead, Yeo takes another sip of wine.

You introduce yourself and say, “Did you set this up for the kids?”

Yon nods. “Toy Story 3. We were almost at the incinerator scene.”

Your eyes pop open, and you look over to the kid who cheered about the scene earlier. 

“That was the good part??”

Yon cackles and says, “Seojun over there has a dark sense of humor.” 

The other kids have successfully been distracted, settling into other lively conversations, giggling and playing games with each other, and with Jungkook. 

But Seojun quietly breaks free from the group and makes her way to the couch. She plops down next to Yeo, the two of them chatting quietly. 

Yon watches them affectionately. “So does Yeo. Kindred spirits, those two.”

They look so serious. But there are moments. Eyebrow flickers. Chuckles. And, throughout, a warm smile of recognition of something deeper. A somewhat somber but understanding of the world around them. 

Seojun pauses. Stumbles. Gets whatever she wants to say out. Yeo seems to ponder it, and then says something back. Then, Seojun and Yeo look away from each other, and Yeo strokes her hair once as Seojun hides a smile.

You didn’t realize how many kids lived in the building. But you’re usually out before they’re up, and back in long after they’re asleep.

“Kind of you to host something kid-friendly.”

“To be honest, these have kind of been little test runs.” 

Yon’s voice is cautious and small, but happy. 

“We want to adopt,” she admits. 

Her eyes are pillowy soft as they scan over those tiny, laughing faces. 

“The kids around here are so sweet. Good families. Good parents. They don’t judge. And they’ve given us so many smiles. It’d be nice to share our lives like this all the time. Especially with a little one who really needs it.”

You can feel how momentous Yon’s heart must be. Her words surround you. Inflate you. Lift you up.

“Well,” you sigh, impressed, and a little sheepish, at her outpouring of love, “the little ones who get to join your family are quite lucky.”

Yon lets out a deep, encouraged sigh. “Thanks for that. Nice to hear something positive, y’know? It’s been… hard.”

You regretfully agree.

“Anyway,” Yon replies, “how do you know Jungkook? Are you friends with Yugyeom, too? That’s how we met him.”

“I, um—”

Desk.

Office.

Job.

“Well, I just met him today.” You blink. You can’t believe you just met him today.

Yon smiles, recognizing your dazed look. 

“He makes quite an impression, doesn’t he?”

Your eyes land on him as he grins and throws up a peace sign while taking a picture with Deji, and laughing with the boy, who is starting to take interest in The Hulk bobblehead in Jungkook’s pocket. 

“I’ve known him since he was a skinny teen,” Yon reflects. “His parents used to own this building, but they sold the property when they retired. He’s still here all the time, though.” 

She smiles.

“It’s been a little while since we’ve gotten to see him. But it’s always so nice when we do. He just makes things… better.”

Jungkook notes the boy’s gaze, and his bent fingers reach into that pocket to pull The Hulk’s head out, flashing The Hulk’s cute little grimace, to Deji and the boy’s delight. 

But when the boy reaches out for it, Jungkook frowns and leans back, not letting the boy take The Hulk out of his pocket completely, choosing instead to close the flap of his pocket over The Hulk’s black eyes, tapping the pocket in thanks for safekeeping. 

You giggle.

Maybe that’s the secret to Jungkook.

To all of this.

Being a kid at heart.

Yes, things have been hard.

Thingsarehard.

But they haven’t been hard just today. And not just for you. Or Yon and Yeo. Or Shik. Or Mr. Jeup. Or any of the people in your building, on your block, in this city. 

Everyone is shuffling around, lost in the dark. 

But it isn’t your fault.

It isn’t anyone’sfault.

Maybe that’s just how it is sometimes. 

Maybe that’s how it is all the time.

There’s always more that you could do to fight against the darkness. To make things better.

But maybe there’s also more time for selcas, and singing, and sangria. 

Fun, kind things that you could do with others. And for yourself. 

Maybe that’s the way to start.

Yon’s face suddenly pulls together tightly. And you follow her gaze to your hip.

“Why do you have a stapler in your pocket?”

“Hey!” Jungkook exclaims, popping up beside you and patting Yon’s back.

“Hey,” Yon says warmly, leaning in for a hug. “We were just getting to know each other.” She smirks. “Just as it seems the two of youare.”

Jungkook grins at you. “The two of us have been having fun.”

You smile. 

“Oooh,funnnn,” Yon says, her voice waving up and down as the word trails from her lips.

She smirks at Jungkook.

“Then don’t worry about Deji. She’s just fine.”

And she is. Deji and the boy are in their own little bubble, voices hushed, bodies crouched and facing each other, smiles mirroring.

“Tell Mr. Jeup that I can walk her down if he wants,” Yon says.

“Nah, he’s good,” Jungkook replies. “I sent him