Let a girl love her silly little fictional men in peace 💔
This is a WIP!! In the future, I hope to fill it out wayyyy more :) I have so many drafts I’m waiting to fix and post I promise <3 in the meantime, please feel free to leave your suggestions!!
finally watched KPDH and now i feel the urge to write an x reader with bts as the saja boys please tell me this is a thing (bonus points for happy endings i cannot do angst rn🥹)
Who knew that a student teaching gig would end up sending a girl to her death sentence via space? At least she's up there with the much older and much hotter Dr. Ryland Grace.
word count:3.6k in chapter, 46.5k on ao3
chapters 1-11 uploaded on ao3 :)
tags: strangers to friends, friends to lovers, lovers to strangers, lovers again, memory loss, age gap, student teacher/teacher, rocky ily, eventual smut, slow burn
ao3 link
The morning sun filtered through the high, slightly grimy windows of Grover Cleveland Middle School, casting long, dusty beams across Room 104. It had only been a few weeks since Eden had first stepped through those heavy double doors, but the initial paralyzing terror had been replaced by a warm, humming sense of belonging. The Early October air drifted through the halls, and Eden was glad. It gave her a chance to dress comfy with sweatshirts instead of the button ups she had expected to wear.
The room, which had first felt like a sanctuary under Beth’s guidance, was slowly becoming Eden's own. The smaller desk Beth had provided was no longer a bare piece of laminate; it was now a vibrant, chaotic museum of sixth-grade affection. Every morning, before the first bell even finished its shrill cry, a small contingent of students would swarm her desk like a pack of benevolent, paint-stained locusts. Currently, the front of her desk was plastered with a rotating gallery of artwork. There was a charcoal drawing of what was either a very muscular cat or a very small tiger, a watercolor of a sunset that had bled into a purple smudge, and at least three different "portraits" of Eden herself. In most of them, the students had been generous, giving her larger eyes and hair that looked remarkably well-behaved compared to the reality of her half-up, half-down bun.
"It’s a masterpiece, Leo," Eden said, pinned a new drawing of a stick-figure knight to the front of her desk. "But shouldn't the knight have a shield?". "He doesn't need one, Ms. E," Leo replied with the absolute confidence only an eleven-year-old can possess. "He’s a historian. He fights with facts." Eden laughed, her bangs brushing against her glasses as she leaned down to secure the tape. "I’ll remember that next time I’m writing an essay."
Today felt different, though. The air in the room was a little more electric, mostly because the "Safety Net" was currently at the doctor. Beth was out for a morning maternity check-up, leaving Eden as the sole commander of the classroom for the first two periods. It was her first time truly flying solo, and while she felt prepared, there was still that tiny, nagging voice in the back of her head that sounded suspiciously like a middle schooler laughing at a typo on the whiteboard.
As the first-period bell rang and the students began to file in- a chaotic stream of oversized backpacks and squeaky sneakers- a shadow appeared in the doorway. It wasn't a student. It was a man in a cardigan that could only be described as "cosmically cozy." Ryland Grace leaned against the doorframe, his hands shoved into the pockets of a navy blue knit sweater covered in embroidered white stars and what appeared to be a very small, smiling Saturn on the left lapel.
"Everything under control, Commander?" he asked, his voice low enough to slide under the noise of the kids settling into their desks. Only a few heard him and quietly giggled at his antics.
Eden looked up, a stray lock of hair falling over her eye. "Mostly. Leo just informed me that historians fight with facts instead of shields, so I feel pretty well-protected."
Ryland grinned, walking a few steps into the room. He looked around at the "Ms. E" gallery on her desk and nodded approvingly. "You’ve clearly won them over. I’ve been here for years and the only thing they’ve ever stuck to my desk was a piece of pre-chewed grape Hubba Bubba."
"Maybe you need more watercolor sunsets," Eden suggested, feeling that familiar, fluttering warmth in her chest that she was trying very hard to ignore.
"I’ll work on my technique," he promised. He stepped closer, dropping his voice and the playful tone for a second. "In all seriousness, Beth told me she’d be out this morning. I wanted to make sure you’re okay. It’s one thing to lead a group with a mentor in the room; it’s another to be the only adult in a room full of people who still think 'fart' is a top-tier punchline."
"I think I’ve got the 'fart' jokes handled," Eden said, adjusting her glasses. "But thank you, Ryland. Really."
"I’m right across the hall," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his classroom as he backed away. "If anyone gives you trouble, just whistle. I might not know the difference between the Ming Dynasty and the Magna Carta, but I can definitely come over and be the muscle."
To illustrate his point, Ryland stepped back and attempted to strike a classic bodybuilder's pose. He flexed his biceps, straining against the soft knit of his space cardigan. The effect was… underwhelming. The "muscle" was effectively neutralized by the smiling Saturn on his chest and the sheer, unthreatening soft-heartedness that radiated off him. A group of sixth graders in the front row stopped talking and stared. Then, someone snickered.
"Mr. Grace, are you okay?" a girl named Maya asked, trying to hide a giggle behind her hand. "Do you have a cramp?"
Ryland didn't skip a beat. He held the flex for two more seconds, looking at Eden with a deadpan expression. "You see this, Eden? Pure, unadulterated science-based power."
Eden couldn't help it. She let out a loud, genuine laugh that echoed through the classroom. "Ryland, I think the space cardigan is working against your intimidating persona. It’s hard to be 'the muscle' when you’re wearing a knit nebula."
The rest of the class joined in, a chorus of high-pitched laughs filling the room. Ryland dropped the pose, sighing with theatrical disappointment as he smoothed down his sleeves.
"Tough crowd," he muttered, though his eyes were sparkling. "Fine. I’ll go back to my lab where I am respected. Or at least, where the fruit flies don't judge my fashion choices."
He turned to the class, pointing a finger at them in a mock-serious warning. "Be good for Ms. E, or I’ll come back and show you my 'Double-Tricep' routine. No one wants to see that."
"No one!" the kids shouted in unison, grinning and squealing with delight. Ryland gave Eden a quick, encouraging nod, a silent you’ve got this, and ducked back out into the hallway. The door hadn't even finished swinging shut before Maya leaned forward, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Ms. E? Are you, like, friends with Dr. Mr. Grace?"
Eden, who was laughing at the encounter while organizing her notes on the Great Depression, froze for a split second. She looked up, blinking. "Wait, what did you just call him?"
"Dr. Mr. Grace," Leo chimed in from the back. "He’s our favorite."
"Why the 'Doctor' part?" Eden asked, genuinely curious. "I mean, I know he’s your science teacher, but..."
"Oh, we Googled him," Maya said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Last night at my sleepover. We Google all the teachers. It’s how we know Mrs. Carmen’s husband owns a landscaping business and that the gym teacher has a really embarrassing old Facebook profile where he’s wearing a headband." Eden felt a cold shiver of digital dread run down her spine. She made a mental note to immediately go home and scrub every single social media account she’d ever owned, even that MySpace page she’d forgotten about in 2012. These kids would slaughter her if they saw her high school photos..
"Anyway," Maya continued, "Mr. Grace is actually Dr. Grace. Like, he has a PhD and everything. He was a big-shot researcher. But he doesn't let anyone call him 'Doctor.' He says it’s too formal and he’d rather be a 'Mister.' So, we call him Dr. Mr. Grace behind his back. It's like a secret title."
Eden stared at the door where Ryland had just been standing. Dr. Ryland Grace. She’d known he was smart- you don't teach advanced science without a solid brain- but a PhD? He’d never mentioned it. He’d just been the guy who brought her coffee on a Tuesday and flexed his 'space cardigan' muscles for a laugh. There was a layer of humility there that she hadn't expected, a man who had reached the top of his field and then decided he’d rather spend his days explaining photosynthesis to twelve-year-olds.
"Well," Eden said, forcing herself to snap back to the present. She couldn't spend the whole period thinking about the "Hotter Science Doctor" across the hall, no matter how much she wanted to. "He sounds like a very impressive guy. But we have our own impressive things to cover today."
She walked to the center of the room, tapping her pen against her chin. The kids were still buzzing with the excitement of the "Dr. Mr. Grace" reveal, so she needed a bridge. Fast.
"Speaking of impressive degrees," Eden said, her voice bright and commanding, "Did you know that while Dr. Mr. Grace was off studying whatever scientists study, I was busy getting a degree in Time Travel?"
The class went silent. Leo’s hand shot up. "Wait, for real?"
"Well, practically," Eden laughed. "I’m studying History. And being a historian is basically being a time traveler without the weird paradoxes. Which leads us to today’s lesson! Everyone, open your books to page one-hundred and twenty-seven!."
A collective, theatrical groan erupted from the students.
"Ugh, Ms. E! We wanted more stories about the science muscles!"
"No more muscles! Only the Great Depression!" Eden countered, her eyes dancing with mischief as she flipped her own book open. "Trust me, by the time we’re done with the 1930s, you’ll realize that history is way more dramatic than any space cardigan." As she started her lecture, her voice steady and confident, she couldn't help but steal one more glance at the door. She had a lesson to teach, a career to start, and an online presence to scrub. But mostly, she had a very interesting neighbor across the hall who she suddenly wanted to know a whole lot more about. The kids groaned one last time, settled in, and Eden began to weave the story of the past, her heart finally feeling like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.
~
After what felt like forever, the lunch bell rang with its usual, eardrum-shattering enthusiasm, sending a stampede of sixth graders into the hallway like a dam had burst. Eden stood by her desk, her hands resting on the cool laminate surface as she watched the dust settle. She felt a strange, electric hum of victory in her veins. She’d done it. She’d taught two full periods solo, kept the peace, and actually managed to get them to understand the economic impact of the Dust Bowl without anyone crying or throwing a glue stick. The door creaked open, and Beth Carmen waddled back into the room, looking a little weary but wearing that trademark Miss Honey smile.
"I’m back! And the little one is officially the size of a large cantaloupe," Beth announced, patting her bump as she sank into her cushioned chair with a sigh of relief. "Tell me the truth, Eden. Is the room still standing? Did they stage a coup? Do I need to check the ceiling for spitballs?"
Eden laughed, leaning back against her own desk. "Actually, it went surprisingly well. They were great. Well, mostly great. There was a brief interruption for some 'space flexing,' but other than that, they were perfect."
Beth paused, her eyebrows shooting up toward her blonde hairline. "Space… flexing?"
"Oh, you know," Eden said, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses. "A certain science teacher stopped by to check on me and tried to prove he was the 'muscle' of the department. While wearing a cardigan covered in celestial bodies, of course. It was very intimidating. I think one of the kids is still trembling. Personally, I’m traumatized."
Beth let out a long, wheezing laugh, clutching her stomach. "Oh, thank heaven. Ryland is a treasure, but his sense of fashion is a crime against humanity. Honestly, though, Eden. I’m not just saying this. The kids have been so much calmer since you started. There’s a focus in the room that wasn't there before."
"It’s definitely the watercolors," Eden joked, gesturing to the ever-growing gallery on her desk. "I’ve bribed them with the promise of more fridge space for their art. It’s a very sophisticated pedagogical strategy." They both broke into fresh peals of laughter, a sound that was cut short by a familiar thump-creak of the door.
Ryland Grace drifted into the room, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that he was still wearing the "knit nebula." In his right hand, he held a tiny, foil juice packet, squinting as he tried to jam the miniature straw into the poked-out hole.
"The physics of the Capri Sun is a mystery that even a PhD can't solve," he muttered, finally succeeding with a triumphant squish. He looked up, seeing them both doubled over. "What? Is there something on my face?"
Beth pointed a shaking finger at him. "The space cardigan, Ryland! Eden told me about the flexing. You actually tried to look tough in stars and planets?"
Ryland froze, his straw halfway to his mouth. He looked at Eden, who was failing miserably at keeping a straight face, and then back at Beth. He straightened his posture, pulling the cardigan tight. "It is a high-quality wool blend, Beth. It provides both warmth and a subtle reminder of our place in the cosmos. And for the record, I am the muscle. I carry at least three boxes of beakers a day." His professionally offended tone didn’t help the girls as they broke into hysterics once again.
"You look like a very cozy librarian who got lost in a planetarium," Beth gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. Ryland sighed, though the corner of his mouth was twitching. "I am surrounded by critics. I come over here to offer moral support and juice, and I get mocked for my sartorial choices. I’m leaving. I’m taking my juice and I’m going back to my lab where the bacteria doesn't talk back."
He didn't leave, though. He leaned against the filing cabinet, finally taking a sip of his juice and joining in when Beth’s laughter became contagious. For a few minutes, the room felt less like a workplace and more like a home.
Suddenly, Beth’s desk phone let out a sharp, digital chirp. She reached to check the screen, her face dropping as she read it. "Oh, for the love of... that’s the main office. They need me to sign off on the new curriculum orders before the district courier leaves at one." She groaned, pushing herself up from the chair with a heroic effort. "I’m so sorry, guys. I have to run down there before they lose my paperwork for the third time this month."
"Go, go," Ryland waved her off. "I'll keep Eden company. I promise not to flex anymore."
"I’m holding you to that!" Beth called out over her shoulder as she hurried out the door, her footsteps echoing down the hall. And just like that, the room went quiet. The golden lamp-light felt a little more intimate, the hum of the school a little more distant. Eden turned back to her desk, tidying a stack of papers just to give her hands something to do.
"So, Mr. Gr-" she started, but he cut her off with a gentle shake of his head.
"None of that," Ryland said, tossing the empty juice packet into the bin. "There aren't any kids around to hear us. Drop the formalities, Eden. It’s just Ryland."
Eden smiled, feeling a bit of the tension leave her shoulders. "Okay. Ryland. Can I ask you something?"
"As long as it isn't about where I bought the sweater. It was a gift, and I will defend its honor to the death."
"It’s not the sweater," she said with a smile, leaning back and crossing her arms. "I heard a rumor today. An anonymous tip from a group of very tech-savvy spies. They told me that 'Mr. Grace' is actually Dr. Grace."
Ryland froze mid-sip, his face growing a spectacular shade of pink, the color clashing slightly with the navy blue of his cardigan. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly like a shy student rather than a department head.
"Oh, man," he groaned, looking at the ceiling. "How? How did they find out? I don't have it on any of my stationery. I don't even have my diploma framed anymore."
"An army of undercover children are on my side, Ryland," Eden teased, her voice soft and playful. "You had no chance. They Google everyone. They know about Beth’s landscaping businesses, the gym teacher’s headbands, I fear what they know about me but... they know you’re a doctor."
Ryland laughed, a low, melodic sound that made Eden’s heart do a strange little flip-flop. "I should have known. Never underestimate the investigative powers of a middle schooler with an iPad." He settled onto the edge of one of the student desks, his expression turning a bit more reflective. "Yeah. It's true. I spent most of my adult life in a lab. I was a molecular biologist. Published papers, did the research, lived and breathed the 'Doctor' title."
"What happened?" Eden asked softly. "I mean, it’s a big jump from high-level research to teaching kids how to make baking soda volcanoes."
"I just... I got tired of the silence," Ryland said, looking at her with an honesty that felt raw. "The lab is quiet. It’s cold. You spend years chasing one tiny data point that might not even matter. A few years ago, I realized I wanted to be where the noise was. I wanted to see the moment someone’s eyes light up because they finally get how the world works. So, I walked away. I started teaching, and honestly? I’ve loved it every single day since."
He paused, then quietly added, “And I might have insulted the top researcher in my field with my outlandish theorems… but I don't want to talk about it.” Despite Eden’s desperate interest on how he could have possibly done that, she decided to tease him another time. He looked at her then, his gaze steady and warm. "I don't use the title because I don't want to be 'Dr. Grace, the Researcher.' I just want to be the guy who helps them love science."
Eden felt a lump in her throat. She looked at him, and saw the man beneath the space cardigan and the jokes. He was brilliant, yes, but he was something much rarer: he was kind.
"Well, for what it’s worth," Eden said, her voice barely a whisper, "I think they do love it. And I think they’re lucky to have you."
Ryland didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked at her, the smile fading into something deeper, something that made the air in the room feel very, very still.
"Thanks, Eden," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I think I'm pretty lucky to be across the hall from you, too."
Before she could think of a response that didn't involve her turning into a puddle of nerves, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Ryland hopped off the desk, the goofy, planet-loving teacher persona snapping back into place.
"Duty calls!" he said, backing toward the door. "Good luck with the rest of your solo flight, Historian."
"See you at the bell, Doctor," she called out.
He pointed a warning finger at her, grinning. "Don't you start!"
As he disappeared across the hall, Eden sat down at her desk, her heart racing. She had a lesson on the Great Depression to finish, but for the first time in a long time, her mind was focused entirely on the present- mostly the man who had traded the lab for a classroom.
Who knew that a student teaching gig would end up sending a girl to her death sentence via space. At least she's up there with the much older and much hotter Dr. Ryland Grace.
word count: 2.5k
Chapters 1-7 uploaded on ao3 :)
Tags: Strangers to friends, friends to lovers, lovers to strangers, lovers again, memory loss, age gap relationship, teacher/student but not in a creepy way, rocky ily, mentions of depression, mentions of anxiety, Slight Religious Trauma, eventual smut, a wee bit of angst, Loss of friends, lots of fluff, Touch Starved!Grace, Wingman Rocky, controversial younger girlfriend
ao3 link
The 1998 Ford F-150 didn’t so much idle as it did shudder, a rhythmic metal-on-metal heartbeat that vibrated through the soles of Eden’s boots and up into her teeth. It was a farm truck through and through with dents, rust at the wheel wells, and a faint smell of damp hay and old coffee, but it was hers. It was the only thing in her life right now that felt solid. She sat in the driver’s seat, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, staring through the windshield at the brick-and-mortar reality of Grover Cleveland Middle School.
The building looked like a fortress. Or a prison. It depended on the light.
Her phone, nestled in a cracked plastic cradle on the dash, buzzed with an incoming call. The name Prof. Hubble flashed across the screen. Eden let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since three in the morning and hit speaker.
"Tell me you’re not still in bed," Hubble’s voice boomed, crackling through the truck's aging speakers. "I’m in the parking lot," Eden said, and even to her own ears, she sounded like she was about to face a firing squad. "I’ve been here for twenty minutes. I’m currently watching a kid in a neon green hoodie try to kick a locker open. Professor, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake."
Hubble laughed, that warm, academic chuckle that usually made Eden feel like everything was under control. Today, it just made her want to slide under the dashboard.
"The mid-semester jitters," he said. "Completely standard. Most people have the sense to start their student teaching in August when everyone is equally confused. You, Eden, decided to jump onto a moving train in mid-September. You pulled every string in the registrar's office to get here. Don't tell me you’re losing your nerve now."
"It’s not the science," Eden whispered, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the window. "I can do the science. It’s the... the people. They’re thirteen, Professor. They have no mercy. I’m pretty sure they can smell the 'In-Progress' on my degree. They are going to eat me alive."
"Eden, listen to me," Hubble’s tone shifted, losing the playfulness. It was the voice he used when he was defending a thesis. "I’ve taught hundreds of students. Most of them are fine, a few are good, but you? You are a force to be reckoned with. You have a brain that sees the words in the marrow of the world and a heart that actually cares if the person next to you understands it. If a middle schooler is the scariest thing you encounter in your career, you’re going to have a very boring, very successful life."
Eden smiled, a small, genuine thing that finally reached her eyes. "A force to be reckoned with. Is that going to be on the final evaluation?"
"No spoilers," Hubble laughed. "Now, get out of that truck. Go find Mrs. Carmen. She’s expecting you, and from what I hear, she’s thrilled to have the help, even if it will mostly be picking up boxes for her, poor woman. Go be brilliant, Eden."
"Thanks, Professor. For everything."
"Don't thank me. Just go teach the world- or at least, survive first period."
The line went dead. Eden sat in the silence for a long moment, the only sound the tink-tink-tink of the engine cooling down. She took a deep, lung-expanding breath, grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, and shoved the door open. It gave a loud screee that made a nearby group of students look up.
Great start, she thought. Subtle. They already hate me.
She hopped down onto the pavement, the impact jarring her slightly. She turned to the side mirror, using the silvered, slightly distorted glass to do a final check.
The girl staring back looked… okay. Professional. Mostly. Her short brown hair was pulled into a half-up, half-down bun that felt secure for now, though she knew her bangs would probably start acting up by noon. She reached up, adjusting her glasses and smoothing the fringe so it sat just right above the frames. She’d chosen the outfit carefully. A crisp white blouse that made her feel like an adult, paired with black jeans because it was Friday and she didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard to be a "grown-up."
She hiked the strap of her messenger bag higher on her shoulder, feeling the weight of her notebooks and the red pens she’d bought in a fit of optimistic preparation. The air was crisp, that perfect mid-September sweet spot where the sun is warm but the breeze reminds you that winter is coming. She locked the truck manually, the heavy thunk of the lock sounding like a gavel.
"Force to be reckoned with," she muttered to herself, adjusting her glasses one last time. "Just a bunch of kids. They're like, 4 feet tall. You can do this."
She turned away from the safety of her truck and started toward the heavy double doors of the school. She didn't look back. She didn't know that in a few short months, middle schoolers would be the very least of her worries. She didn't know about the stars, or the ship, or the man in the science department who was about to change her life.
She just knew that she had to find Room 104, and she had to do it without tripping over her own feet.
The hallway of Grover Cleveland Middle School smelled exactly like Eden remembered middle school smelling: a combination of industrial floor wax, old locker gym shoes, and the faint, lingering scent of over-toasted cinnamon bagels from the cafeteria. She walked with a stiff posture, her messenger bag slapping against her hip in a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that felt like a countdown. She checked the room numbers again. 101. 102. 103.
And then, she saw it. Room 104. The door was painted a soft, calming eggshell blue, a stark contrast to the institutional beige of the rest of the hallway. But what stopped Eden in her tracks was the poster taped right at eye level. It was a watercolor painting of a very determined-looking bumblebee carrying a briefcase, with the words "YOU GOT THIS!" looping across the top in cheerful, hand-lettered calligraphy.
Eden stared at the bee. The bee stared back.
"Okay, little guy," she whispered, adjusting the bridge of her glasses. "If you can fly with those wings, I can survive a Monday morning."
She took a breath, smoothed her black jeans one last time, and gave the door a polite, three-beat knock. She didn't wait for a "come in" because her courage had a very short expiration date. She pushed the door open.
The room didn't feel like a classroom; it reminded Eden of her childhood bedroom. Instead of the harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights that usually defined public education, the room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of several floor lamps and string lights draped tastefully over the bookshelves. There were thick, colorful carpets in the reading corner, and the walls were covered in posters that focused more on "Kindness is a Superpower" than on standardized testing metrics. Homey.
"You must be Eden!"
A woman popped up from behind a large mahogany desk. She was shorter than Eden, with long bright blonde hair and a smile that felt like a physical hug. She wore a floral maternity dress that draped over a very prominent, seven-month baby bump, and moved with a sort of graceful energy that immediately made Eden think of Miss Honey from Matilda.
"I am," Eden said, her shoulders finally dropping an inch. "You’re Mrs. Carmen?"
"Oh, please! Not in this room," the woman laughed, rounding the desk and pulling Eden into a brief, gentle squeeze of a hug. "I’m Beth. We’ve done the email dance for three weeks now, but I am so thrilled to actually have a human adult in here with me. Welcome to the hive, Eden."
"Thank you, Beth. Your room is… it’s beautiful. I was expecting more, well, beige."
Beth waved a hand dismissively. "Beige is for people who have given up. I find that if I make the room feel like a living room, the kids act less like feral cats. History is already ‘boring enough’, as they say. Sit, sit! I’ve got your spot all ready."
Beth led her to the side of the main teacher’s desk, where a smaller but equally sturdy desk had been tucked in. It had a fresh blotter, a cup full of brand-new pens, and a small succulent in a ceramic pot.
"This is yours," Beth said, patting the desk before wincing slightly and resting a hand on her stomach. "Little one is doing gymnastics today. I’m seven months along, as you can see, so come January, you’re going to be the captain of this ship while I’m at home dealing with a different kind of sleep deprivation."
"I'm so excited for you," Eden said, sitting down and testing the chair. "And nervous for me, but mostly excited to work with you!."
"You’ll be great. You-"
THUMP.
The sound of a shoulder hitting the doorframe interrupted her. Eden spun around to see a tall, lean man with slightly disheveled sandy-blonde hair stumbling into the doorway. He was buried under a precarious tower of cardboard boxes filled with what looked like glass beakers, rolls of copper wire, and several very large magnets.
"Beth! Beth, I am a victim of my own ambition," the man gasped, his voice strained as the top box threatened to slide off. "I thought I could make it in one trip. I was wrong. I am a failure of physics. Can you get the door to my room? I’m locked out and I’m losing all sensation in my left thumb."
Beth started to push herself up from her chair, but she moved with the slow, labored caution of someone carrying a human being inside them.
"I’ve got it!" Eden blurted out, jumping to her feet before Beth could even get her feet under her. "Beth, stay. I’ll help him."
Eden darted across the room, slipping past the man who was currently trying to use his chin to keep the top box level, and stepped into the hallway.
"Opposite door?" she asked.
"That’s the one," he grunted, his eyes wide and focused entirely on not dropping fifty dollars' worth of glassware. "Key’s in my pocket, I promise I was responsible and propped it open before I left but the janitor must have kicked the wedge out,” the boxes under his chin shake with each word. If he kept talking (which he seemed to like doing, as he’s said more than 100 words in the five minutes Eden has known him) the boxes would fall and all the equipment would be broken.
Eden grabbed the handle of the science room across the hall, pushed it open, and held it wide. "Go, go, go!"
The man scurried inside, nearly tripping over a lab stool before successfully dumping the entire load onto a long black-top table with a cacophony of clicking glass and heavy cardboard. He let out a long, theatrical exhale, shaking his arms out like a marathon runner.
"Gravity," he panted, turning around. "My oldest enemy."
Then, he stopped. He looked at Eden, his brow furrowing in confusion. Eden also looked at him, he was younger than she expected, maybe mid-thirties, with a face that looked like it spent a lot of time smiling. He wore a rumpled button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie that featured tiny, cartoonish planets.
"You’re… not Beth," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"I’m not," Eden agreed, feeling a sudden, annoying heat creep up her neck. "I’m Eden. Beth’s new student teacher."
The man’s expression shifted instantly from "exhausted scientist” to "charming colleague." He wiped a dusty hand on his trousers and stepped forward, offering it to her.
"Ryland Grace," he said, his smile bright and surprisingly infectious. "I help run the Science Department. But, in my opinion, they only made me a lead as a fancy way of saying I’m the one who accidentally sets off the smoke detectors once a semester. I am so sorry for the 'damsel in distress' entrance. Usually, I’m much more suave. Or at least, I tell myself that."
Eden took his hand. His grip was firm, and his skin was warm, and for some reason, her brain decided to stop processing English for three seconds. "It’s okay. I’m a student teacher, helping with boxes is basically in my job description."
"Well, you’re a life-saver, Eden," Ryland said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn't let go of her hand immediately, and Eden felt a jolt of something that definitely wasn't just "first-day jitters."
He was… well, he was handsome. In a nerdy, disorganized, 'I forgot to comb my hair because I was thinking about atoms' kind of way.
"I mean it," he continued, finally releasing her hand to gesture at the chaos on the table. "If you ever need anything- supplies, advice on which vending machine doesn't steal your dollar, or someone to vent to when the eighth graders inevitably start a revolution- my door is always open. I owe you one."
"I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Grace," Eden said, her voice a little breathier than she liked.
"Oh, it's Ryland. Save 'Mr. Grace' for the kids; it makes me feel like my own father is standing behind me."
Behind them, the hallway began to flood with the sound of slamming lockers and the high-pitched chatter of students. The first bell was about to ring.
"Better get back to the hive," Ryland said with a wink. "Beth’s a great mentor. You're in good hands."
Eden nodded, ducking her head as she hurried back across the hall. As she stepped back into Room 104, she saw Beth watching her with a knowing, mischievous glint in her eye.
Eden sat down at her new desk, her heart racing. She had been so worried about the students- about their judgment, their energy, their chaos- that she forgot that there would be older adults here as well. It seemed silly, it was a school afterall.. But as she watched Ryland Grace start to usher kids into his room across the hall, she realized her biggest distraction wasn't going to be the kids at all. It was going to be the man with the planet tie and the crooked smile.
"He's helpful, isn't he?" Beth whispered, leaning over with a grin.
Eden just cleared her throat and opened her notebook to a blank page, her pen hovering over the paper in order to fake being busy. Force to be reckoned with, she thought, though her hand was shaking just a little bit. You've got this.
Fans have decided that you and Jeon Jungkook, the youngest of the global sensation BTS, have some underlying tension and consider each other enemies. They'd lose their minds if they found out the truth.
Word Count: 2.4k
note: I've really enjoyed writing on here recently! If you like this or want more, please check out my other bts works and my ao3 account! I have some longer fics on there and here :)
masterlist ao3 link
tags: Jeon Jungkook, reader is an idol, MAMA awards, peak kpop era, i miss 2018 kpop, jungkook is not subtle, jungkook is a YEARNER, yearners are earners, bring back male yearning
The first time fans decided you hated Jeon Jungkook, you were nineteen years old and too exhausted to smile properly at an encore stage.
That was it.
One badly angled camera shot of you looking vaguely annoyed while Jungkook celebrated a win with his members somehow became the foundation of a years-long conspiracy theory. By the next morning, Twitter was full of slowed-down edits with dramatic captions.
“Y/N can’t STAND Jungkook omgggg”
“The tension between them is terrifying.”
“She looked at him like she wanted him dead.”
And unfortunately, the internet loved it. Every interaction after that became “evidence.”
If Jungkook bowed and you didn’t immediately bow back? Drama.
If you sat too far apart at award shows? Suspicious.
If you accidentally made eye contact during ending stages? Suddenly there were twenty-minute YouTube analyses titled:
“The REAL Reason Y/N Hates Jungkook.”
It got so ridiculous that idols started joking about it publicly, even your own members made fun of you for it.
“Please don’t fight Jungkook tonight,” your leader said while your makeup artist adjusted your lipstick.
You looked up from your phone. “I have never fought Jungkook.”
“You shoulder-checked him at MAMA last year.”
“He stepped on my dress.”
“He apologized.”
“He sounded sarcastic.”
Your entire group burst into laughter.
“Oh my god,” another member wheezed. “You sound like a divorced couple.”
You threw a makeup sponge at her head.
“I hate all of you.”
“See?” your leader grinned. “Exactly like that.”
—
Award shows always felt like organized chaos. Managers shouting schedules backstage. Stylists running around with emergency sewing kits. Camera flashes constant enough to leave spots in your vision for hours afterward. By the time your group stepped onto the red carpet at the Seoul Music Excellence Awards, your cheeks already hurt from smiling.
“Y/N! OVER HERE!”
“LOOK LEFT!”
“Y/N-SSI!”
You posed automatically beside your members, silver-black satin dress shimmering beneath the lights. Then suddenly the screaming doubled. You didn’t need to turn around to know BTS had arrived. The photographers practically lost their minds. Your leader leaned slightly toward you without moving her smile.
“Behave.”
“I always behave.”
“That’s objectively false.”
You rolled your eyes.
Still, against your better judgment, you glanced over your shoulder. Immediately you regretted it because Jungkook looked unfairly good tonight. Black suit. Dark hair slightly tousled beneath the camera flashes. Rings glinting as he adjusted his cuff.
Even worse-
He caught you looking.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
For half a second neither of you looked away. Then your heel caught awkwardly on the carpet edge. You stumbled. A hand grabbed your arm before you could fully lose balance. Warm fingers wrapped around your forearm steadily.
Jungkook.
The crowd noise exploded.
“Oh my god!”
“JUNGKOOK SAVED HER.”
“LOOK AT THEM.”
You stared at him in horror while he steadied you carefully.
“You okay?” he asked automatically.
Too soft. Way too soft.
“I’m fine,” you answered quickly.
His hand lingered one second longer than necessary before letting go.
And then, very faintly, he smiled. It was barely noticeable, meant for just you to see and not the cameras, but it was still enough to make your pulse stutter. Your manager looked ready to pass out.
—
“Stop staring at him.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You’ve looked over there seven times.”
“I’m watching the performances!”
“You’re watching Jungkook.”
You shoved your member lightly while she laughed beside you.
The ceremony had been going for almost two hours already, and the seating arrangement tonight was genuinely evil. BTS sat directly across from your table. Every audience camera sweep felt like a threat. Every accidental glance became dangerous. Especially because Jungkook apparently enjoyed making things worse. Halfway through another group’s performance, you looked up and found him already staring at you.
Not blankly.
Not casually.
Actually looking at you. His expression softened slightly the second your eyes met. Then the giant screen above the stage switched to a live audience shot. Directly onto both of you. The venue erupted. You snapped your head away instantly while your members collapsed laughing. Across the room, Jungkook physically covered his face with one hand.
“Oh my GOD,” your leader wheezed. “Twitter is gonna explode.”
“I hate this place.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am under stage lights.”
“You are under emotional distress.”
Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely wrong.
Because lately, things with Jungkook had started looking… weird. Not bad weird, just different. Longer conversations backstage, lingering eye contact, moments where the teasing between you didn’t quite feel like teasing anymore. And every time you caught him looking at you lately, something in your chest tightened in a way you didn’t fully understand.
—
BTS performed later that night, and honestly? That was probably where things became dangerous.
You’d seen Jungkook perform hundreds of times before through music shows and festivals and year-end stages. But tonight he seemed especially magnetic under the lights. More Confident, more sharp, you felt more completely consumed by the performance. Your members noticed immediately.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“You have heart eyes.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
“I absolutely do not.”
“Y/N, you look enchanted.”
“I’m appreciating artistry.”
“You’re appreciating his biceps.”
You shoved her shoulder hard enough to make her laugh louder.
Still-
You couldn’t fully deny it.
Because Jungkook onstage was impossible not to watch.
And then, during the final chorus, he looked directly toward your table- directly at you. Your breath caught instantly. The eye contact lasted barely two seconds, but somehow it felt intimate. It felt intentional, like he was looking for you specifically in a room full of thousands. Your stomach flipped stupidly.
“Ohhhhh my god,” your member whispered beside you. “You’re doomed.”
—
Backstage after the performance, things somehow got worse. You’d just turned a corner near the artist waiting rooms when someone collided lightly into you. Strong hands caught your shoulders automatically.
“Sorry-”
Jungkook stopped mid-sentence. You froze too.
“Oh.”
Up close, he looked exhausted. Slightly sweaty from performing. Black button-up loosened at the collar now. Smudged eyeliner still lingering beneath his eyes. Somehow that made him look even prettier. Dangerously prettier.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moved immediately.
The hallway buzzed with distant staff noise somewhere farther away, but this little corner remained strangely empty. Jungkook still hadn’t taken his hands off your shoulders. You noticed at the exact same moment he did. Both of you stepped back instantly.
Awkward silence.
Then-
Unexpectedly-
Jungkook laughed.
You blinked. “What?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“What is?”
“The whole enemy thing.”
You crossed your arms defensively. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
“There are compilation videos of us apparently wanting each other dead.”
“I watched one once.”
Your jaw dropped.
“You WHAT?”
“It had good editing.”
“You are unbelievable.”
His grin widened slightly.
And there it was again-
That warmth in your stomach. That weird softness every time he smiled at you lately.
“You did well tonight,” he said after a moment.
The sincerity caught you off guard.
“Oh.”
Your voice came out quieter than expected.
“Thanks.”
Something shifted subtly between you then. The teasing faded slightly, and Jungkook looked at you differently somehow. More carefully.
The air felt heavier.
Then footsteps echoed nearby, both of you instinctively stepped apart at the exact same time. Jungkook noticed too because he snorted softly.
“We look guilty.”
“We’re literally standing in a hallway.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. Jungkook went completely still. Your smile faded slightly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No seriously.”
He rubbed the back of his neck once, then muttered quietly, “I like hearing you laugh.”
Your entire brain stopped functioning. Before you could answer, someone shouted his name from farther down the hallway. Reality snapped back instantly. Jungkook stepped backward first.
“I should go.”
“Right.”
Neither of you moved. he smiled softly one last time.
“Try not to trip again.”
You rolled your eyes automatically. “Try not to stare at me during performances.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
Interesting.
Then he walked away, leaving you standing alone in the hallway with your heart beating entirely too fast.
—
“You have a crush on Jungkook.”
You nearly inhaled your iced coffee.
“What?”
Your members teased you while our manager looked deeply unimpressed from across the couch.
“You literally smiled at your phone for ten straight minutes after he texted you.”, the manager grumbled before getting up to get another drink.
You froze.
“…what?”
Your members stared in silence.
Then their eyes widened.
Slowly.
“Oh my god,” one whispered. “OH MY GOD.”
You buried your face in a cushion immediately.
Because yes.
Okay.
Fine.
There was a reason Jungkook had your number. There was a reason your stomach flipped every time he texted. And there was definitely a reason you’d been sneaking around like an idiot for the last eight months.
“YOU’RE DATING?”
“Keep your voice DOWN.”
They looked moments from exploding.
“Since WHEN?”
“Eight months.”
“EIGHT-”
You lunged across the couch to cover her mouth.
Another looked genuinely betrayed.
“You didn’t tell us?!”
“We wanted it private!”
“Private?!” she hissed. “You two stare at each other like you’re in a drama.”
“That is not true.”
“Y/N. Last week he carried your bag through an airport.”
“He was being nice.”
“He looked ready to murder the staff member who asked if you were single.”
You hid your face again because unfortunately, that one was true.
—
After your award acceptance later that night, Jungkook cornered you behind one of the backstage monitor walls during a commercial break.
No cameras.
No staff.
Just the muffled sound of the ceremony through the walls.
“You disappeared earlier,” he said softly.
“I was busy winning awards.”
“Excuses.”
You smiled automatically, and immediately his expression changed. Softened. That look again. The one that always made your chest ache unexpectedly. Jungkook stepped closer naturally, fingers brushing lightly against yours.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
Like this wasn’t secret anymore.
“We haven’t talked properly in days,” he murmured.
Schedules had been brutal lately- different countries, different rehearsals, different comeback preparations. Sometimes dating another idol felt impossible. Still, the second Jungkook touched you, everything else got quieter somehow.
“You looked really pretty tonight,” he said.
Heat rushed immediately into your face.
“You’ve said that three times already.”
“I’m saying it again.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You like me annoying.”
Unfortunately-
Very unfortunately-
He was right.
You leaned lightly against the wall behind you while Jungkook looked at you with that unbearably soft expression again. He checked around the corner and then, without hesitation, he leaned down and kissed you.
Gentle.
Brief.
Familiar.
Your fingers curled instinctively into the front of his jacket.
God.
You missed him.
“You know,” you whispered against his mouth afterward, “the internet still thinks I hate you.”
Jungkook laughed softly.
“They’d lose their minds if they knew the truth.”
—
Turns out-
The internet did find out. Next time, be careful what you speak into existence?
It wasn’t the way either of you expected. Near the end of the ceremony, fans started noticing strange things online. Little things at first- a blurry backstage photo posted by a staff member accidentally showing Jungkook holding your iced coffee in the background, a clip from the audience where he instinctively reached toward your chair when you stood up too quickly, a slowed-down fancam catching you smiling at him during BTS’s acceptance speech.
Individually, none of it meant much.
Together?
Twitter lost its collective mind, especially after one fan account posted side-by-side screenshots from backstage livestreams.
In Jungkook’s reflection through a mirror, barely visible, was you. Wearing his hoodie. The tweet exploded instantly.
“WAIT.”
Within twenty minutes, hashtags started trending worldwide.
#JungkookYN
#THEYWEREDATINGTHISWHOLETIME
#EnemiesToLovers
Your phone started vibrating nonstop backstage. Messages flooding in. Your manager sounded seconds from a breakdown.
“How did Twitter figure this out from A REFLECTION?”
Your members were screaming. Actually screaming. Meanwhile you sat frozen on the dressing room couch while tweets multiplied by the second. Somebody had already made a thirty-picture thread titled:
“PROOF JUNGKOOK AND Y/N HAVE BEEN IN LOVE FOR MONTHS.”
You groaned loudly into your hands.
A new notification appeared.
[Kook 🐰]
well
Another message immediately followed.
at least they stopped thinking you hate me
Despite yourself, you laughed. Your phone rang seconds later. Jungkook. You answered immediately.
“This is your fault.”
“My fault?” he repeated, sounding deeply amused. “You wore my hoodie on camera.”
“It was comfortable!”
“You looked cute.”
“You are taking this suspiciously well.”
There was a pause, then his voice softened.
“Did you see the reactions?”
You blinked slightly. You’d been too busy panicking. Slowly, you reopened Twitter.
And froze.
The top tweets weren’t angry.
They weren’t hateful. If anything, people seemed delighted.
“WAIT THE TENSION WAS FLIRTING THIS WHOLE TIME?”
“THEY’RE ACTUALLY ADORABLE.”
“enemies to lovers in real life i’m crying.”
“Jungkook looking at her like that during performances suddenly makes sense.”
There were memes. Edits. Fans joking about “winning” after years of conspiracy theories. But underneath all of it-
Support.
Warmth.
Excitement.
No outrage.
Your chest loosened unexpectedly.
“I think…” you said slowly, “they’re okay with it.”
Jungkook hummed softly on the other end of the line.
“Told you.”
“You did not tell me.”
“I implied it confidently.”
You laughed quietly. Outside your dressing room, your members were still losing their minds over Twitter edits. Somewhere farther down the hallway, staff rushed around panicking over press statements. But for the first time all night, you felt calm. Jungkook spoke again, softer this time.
“So.”
“So?”
“You don’t have to glare at me in public anymore.”
You snorted.
“I never glared at you.”
“You shoulder-checked me at MAMA.”
“You stepped on my dress.”
“I apologized.”
“You sounded sarcastic.”
His laugh crackled warmly through the phone and suddenly you realized something. Maybe the internet had been wrong about the hatred. But they’d been right about one thing all along. There really had been tension between you and Jungkook.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Who knew that a student teaching gig would end up sending a girl to her death sentence via space. At least she's up there with the much older and much hotter Dr. Ryland Grace.
word count: 2.5k
Chapters 1-7 uploaded on ao3 :)
Tags: Strangers to friends, friends to lovers, lovers to strangers, lovers again, memory loss, age gap relationship, teacher/student but not in a creepy way, rocky ily, mentions of depression, mentions of anxiety, Slight Religious Trauma, eventual smut, a wee bit of angst, Loss of friends, lots of fluff, Touch Starved!Grace, Wingman Rocky, controversial younger girlfriend
ao3 link
The 1998 Ford F-150 didn’t so much idle as it did shudder, a rhythmic metal-on-metal heartbeat that vibrated through the soles of Eden’s boots and up into her teeth. It was a farm truck through and through with dents, rust at the wheel wells, and a faint smell of damp hay and old coffee, but it was hers. It was the only thing in her life right now that felt solid. She sat in the driver’s seat, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, staring through the windshield at the brick-and-mortar reality of Grover Cleveland Middle School.
The building looked like a fortress. Or a prison. It depended on the light.
Her phone, nestled in a cracked plastic cradle on the dash, buzzed with an incoming call. The name Prof. Hubble flashed across the screen. Eden let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since three in the morning and hit speaker.
"Tell me you’re not still in bed," Hubble’s voice boomed, crackling through the truck's aging speakers. "I’m in the parking lot," Eden said, and even to her own ears, she sounded like she was about to face a firing squad. "I’ve been here for twenty minutes. I’m currently watching a kid in a neon green hoodie try to kick a locker open. Professor, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake."
Hubble laughed, that warm, academic chuckle that usually made Eden feel like everything was under control. Today, it just made her want to slide under the dashboard.
"The mid-semester jitters," he said. "Completely standard. Most people have the sense to start their student teaching in August when everyone is equally confused. You, Eden, decided to jump onto a moving train in mid-September. You pulled every string in the registrar's office to get here. Don't tell me you’re losing your nerve now."
"It’s not the science," Eden whispered, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the window. "I can do the science. It’s the... the people. They’re thirteen, Professor. They have no mercy. I’m pretty sure they can smell the 'In-Progress' on my degree. They are going to eat me alive."
"Eden, listen to me," Hubble’s tone shifted, losing the playfulness. It was the voice he used when he was defending a thesis. "I’ve taught hundreds of students. Most of them are fine, a few are good, but you? You are a force to be reckoned with. You have a brain that sees the words in the marrow of the world and a heart that actually cares if the person next to you understands it. If a middle schooler is the scariest thing you encounter in your career, you’re going to have a very boring, very successful life."
Eden smiled, a small, genuine thing that finally reached her eyes. "A force to be reckoned with. Is that going to be on the final evaluation?"
"No spoilers," Hubble laughed. "Now, get out of that truck. Go find Mrs. Carmen. She’s expecting you, and from what I hear, she’s thrilled to have the help, even if it will mostly be picking up boxes for her, poor woman. Go be brilliant, Eden."
"Thanks, Professor. For everything."
"Don't thank me. Just go teach the world- or at least, survive first period."
The line went dead. Eden sat in the silence for a long moment, the only sound the tink-tink-tink of the engine cooling down. She took a deep, lung-expanding breath, grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, and shoved the door open. It gave a loud screee that made a nearby group of students look up.
Great start, she thought. Subtle. They already hate me.
She hopped down onto the pavement, the impact jarring her slightly. She turned to the side mirror, using the silvered, slightly distorted glass to do a final check.
The girl staring back looked… okay. Professional. Mostly. Her short brown hair was pulled into a half-up, half-down bun that felt secure for now, though she knew her bangs would probably start acting up by noon. She reached up, adjusting her glasses and smoothing the fringe so it sat just right above the frames. She’d chosen the outfit carefully. A crisp white blouse that made her feel like an adult, paired with black jeans because it was Friday and she didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard to be a "grown-up."
She hiked the strap of her messenger bag higher on her shoulder, feeling the weight of her notebooks and the red pens she’d bought in a fit of optimistic preparation. The air was crisp, that perfect mid-September sweet spot where the sun is warm but the breeze reminds you that winter is coming. She locked the truck manually, the heavy thunk of the lock sounding like a gavel.
"Force to be reckoned with," she muttered to herself, adjusting her glasses one last time. "Just a bunch of kids. They're like, 4 feet tall. You can do this."
She turned away from the safety of her truck and started toward the heavy double doors of the school. She didn't look back. She didn't know that in a few short months, middle schoolers would be the very least of her worries. She didn't know about the stars, or the ship, or the man in the science department who was about to change her life.
She just knew that she had to find Room 104, and she had to do it without tripping over her own feet.
The hallway of Grover Cleveland Middle School smelled exactly like Eden remembered middle school smelling: a combination of industrial floor wax, old locker gym shoes, and the faint, lingering scent of over-toasted cinnamon bagels from the cafeteria. She walked with a stiff posture, her messenger bag slapping against her hip in a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that felt like a countdown. She checked the room numbers again. 101. 102. 103.
And then, she saw it. Room 104. The door was painted a soft, calming eggshell blue, a stark contrast to the institutional beige of the rest of the hallway. But what stopped Eden in her tracks was the poster taped right at eye level. It was a watercolor painting of a very determined-looking bumblebee carrying a briefcase, with the words "YOU GOT THIS!" looping across the top in cheerful, hand-lettered calligraphy.
Eden stared at the bee. The bee stared back.
"Okay, little guy," she whispered, adjusting the bridge of her glasses. "If you can fly with those wings, I can survive a Monday morning."
She took a breath, smoothed her black jeans one last time, and gave the door a polite, three-beat knock. She didn't wait for a "come in" because her courage had a very short expiration date. She pushed the door open.
The room didn't feel like a classroom; it reminded Eden of her childhood bedroom. Instead of the harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights that usually defined public education, the room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of several floor lamps and string lights draped tastefully over the bookshelves. There were thick, colorful carpets in the reading corner, and the walls were covered in posters that focused more on "Kindness is a Superpower" than on standardized testing metrics. Homey.
"You must be Eden!"
A woman popped up from behind a large mahogany desk. She was shorter than Eden, with long bright blonde hair and a smile that felt like a physical hug. She wore a floral maternity dress that draped over a very prominent, seven-month baby bump, and moved with a sort of graceful energy that immediately made Eden think of Miss Honey from Matilda.
"I am," Eden said, her shoulders finally dropping an inch. "You’re Mrs. Carmen?"
"Oh, please! Not in this room," the woman laughed, rounding the desk and pulling Eden into a brief, gentle squeeze of a hug. "I’m Beth. We’ve done the email dance for three weeks now, but I am so thrilled to actually have a human adult in here with me. Welcome to the hive, Eden."
"Thank you, Beth. Your room is… it’s beautiful. I was expecting more, well, beige."
Beth waved a hand dismissively. "Beige is for people who have given up. I find that if I make the room feel like a living room, the kids act less like feral cats. History is already ‘boring enough’, as they say. Sit, sit! I’ve got your spot all ready."
Beth led her to the side of the main teacher’s desk, where a smaller but equally sturdy desk had been tucked in. It had a fresh blotter, a cup full of brand-new pens, and a small succulent in a ceramic pot.
"This is yours," Beth said, patting the desk before wincing slightly and resting a hand on her stomach. "Little one is doing gymnastics today. I’m seven months along, as you can see, so come January, you’re going to be the captain of this ship while I’m at home dealing with a different kind of sleep deprivation."
"I'm so excited for you," Eden said, sitting down and testing the chair. "And nervous for me, but mostly excited to work with you!."
"You’ll be great. You-"
THUMP.
The sound of a shoulder hitting the doorframe interrupted her. Eden spun around to see a tall, lean man with slightly disheveled sandy-blonde hair stumbling into the doorway. He was buried under a precarious tower of cardboard boxes filled with what looked like glass beakers, rolls of copper wire, and several very large magnets.
"Beth! Beth, I am a victim of my own ambition," the man gasped, his voice strained as the top box threatened to slide off. "I thought I could make it in one trip. I was wrong. I am a failure of physics. Can you get the door to my room? I’m locked out and I’m losing all sensation in my left thumb."
Beth started to push herself up from her chair, but she moved with the slow, labored caution of someone carrying a human being inside them.
"I’ve got it!" Eden blurted out, jumping to her feet before Beth could even get her feet under her. "Beth, stay. I’ll help him."
Eden darted across the room, slipping past the man who was currently trying to use his chin to keep the top box level, and stepped into the hallway.
"Opposite door?" she asked.
"That’s the one," he grunted, his eyes wide and focused entirely on not dropping fifty dollars' worth of glassware. "Key’s in my pocket, I promise I was responsible and propped it open before I left but the janitor must have kicked the wedge out,” the boxes under his chin shake with each word. If he kept talking (which he seemed to like doing, as he’s said more than 100 words in the five minutes Eden has known him) the boxes would fall and all the equipment would be broken.
Eden grabbed the handle of the science room across the hall, pushed it open, and held it wide. "Go, go, go!"
The man scurried inside, nearly tripping over a lab stool before successfully dumping the entire load onto a long black-top table with a cacophony of clicking glass and heavy cardboard. He let out a long, theatrical exhale, shaking his arms out like a marathon runner.
"Gravity," he panted, turning around. "My oldest enemy."
Then, he stopped. He looked at Eden, his brow furrowing in confusion. Eden also looked at him, he was younger than she expected, maybe mid-thirties, with a face that looked like it spent a lot of time smiling. He wore a rumpled button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie that featured tiny, cartoonish planets.
"You’re… not Beth," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"I’m not," Eden agreed, feeling a sudden, annoying heat creep up her neck. "I’m Eden. Beth’s new student teacher."
The man’s expression shifted instantly from "exhausted scientist” to "charming colleague." He wiped a dusty hand on his trousers and stepped forward, offering it to her.
"Ryland Grace," he said, his smile bright and surprisingly infectious. "I help run the Science Department. But, in my opinion, they only made me a lead as a fancy way of saying I’m the one who accidentally sets off the smoke detectors once a semester. I am so sorry for the 'damsel in distress' entrance. Usually, I’m much more suave. Or at least, I tell myself that."
Eden took his hand. His grip was firm, and his skin was warm, and for some reason, her brain decided to stop processing English for three seconds. "It’s okay. I’m a student teacher, helping with boxes is basically in my job description."
"Well, you’re a life-saver, Eden," Ryland said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn't let go of her hand immediately, and Eden felt a jolt of something that definitely wasn't just "first-day jitters."
He was… well, he was handsome. In a nerdy, disorganized, 'I forgot to comb my hair because I was thinking about atoms' kind of way.
"I mean it," he continued, finally releasing her hand to gesture at the chaos on the table. "If you ever need anything- supplies, advice on which vending machine doesn't steal your dollar, or someone to vent to when the eighth graders inevitably start a revolution- my door is always open. I owe you one."
"I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Grace," Eden said, her voice a little breathier than she liked.
"Oh, it's Ryland. Save 'Mr. Grace' for the kids; it makes me feel like my own father is standing behind me."
Behind them, the hallway began to flood with the sound of slamming lockers and the high-pitched chatter of students. The first bell was about to ring.
"Better get back to the hive," Ryland said with a wink. "Beth’s a great mentor. You're in good hands."
Eden nodded, ducking her head as she hurried back across the hall. As she stepped back into Room 104, she saw Beth watching her with a knowing, mischievous glint in her eye.
Eden sat down at her new desk, her heart racing. She had been so worried about the students- about their judgment, their energy, their chaos- that she forgot that there would be older adults here as well. It seemed silly, it was a school afterall.. But as she watched Ryland Grace start to usher kids into his room across the hall, she realized her biggest distraction wasn't going to be the kids at all. It was going to be the man with the planet tie and the crooked smile.
"He's helpful, isn't he?" Beth whispered, leaning over with a grin.
Eden just cleared her throat and opened her notebook to a blank page, her pen hovering over the paper in order to fake being busy. Force to be reckoned with, she thought, though her hand was shaking just a little bit. You've got this.
Edit: Chapters 1-2 are up on ao3!! You can find them here, I hope you decide to check it out and enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing the idea out!!
For context, Eden is 21 and Grace is 32, so a bit of an age gap but still acceptable for her to be his controversial younger girlfriend mwahaha. Eden was going to get her PhD in History, but after an extra credit assignment leads her to a school she realizes she wants to teach. She originally is put with Mrs. Carmen, a lovely history teacher at Grover Cleaveland Middle, but after an unexpected event is reassigned to Mr. Grace. After spending most of the school year together, Eden would consider herself and Grace friends instead of coworkers… Until Eva Stratt comes along and offers Grace a chance to prove himself, and extends the offer to Eden as a “real time historian” (aka a bookkeeper lol)
If you enjoy this and would like to see it fully thought out, PLEASE tell me! I'm so on the fence about this idea and thought testing the waters of interest would help me decide haha!
Also, the name was 100% inspired by a BTS Wattpad fanfiction I read in 6th grade and wrote a book report on 😃 LMAO
Word Count: ~780
Tags: Strangers to friends, friends to lovers, lovers to strangers, lovers again, memory loss, age gap relationship, teacher/student but not in a creepy way, rocky ily, mentions of depression, mentions of anxiety, Slight Religious Trauma, eventual smut, a wee bit of angst, Loss of friends, lots of fluff, Touch Starved!Grace, Wingman Rocky, controversial younger girlfriend
The fluorescent lights of the prep clinic buzzed, a sharp, sterile hum that vibrated right through the soles of my shoes. I stood over the gurney, staring down at Ryland. He looked so small beneath the crisp white sheet, his chest rising and falling in a slow, medically induced rhythm.
"Get away from him, Eden."
Stratt’s voice cut through the quiet, cold and entirely devoid of apology. She stood in the doorway, two security guards flanking her like gargoyles. I spun around, my hands trembling, knuckles white as I gripped the metal railing of Ryland’s bed. "What did you do to him? Stratt, what did you do?"
"What was necessary," she said, stepping into the room. She didn’t even look at Ryland. Her eyes were fixed entirely on me like she was assessing a glitch in her machine. "Dr. Lokken and Dr. Lamonov are dead. Dr. Grace is the only remaining primary specialist on the Astrophage. The mission requires a biologist."
"He said no!" My voice cracked, a raw, ugly sound echoing off the tile walls. "He told you no! You can't just drug a man and ship him into deep space to die!"
"I can, and I have to," Stratt replied. "The survival of our species outweighs Ryland Grace’s cowardice. And it certainly outweighs your sentimentality. Move away from the gurney. We need to finalize his transport to the shuttle."
"No." I stepped in front of the bed, shielding him. "No, I won't let you do this. I have the logs, Stratt. I’ve written down everything. Every illegal seizure of property, every human rights violation, every single underhanded, totalitarian thing you’ve done for the last eight months. I will walk out those doors right now, I will find the media, I will find the international courts-"
"You won't make it past the courtyard," Stratt interrupted, her tone cold and strict. "Do you honestly think I care about the law, Eden? There won't be a legal system left to try me in fifty years if this ship doesn't launch."
"They'll stop the launch!" I screamed, the tears finally spilling over, hot and furious. "If the public knows you’re kidnapping your crew, they will tear this facility apart! I will burn this entire project to the ground, Stratt, I swear to God I will, unless you wake him up right now!"
Stratt stared at me for three agonizing seconds. The silence in the room was suffocating. Then, she let out a short, heavy breath and looked at the guards.
"She's a security leak," Stratt said, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly pragmatic register. "And a logistical liability. We don't have the time or the facility to detain her here without risking a breach."
My heart plummeted into my stomach. "Stratt... what?"
"You've spent months complaining that the Hail Mary needs an archivist to document the journey for whoever comes after us," Stratt said, taking a step toward me. "And you're right. It’s a shame the fourth coma berth was meant to be a spare. Prepare her."
"Are you insane?!" I lunged forward, but the guards were already moving.
A heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder, dragging me backward. I fought, kicking wildly, my sneakers scuffing violently against the floor as they shoved me into a heavy prep chair.
"Get off me! Let me go!" I shrieked, thrashing against the thick leather straps they snapped across my chest and arms. "Stratt, you can't do this! You can't!"
"I am saving humanity, Eden," Stratt said, looking down at me as a lab tech stepped forward, a syringe gleaming under the harsh lights. "If you're so desperate to protect this crew, you can go with them."
"No! No! Please!"
The tech grabbed my arm. I twisted my head, screaming at the top of my lungs, the sound tearing at my throat. "Yao! Ilyukhina! Yao!" Then, the double doors at the end of the hall burst open with a deafening crash.
"What the hell is going on in here?!" Commander Yao’s voice boomed, frantic and breathless as he charged into the room, his eyes widening in absolute horror as he saw me pinned to the chair. "Eden?! Eva what are you doing?"
"Yao, help me! She's sending-"
The cold, sharp bite of the needle pierced my neck. The world instantly tilted. The ceiling fan spun into a blur of grey and white. Yao’s face rushed toward me, his hands reaching out, his voice shouting something indistinguishable over the roaring in my ears.
I'm sorry, I tried to say, but my tongue felt like lead. I'm sorry, I couldn't save him.
The darkness slammed down like an iron curtain, swallowing Yao, Stratt, and my last remnants of Earth whole.
Hi! If you liked this post, I've uploaded the first couple of chapters up on ao3! I have it all planned out until they meet Rocky and I hope to update 2-3 times a week at minimum! I would love for you all to check it out and love reading it as much as I loved writing it!!
Teach Her - Ryland Grace/Student-Teacher!OC
Edit: Chapters 1-3 are up on ao3!! You can find them here, I hope you decide to check it out and enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing the idea out!!
For context, Eden is 21 and Grace is 32, so a bit of an age gap but still acceptable for her to be his controversial younger girlfriend mwahaha. Eden was going to get her PhD in History, but after an extra credit assignment leads her to a school she realizes she wants to teach. She originally is put with Mrs. Carmen, a lovely history teacher at Grover Cleaveland Middle, but after an unexpected event is reassigned to Mr. Grace. After spending most of the school year together, Eden would consider herself and Grace friends instead of coworkers… Until Eva Stratt comes along and offers Grace a chance to prove himself, and extends the offer to Eden as a “real time historian” (aka a bookkeeper lol)
If you enjoy this and would like to see it fully thought out, PLEASE tell me! I'm so on the fence about this idea and thought testing the waters of interest would help me decide haha!
Also, the name was 100% inspired by a BTS Wattpad fanfiction I read in 6th grade and wrote a book report on 😃 LMAO
Word Count: ~780
Tags: Strangers to friends, friends to lovers, lovers to strangers, lovers again, memory loss, age gap relationship, teacher/student but not in a creepy way, rocky ily, mentions of depression, mentions of anxiety, Slight Religious Trauma, eventual smut, a wee bit of angst, Loss of friends, lots of fluff, Touch Starved!Grace, Wingman Rocky, controversial younger girlfriend
The fluorescent lights of the prep clinic buzzed, a sharp, sterile hum that vibrated right through the soles of my shoes. I stood over the gurney, staring down at Ryland. He looked so small beneath the crisp white sheet, his chest rising and falling in a slow, medically induced rhythm.
"Get away from him, Eden."
Stratt’s voice cut through the quiet, cold and entirely devoid of apology. She stood in the doorway, two security guards flanking her like gargoyles. I spun around, my hands trembling, knuckles white as I gripped the metal railing of Ryland’s bed. "What did you do to him? Stratt, what did you do?"
"What was necessary," she said, stepping into the room. She didn’t even look at Ryland. Her eyes were fixed entirely on me like she was assessing a glitch in her machine. "Dr. Lokken and Dr. Lamonov are dead. Dr. Grace is the only remaining primary specialist on the Astrophage. The mission requires a biologist."
"He said no!" My voice cracked, a raw, ugly sound echoing off the tile walls. "He told you no! You can't just drug a man and ship him into deep space to die!"
"I can, and I have to," Stratt replied. "The survival of our species outweighs Ryland Grace’s cowardice. And it certainly outweighs your sentimentality. Move away from the gurney. We need to finalize his transport to the shuttle."
"No." I stepped in front of the bed, shielding him. "No, I won't let you do this. I have the logs, Stratt. I’ve written down everything. Every illegal seizure of property, every human rights violation, every single underhanded, totalitarian thing you’ve done for the last eight months. I will walk out those doors right now, I will find the media, I will find the international courts-"
"You won't make it past the courtyard," Stratt interrupted, her tone cold and strict. "Do you honestly think I care about the law, Eden? There won't be a legal system left to try me in fifty years if this ship doesn't launch."
"They'll stop the launch!" I screamed, the tears finally spilling over, hot and furious. "If the public knows you’re kidnapping your crew, they will tear this facility apart! I will burn this entire project to the ground, Stratt, I swear to God I will, unless you wake him up right now!"
Stratt stared at me for three agonizing seconds. The silence in the room was suffocating. Then, she let out a short, heavy breath and looked at the guards.
"She's a security leak," Stratt said, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly pragmatic register. "And a logistical liability. We don't have the time or the facility to detain her here without risking a breach."
My heart plummeted into my stomach. "Stratt... what?"
"You've spent months complaining that the Hail Mary needs an archivist to document the journey for whoever comes after us," Stratt said, taking a step toward me. "And you're right. It’s a shame the fourth coma berth was meant to be a spare. Prepare her."
"Are you insane?!" I lunged forward, but the guards were already moving.
A heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder, dragging me backward. I fought, kicking wildly, my sneakers scuffing violently against the floor as they shoved me into a heavy prep chair.
"Get off me! Let me go!" I shrieked, thrashing against the thick leather straps they snapped across my chest and arms. "Stratt, you can't do this! You can't!"
"I am saving humanity, Eden," Stratt said, looking down at me as a lab tech stepped forward, a syringe gleaming under the harsh lights. "If you're so desperate to protect this crew, you can go with them."
"No! No! Please!"
The tech grabbed my arm. I twisted my head, screaming at the top of my lungs, the sound tearing at my throat. "Yao! Ilyukhina! Yao!" Then, the double doors at the end of the hall burst open with a deafening crash.
"What the hell is going on in here?!" Commander Yao’s voice boomed, frantic and breathless as he charged into the room, his eyes widening in absolute horror as he saw me pinned to the chair. "Eden?! Eva what are you doing?"
"Yao, help me! She's sending-"
The cold, sharp bite of the needle pierced my neck. The world instantly tilted. The ceiling fan spun into a blur of grey and white. Yao’s face rushed toward me, his hands reaching out, his voice shouting something indistinguishable over the roaring in my ears.
I'm sorry, I tried to say, but my tongue felt like lead. I'm sorry, I couldn't save him.
The darkness slammed down like an iron curtain, swallowing Yao, Stratt, and my last remnants of Earth whole.
Edit: I caved and a teaser for this idea is currently up on my page and can be found here 🫣
Ryland Grace fic where reader/OC was a student teacher who got invited to "intern" under Grace with PHM and then begs to be sent up with him so that he's not alone and then become his controversial younger girlfriend
desc: Dating celebrities is hard, especially when they're the leader of the most famous boy band from Korea, if not in the world. What will fans think when they see you surprising your man after his concert?
word count: 1.9k
masterlist ao3
I definitely didn't write this because I saw them in Tampa and miss it sm.... haha... definitely not (I saw pied piper live I cannot complain)
tags: slice of life, pre established relationship, arirang tour, jk is chronically online, jin's loud ahh laugh, namjoon's mysterious wife and 3 kids,
The humidity of the Tampa Bey evening clung to the asphalt of the Raymond James Stadium loading dock, smelling of ocean salt and pyrotechnics. Inside the concrete belly of the arena, the air was still vibrating. You could feel the sub-bass of the final "Arirang Tour" encore echoing in your bone marrow, a rhythmic thrum that signaled the end of a three-hour marathon.
You stood in the "Dead Zone," a quiet corridor tucked behind a mountain of flight cases labeled STAGE GEAR. You were a shadow in the corner, dressed in a staff-issued black windbreaker, a face mask, and a baseball cap pulled low. Your lanyard was real, but the name on it belonged to a production assistant currently grabbing coffee in the catering tent.
For six weeks, you had been a flickering image on a phone screen. You had watched Namjoon’s face grow leaner through FaceTime, seen the dark circles under his eyes deepen as the Arirang Tour kicked off its North American leg. You had listened to him talk about the pressure of the "Arirang" concept—how he wanted to weave traditional Korean soul into a modern stadium pop spectacle. He was exhausted, exhilarated, and, most of all, lonely.
"Final bows in sixty seconds!" a stage manager barked into his headset, sprinting past you.
The roar from the stadium changed. It shifted from a rhythmic chant into a singular, deafening wall of sound- the sound of seventy thousand people realizing the night was over. Ten minutes later, the heavy curtains separating the stage from the tunnel swung open. The air that rushed out was hot and smelled of ozone and sweat. The members appeared like ghosts through the haze. Jungkook was sprinting, his adrenaline still peaked, tossing a water bottle to a staff member. Hobi followed, trailing energy like a comet, his face drenched but glowing.
And then, you saw Namjoon.
He was walking slowly, his head tilted back as he caught his breath. He looked like a fallen god- wearing his own tour merch to end the night, forehead damp with perspiration, the silver chain on his pants catching the harsh fluorescent lights of the tunnel. He looked older than he had six weeks ago, his shoulders carrying the literal and metaphorical weight of the group's leadership.
He stopped near your stack of crates, reaching for a towel. He didn't look up. He just leaned his forehead against a flight case, his chest heaving.
"The bridge in 'Come Over' was a little pitchy tonight, Joon," you said softly.
Namjoon froze. The towel stopped halfway to his face. He didn't turn around immediately; he stayed perfectly still, as if he was afraid that by moving, he would break the hallucination. Slowly, he turned his head. When his eyes met yours over the top of your mask, the exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by a shock so pure it was almost comical.
"Y/N?" he breathed, his voice a gravelly wreck.
"I’m kidding about the pitch," you smiled, pulling your mask down. "You all were perfect."
He didn't care about the cameras for the tour documentary. He didn't care about the twenty staff members buzzing around him. He moved with a sudden, desperate speed, his large arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you off your feet. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his skin hot and damp against yours. He smelled like the stage—heat, hairspray, and the faint, earthy scent of the woodsy cologne he always wore.
"You're here," he whispered into your skin, his grip tightening until you could barely breathe. "How? The flights... the Seoul schedule..."
"I have a very good relationship with your manager," you laughed, clutching the damp fabric of his stage shirt. "Happy opening night, Joon."
The transition from the chaos of the stadium to the sanctuary of the blacked-out SUV was a blur of adrenaline. Usually, the members rode together in a convoy, but Namjoon had pulled a "Leader’s Prerogative," claiming he needed to discuss setlist adjustments with a "production lead" on the way to the hotel. Now, you were tucked into the plush leather backseat of a tinted Cadillac Escalade. The driver was a silent professional who had been briefed to keep his eyes on the road. Outside, the streets of Dale Mabry were lined with fans holding up their lightsticks, hoping for a glimpse of a window. Namjoon slumped into the seat, his hand immediately finding yours. He laced his fingers through yours, his thumb rubbing rhythmic circles over your knuckles.
"I feel like I’m breathing for the first time since Seoul," he murmured, looking out at the palm trees blurred by speed. "The tour is beautiful, Y/N. The fans... they’re incredible. But it’s loud. It’s so loud, all the time."
"I know," you said, resting your head on his shoulder. "I watched the whole set from the sound booth. You looked like you were carrying the whole world on your back during 'Mic Drop'."
He let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I was just trying not to slip on the water Taehyung and Jimin spilt during the first break, I didn’t realize i’d have to prepare for a water fight that early on.” He turned his head to look at you, his eyes soft in the intermittent glow of the passing streetlights. "Thank you for coming. I know the flight is brutal. I know being the secret girlfriend of a guy in a fishbowl isn't exactly a fairytale."
"It has its perks," you teased, gesturing to the luxury SUV. "Free food and a very handsome passenger? Sign me up"
As the car pulled into the underground garage of the hotel, Namjoon didn't let go of your hand. He led you through the service elevator, a move designed to avoid the fans camped out in the lobby. By the time the elevator dinged on the penthouse floor, the "RM" of the Arirang Tour had faded, replaced by just Namjoon.
The hotel suite was a glass box looking out over the glittering sprawl of Tampa. Namjoon had insisted on ordering "everything" from the late-night room service menu. By the time he emerged from the shower, smelling of sandalwood and fresh linen, the table was covered in steak, pasta, and a suspiciously expensive bottle of wine.
He was wearing his own clothes now- loose linen pants and a soft grey hoodie. He looked like the Namjoon who visited art galleries on rainy days, the Namjoon who read philosophy books in the park.
"I told them to leave the cart outside," he said, pulling out a chair for you. "I don't want anyone else in here tonight. Just us."
The dinner was a slow, indulgent affair. You talked about everything except the tour. You talked about the books you’d read, the way the light hit your apartment in Seoul, and the small things you missed about each other. Namjoon was a vivid storyteller, his hands moving animatedly as he described a small bookstore he’d found in Tokyo a few weeks prior. After dinner, the wine had left a warm hum in your veins. Namjoon dimmed the lights and sat on the oversized sofa, pulling you into his side.
"Sometimes I look at all of this," he said, gesturing to the view and the luxury of the room, "and I feel like I’m living in a dream that belongs to someone else. Like I’m just holding the place for the 'RM' the world sees. But when you’re here... the dream feels like mine again."
You looked up at him, tracing the familiar line of his jaw. "You've worked so hard for this dream, Joon. Don't let the scale of it make you feel small."
He smiled, his dimples deepening, and leaned down. The kiss was slow and tasted of red wine and longing. It was the kind of kiss that made the six weeks of distance vanish in an instant. His hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
"I missed you," he whispered against your lips. "I missed you so much it felt like a physical ache."
"I'm not going anywhere," you breathed. "At least for the next three days."
The peace of the moment was shattered by a sound that definitely did not belong in a romantic penthouse suite: the muffled, hysterical wheezing of Kim Seokjin laughing in the hallway.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The door to the suite didn't just open; it was practically kicked in.
"NAMJOON-AH! OPEN THE TWITTER! IMMEDIATELY!"
Seokjin burst into the room, still wearing his silk pajamas and holding his phone like a holy relic. Behind him, Jungkook was doubled over, clutching his stomach, his face a shade of red that looked dangerous. Namjoon scrambled to sit up, his hair mussed and his face flushed. "What the- we are BUSY! There’s a thing called knocking!"
"No time for knocking!" Seokjin gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. "The internet has decided your fate! You are no longer the Leader of BTS! You are the 'National Gift-Giver'!"
Jungkook finally managed to find his voice, though it was an octave higher than usual. "Hyung, they saw you! They saw you leaving the stadium with Y/N!"
Your heart dropped. "Wait, did we get caught? Are there pictures of my face?"
"No, no, no," Seokjin said, shoving his phone into Namjoon’s face. "Look! Look at the hashtag!"
Namjoon squinted at the screen. His eyes went wide, and then his head fell back against the sofa with a groan.
Trending Worldwide: #GiveMeANDAToo
"What is an 'ANDA'?" you asked, leaning in to look.
"It’s not an 'ANDA'," Jungkook squealed, falling onto the carpet. "It’s 'A N-D-A'. It stands for A Non-Disclosure Agreement!"
Seokjin started scrolling through the tweets at lightning speed. "Look at this one! 'I saw RM leaving in a black SUV with a lucky fan! He even held her hand! Why can't I win the lottery too? #GiveMeANDAToo'."
He swiped again. 'The Arirang Tour is truly for the people. Namjoon-ssi is literally taking fans back to his hotel to discuss the cultural significance of the setlist. A true king. #GiveMeANDAToo'.
"They think..." you started, the realization dawning on you. "They think I'm a fan? Like, a contest winner?"
"Not just a fan," Seokjin corrected, his shoulders shaking with fresh laughter. "They think you're a 'Lucky Representative.' There’s a whole theory going around that because the Arirang Tour is about 'The People’s Song,' Namjoon is choosing one 'soulmate fan' per city to give a private lecture to. They can’t believe that Namjoon would hook up with a fan and it be caught this easily"
Namjoon covered his face with his hands. "A private lecture? I was literally kissing her two minutes ago!"
"Well, according to Twitter user @JooniesBonsai, you were actually explaining the Joseon Dynasty's influence on 'Intro: Persona'," Jungkook teased, poking Namjoon’s leg. "She said, and I quote, 'Look at how intently she's looking at him. She's clearly a PhD student in Korean History. Namjoon found his match. #GiveMeANDAToo'."
Namjoon looked at you, then back at his chaotic members. The absurdity of it all finally broke through his embarrassment. He started to chuckle, then barked out a loud, genuine laugh that shook his whole frame.
"So," Namjoon said, pulling you back into his side while Seokjin and Jungkook started filming a TikTok to the hashtag in the background. "Since you’re my 'PhD student' for the night, do you want to hear my thesis on why I love you?"
"Only if it comes with more of that wine," you laughed.
"Deal," Namjoon said, kissing the top of your head. "But I'm locking the door this time. And I'm taking Seokjin's phone."
kiss your screen every time you see a typo or grammatical error in my fics because it means it's home grown and not some ai bullshit and im dead serious about this
Desc: “Fishing at 4 am? Who in their right mind would agree to that??...Oh Seokjin is asking? Yeah ill see you then”
Word count:4.4k
masterlist ao3
Tags: super tune, kim seokjin, jin and his fish, this is the Super Tuna MV but the fish is basically y/n, I researched boat architecture for this fic, idol Jin on his day off, fishing,
The sun hadn’t even considered rising yet when the rhythmic thumping began on your front door. It wasn't a polite knock; it was a rhythmic, confident beat that suggested the person on the other side believed they were doing you a favor by waking you up before the birds.
You groaned, pulling the duvet over your head. "Go away, Seokjin," you mumbled into your pillow.
"I can hear you through the wood!" his voice rang out, clear and bright, entirely too energetic for four in the morning. "The fish are waking up! They’re brushing their scales! They’re waiting for the World Wide Handsome guest of honor! Are you really going to make them wait?"
You stumbled out of bed, your vision blurry, and swung the door open. Kim Seokjin stood there in a vibrant, neon-orange windbreaker that could likely be seen from the International Space Station. He had a bucket hat perched precariously on his head and a grin that was far too symmetrical for this hour.
"You look like a traffic cone," you croaked, squinting at the brightness of his jacket.
He gasped, leaning back and resting a hand on his chest. "A traffic cone? This is high-fashion maritime couture, Y/N. I have to look good. If the fish see me and realize how handsome I am, they’ll jump into the boat just to get a closer look. It’s science."
"I’m pretty sure that’s not how biology works," you sighed, but you were already stepping back to let him in.
"Coffee is in the thermos, the car is packed, and I’ve already named the first three fish we’re going to catch," he said, marching into your kitchen with the authority of a ship’s captain. "Move, move, move! The tide waits for no one, and neither does Kim Seokjin!"
The engine of Jin’s SUV hummed a low, steady bassline against the silence of the sleeping city. Inside the cabin, the air smelled like expensive cologne mixed with the faint, sharp tang of the instant coffee he’d pressed into your hands the moment you’d buckled your seatbelt.
You watched the streetlights flicker past, a blur of amber against the dark blue of the 4:00 AM sky. To your left, Seokjin looked like a character pulled straight from a high-budget travel vlog. Even in the dim light of the dashboard, his profile was sharp- the kind of bone structure that seemed unfair to witness so early in the morning. He was humming a melody you didn’t recognize, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel.
"You're awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to fill the small space. "Is the coffee not working, or are you just overwhelmed by being in the presence of a legend so early in the day?"
"Option C," you yawned, shifting in the leather seat. "I’m wondering how you have this much energy. Did you even sleep?"
"Sleep is for people who aren't about to conquer the ocean," he declared, throwing a quick, playful wink your way. "And besides, I had to prepare. Do you know how long it takes to coordinate an outfit this vibrant? You can't just throw on neon orange; you have to earn it."
You looked at the jacket again. It really was blinding. "I’m worried the fish will see us coming from three miles away."
"That’s the point, Y/N! It’s psychological warfare. They’ll be so dazzled by the fashion that they’ll forget to swim away. It’s the Kim Seokjin Strategy."
He turned the radio up slightly- some pop song about biology was playing, who in their right mind sings about deoxyribonucleic acid this early- and for a while, the conversation drifted into the comfortable silence that only comes with years of friendship. You found yourself watching the way his expression softened when he wasn't trying to be "on." There was a quietness to him in these early hours, a version of Jin that the world rarely saw. It was the Jin who noticed when you were tired, who knew exactly how much sugar you liked in your coffee, and who had spent three weeks planning this trip just because you’d mentioned once, in passing, that you needed a break from the city.
~~~
Forty-five minutes later, you were standing on a damp wooden pier, watching Jin struggle with a massive plastic cooler. He had insisted on bringing enough food to feed a small navy, despite the fact that you were only going to be out for six hours. By the time you reached the marina, the world was beginning to wake up in shades of charcoal and violet. A thick mist rolled off the water, clinging to the docks like a damp blanket. The air was saltier here, cold enough that you could see your breath in little white puffs.
Jin was out of the car in a flash, his boots clattering on the pavement as he began unloading the "supplies."
"Stay there! Don't move!" he called out as you moved to help. "A captain does not let the guest of honor lift heavy objects. It’s bad for the aura."
You watched, leaning against the car, as he hauled a massive cooler, three tackle boxes, and four different fishing rods toward the boat. He looked ridiculous. A bright orange blur in the grey fog with a certain grace in his movements that caught you off guard. He was strong, his shoulders broad under the windbreaker, moving with a purposeful energy.
As he reached the boat, he realized the pier was slick with morning dew. He took one step, his foot slid, and for a terrifying second, he looked like a cartoon character trying to find balance on a banana peel.
"Jin!" you shouted, stepping forward.
He caught himself at the last second, gripping a wooden post with both hands, his chest heaving. Somehow, he had kept the tackleboxes safe in his arms and under his chin. He stayed frozen for a moment, then slowly turned his head to look at you. His bucket hat was slanted over one eye.
"I... I did that on purpose," he gasped, his voice cracking slightly. "I was checking the friction coefficient of the wood. It’s... it’s very low. Excellent data."
You couldn't help it. The laugh started deep in your chest and bubbled up until you were doubled over, leaning against the SUV for support. "You almost fell in before we even touched the boat!"
"Laughter is a sign of a healthy soul!" he shouted back, straightening his hat and puffing out his chest. "I’m glad I could provide you with such a high-quality soul-cleansing experience!". You finally take a look at what was so important to bring on this ship.
"Jin, do we really need a three-course meal for a fishing trip?" you asked, hoisting your own backpack.
"Fishing is 10% catching fish and 90% waiting for fish," he explained, pausing to wipe an imaginary bead of sweat from his forehead. "And if I am going to wait, I am going to wait with high-quality snacks. I have kimbap, I have fruit, and I have those little sausages you like. Don't complain when you're hungry in an hour."
"Careful," he murmured, his grip on your hand firm and warm. "The dock is slippery."
You can’t help but laugh at his pout, God how you wish you could just take his face in your hands and-
You catch yourself midthought, it is too early to be picturing that about your best friend...right?
~~~
He led you to a small, slightly weathered motorboat named The Silver Scale. Finally coming aboard, you could see that the boat itself was a modest motorboat, but to Jin, it might as well have been a luxury yacht. He spent ten minutes "inspecting" the hull, nodding solemnly as if he knew exactly what he was looking for.
"She’s sturdy," he concluded, patting the side of the boat. "She’s ready for the weight of my talent."
Helping him load the gear turned into a comedy of errors. The cooler was packed so tightly with food that the lid kept popping open, revealing his containers of kimbap, neatly sliced fruit, and- inexplicably- a bottle of sparkling cider.
"Is the cider for the fish?" you asked, handing him a tackle box.
"No, the cider is for the victory toast," he said, stowing it under a seat. "We have to manifest success, Y/N. If we act like we’ve already caught the biggest fish in the sea, the universe will provide."
Once everything was on board, he reached out his hand to help you down. The joking tone vanished for a split second. The mist was swirling around his ankles, and the first hint of orange sunlight was hitting the horizon behind him.
"The boat is a little wobbly," he warned, his voice suddenly soft and grounded. "Give me your hand."
His palm was large and warm, his grip steady as he guided you onto the deck. For a heartbeat, as you stepped down, you were standing very close to him- close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest, close enough to see the tiny flecks of amber in his eyes.
"Got you," he whispered.
He didn't let go immediately. He waited until he was sure you had your balance, his thumb brushing almost imperceptibly against the back of your hand before he pulled away to start the engine.
"Alright!" he shouted, the engine roaring to life and breaking the spell. "Destination: Victory! Or at least, destination: Lunch!"
~~~
The Silver Scale moved further away from the coast, the shoreline becoming a thin, green ribbon against the horizon. The mist had completely burned off, replaced by a sky so blue it looked painted. Jin was at the helm, his hand resting casually on the throttle, humming along to the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of the waves against the hull. The boat cut through the glassy water as the sky began to bleed into shades of bruised purple and gold. It was peaceful, truly. The air was cool, the water was calm, and for a few minutes, Jin was actually quiet, focused on navigating to his "secret spot."
Once the anchor was dropped, the real performance began.
"Okay, Y/N, watch the master," Jin said, picking up his expensive-looking rod. "Fishing is about grace. It’s about the flick of the wrist. It’s about-"
Thwack.
He swung the rod back with immense flair, but instead of the line soaring out into the water, there was a sharp tug. Jin stumbled forward, his neon-orange shoulder jerked backward.
"Jin?" you bit back a laugh. "What happened to the grace?"
He froze, looking over his shoulder. The hook was firmly embedded in the thick fabric of his own windbreaker, right between his shoulder blades. He looked like a moth pinned to a board.
"I was... testing the durability of the equipment," he said, his voice reaching that slightly higher pitch it hit when he was flustered. "It’s a safety check! Very important!"
"You hooked yourself," you deadpanned.
"I am the catch of the day!" he shot back, trying to reach behind his back to unhook himself. He looked like a cat chasing its own tail, spinning in small circles in the middle of the boat. "Don't just sit there laughing! Help your captain!"
You spent the next five minutes trying to extract the hook without tearing the expensive jacket, while Jin grumbled about the "aggressive aerodynamics" of the wind. By the time he was free, his hair was a mess and his bucket hat was crooked.
"Okay," he huffed, straightening his collar. "That was a warm-up. Now, for the bait."
"Now that we’re finally here," he paused for dramatic effect, "This is the spot. My grandfather told me that the fish in this specific patch of ocean are particularly sophisticated. They have refined palates. They’ll appreciate the squid." He opened a small plastic container. The smell hit you instantly- a pungent, salty, slightly rotting aroma that made your nose crinkle.
"Ugh, Jin, what is that?"
"Premium fermented squid," he said, though even he looked a little disgusted. "The salesman said it’s irresistible."
He picked up a slimy piece of bait with two fingers, his face contorting into a mask of pure horror. "Oh... oh, it’s squishy. Why is it squishy, Y/N? It’s touching me. It’s holding my hand."
"You're the one who wanted to go fishing!"
"I wanted the aesthetic of fishing!" he cried, finally managed to impale the bait onto the hook. "I wanted the sun, the water, and the impressive photos! I didn't sign up for squid juice!"
He wiped his fingers aggressively on a rag, looking deeply offended by the entire process. "If I don't catch a shark after this, I'm suing the ocean."
"I still think they’ll just be confused by the smell," you teased, grabbing your rod.
For the next hour, it was surprisingly peaceful. You both sat on opposite sides of the boat, lines cast deep into the turquoise water. The sun was getting warmer, and Jin had shed his neon windbreaker, revealing a simple white t-shirt that showed off the impressive breadth of his shoulders- a stark reminder that beneath the "traffic cone" exterior was a man who worked incredibly hard.
"You know," Jin started, leaning back against his seat, "fishing is a lot like life. You cast your line, you wait, you hope... and most of the time, you just end up with a sunburn and a sense of regret."
"That’s surprisingly dark for you, Jin."
"I’m a deep thinker! I contain multitudes!" He gestured grandly with his free hand. "I’m like an onion. Layers, Y/N. Layers of handsomeness and wisdom."
Suddenly, his line moved. In fact, his rod didn't just twitch- it arched violently toward the water.
"OH! OH! IT’S HAPPENING!" Jin shrieked, his "deep thinker" persona evaporating instantly. He scrambled to his feet, the boat rocking precariously under his sudden movement. "It’s a monster! It’s the Kraken! It’s coming for revenge!"
He began to reel in with frantic, uncoordinated energy. The line was zipping through the water, cutting left and right. You stood up to help, but Jin waved you off with a wild look in his eyes. "No! I must face this beast alone! This is a battle of wills!"
The "beast" broke the surface about ten feet from the boat. It wasn't a shark. It wasn't even a large fish. It was a medium-sized, particularly muscular mackerel that seemed personally offended by being hooked. As Jin gave one final, Herculean heave-ho, and the fish didn't just fly out of the water- it launched itself like a silver missile.
SLAP.
The fish landed square across Jin's face, its tail flickering rapidly against his cheek.
"AHHHHHHHH!" Jin’s scream was a high-pitched, operatic masterpiece that probably could have been heard back at the marina. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing, as the wet, slimy fish slid down his face and landed with a damp thud on the deck. He froze, his hands hovering near his cheeks, his eyes wide with genuine shock.
"It... it slapped me," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Y/N. The fish. It physically assaulted the Mr. World Wide Handsome."
You were paralyzed. You were trying to breathe, but your lungs refused to work because you were laughing so hard. You had to grip the side of the boat to keep from falling overboard. "The... the look on your face..." you wheezed.
"I am a victim!" Jin shouted, though a grin was starting to break through his feigned trauma. He looked down at the mackerel, which was now flopping harmlessly near his boots. "Did you see that? It targeted me! It saw my face and thought, 'I must humiliate this beautiful man before I go.'"
He picked up a towel and wiped his face with exaggerated disgust, though he was finally starting to laugh along with you. "I'm retiring. This is it. The ocean has rejected me."
~~~
The sun was fully up now, turning the surface of the water into a sheet of hammered gold. The "Premium Fermented Squid" and the “Fish-ssault” incidents had been dealt with, and now, you were both settled into the rhythmic lull of the boat.
Jin sat across from you, his legs stretched out, looking surprisingly focused on his fishing line. The silence lasted exactly four minutes.
"Hey, Y/N," he said, not looking up.
"Yes, Jin?"
"Why did the fish get bad grades?"
You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the edge of the boat. "I don't know, Jin. Why did the fish get bad grades?"
"Because he was below sea level!" He let out a loud, windshield-wiper laugh that echoed across the open water, startling a nearby seagull. "Get it? C-level? Sea level? Ah, I’m a genius. Even the birds are laughing."
"The birds are fleeing, Jin," you teased, but you couldn't help the smile tugging at your lips.
"They’re just going to tell their friends to come see the handsome comedian," he countered, reeling his line in an inch. "Okay, serious question. What do you call a fish with no eyes?"
"A fsh," you answered immediately.
He stopped, his mouth hanging open in mock outrage. "You’ve heard it. Someone told you. My material is being leaked! There is a spy in my circle!"
"It’s a classic, Jin! Everyone knows that one."
"Fine, fine. Try this: What do you call a wealthy fish?" He paused for dramatic effect. "A gold-fish."
"That’s actually terrible," you laughed, throwing a small piece of kimbap at his orange jacket.
"It's a masterpiece! Just like my face!" He caught the kimbap mid-air and popped it into his mouth. "See? I’m also a world-class athlete with lightning-fast reflexes."
Suddenly, your fishing rod jerked. Not a small nibble, but a genuine, heavy pull that nearly took the rod out of your hands.
"Jin! I think I have something!"
His eyes went wide, his own rod forgotten. "Wait, wait! Don't let go! Reel it in! Be the fish, Y/N! Feel its soul!" He scrambled over to your side of the boat, his hands hovering near yours on the grip. "Easy... easy... it’s a big one! It’s definitely a shark. Or a sunken treasure chest. Or a very heavy boot!"
You were laughing too hard to focus, your muscles straining against the pull. "It’s... it’s really strong!"
With one final, heave-ho tug, the line broke the surface. A small, shimmering silver fish, no longer than your hand, came flying out of the water. It landed with a wet thwack right on Jin's chest, sticking to his neon windbreaker for a split second before sliding down into his lap.
Both of you stared at the tiny creature. It flopped once, looking up at Jin with wide, unblinking eyes.
"Is... is that the shark?" you asked, breathless.
Jin looked down at the fish, then back at you. He looked genuinely moved. "Y/N... look at his face. He’s beautiful. He has my eyes."
"He's four inches long, Jin."
"He’s a fighter! He chose me!" Jin carefully cupped the fish in his hands, his expression softening into something incredibly sweet. "Hello, Little Seokjin. You are very brave to challenge the World Wide Handsome. But alas, our love is forbidden. You belong to the deep."
He leaned over the edge of the boat, gently lowering the fish back into the water. As it flicked its tail and disappeared, Jin sighed dramatically, wiping a phantom tear. "Go! Be free! Tell your friends of the man in the orange jacket who spared your life!"
~~~
The adrenaline of the "Big Catch" faded, leaving a comfortable, warm hum between you. The snacks had been eaten, the sun was high, and the boat swayed gently in the wake of a distant ship.
Jin had finally taken off the bucket hat, his dark hair messy and windswept. He looked less like a "maritime traffic cone" now and more like... just Seokjin. The man who made sure you had the best seat in the boat. The man who had been your best friend for years, hiding behind jokes so you wouldn't see how much he cared.
You realized you were staring.
"I know," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. He wasn't looking at the water anymore; he was looking at you. "The view is incredible. It’s hard to look away from something this perfect."
Usually, this was where he’d make a joke about his own reflection. But he didn't. He just kept his eyes locked on yours.
"The water is nice, yeah," you whispered, your heart starting to race.
"I wasn't talking about the water, Y/N."
The humor that usually acted as a shield between you was gone. Jin moved closer, shifting his weight until he was sitting right next to you on the narrow bench. The boat rocked, bringing your shoulders together.
"You've been laughing at my jokes all morning," he murmured, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, warm against your skin. "Even the bad ones."
"Especially the bad ones," you breathed.
The sun continued its slow descent toward the afternoon, and the water turned a deeper, inkier blue. The jokes had run dry for a moment, replaced by the comfortable exhaustion that comes from too much laughter.
Jin sat down on the floor of the boat next to you, leaning his back against the side. He pulled out two sodas from the cooler, handing one to you.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet, devoid of the usual theatricality.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for coming today. I know 4:00 AM is a lot to ask of someone."
"I wouldn't have done it for anyone else," you admitted, looking out at the horizon.
Jin took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze following yours. "I know I joke around a lot. I know I’m... a lot to handle sometimes. The 'WWH' stuff, the dad jokes, the screaming at fish..." He trailed off, a small, self-deprecating smile on his face. "Sometimes I think I use it as a way to make sure people are always smiling, so they don't look too closely at the person behind the noise."
You turned to look at him, surprised by the sudden vulnerability. "Jin, you don't have to perform for me. You know that, right?"
"I know," he murmured. He reached out, his fingers tracing the pattern on the boat's floor. "But it’s scary, isn't it? Being quiet. When it’s quiet, you have to actually say what’s on your mind. And what’s on my mind is usually... complicated."
He looked up at you then, and the intensity in his eyes made your breath hitch. The playful "traffic cone" was still gone. This was the man who stayed up late to practice his vocals until they were perfect, the man who felt the weight of being the eldest, the man who cared so deeply for his friends that it sometimes looked like it hurt.
"I brought you out here because it's the only place where the world feels small enough to manage," he said. "No cameras, no schedules, no expectations. Just the water. And you."
He paused, his thumb brushing against your wrist where it rested on the deck. "I’ve spent a lot of my life making sure everyone else is okay. Making sure the mood is light. But when I’m with you, I feel like I can just... be. I don't have to catch the biggest fish to impress you. I can get slapped in the face by a mackerel and know that you’ll still be here, laughing with me, not at me,” he said, his thumb now grazing your cheek. "I’m very good at catching things. I can catch fish. I can catch people's attention. But I’ve been trying to catch your heart for a long time, and I wasn't sure if I was using the right bait."
You let out a small, shaky laugh. "You don't need bait, Jin. You just need to be you."
Your heart felt like it was expanding, pressing against your ribs as you continued, "You never have to impress me, Seokjin. I’ve liked the 'person behind the noise' for a long time."
The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was heavy with everything neither of you had been brave enough to say in the city. The boat rocked gently, pushing you a few inches closer to him.
"For a long time?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "How long?"
"Longer than the 'Analog Records' AU," you joked weakly, trying to break the tension.
Jin laughed, but it was a soft, breathy sound. He reached out, his hand cupping the side of your face. His skin was warm, smelling of salt and sun. "Y/N, I'm a very confident man. I tell the whole world how handsome I am every single day. But right now? My heart is beating so fast I’m worried it’s going to scare the fish away."
You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut. "Let them be scared. I'm not going anywhere."
He leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn't. When his lips finally met yours, it wasn't chaotic or loud like the rest of the morning. It was soft, tasting of salt air and the lingering sweetness of the fruit he’d shared with you. It was a "perfectly timed" moment that had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with the man who had been waiting for this as long as you had.
When he pulled back, just an inch, he rested his forehead against yours.
"So," he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "Does this mean I get a second date? Or do I need to catch an actual shark next time?"
You laughed, pulling him back in by the collar of his ridiculous orange jacket. "No sharks. No traffic cone outfits. Just you."
"Good," he smirked, his eyes sparkling. "Because that squid bait was really starting to gross me out."
