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enhaflixer · 3 months ago

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Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

Academic Rival!Jake x f!Reader (Smut, Crack, Fluff) MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS

Jake Sim has one job—beat you in the race for the Harrison Fellowship. His strategy? Get close. Get under your skin. Get you too distracted to focus. His method? Kissing you stupid. Pressing you against walls. Finding out exactly how far he can push before you snap. The problem? You like to push back. Now, between tangled sheets, heated arguments, and “just one more time” turning into every damn night, Jake’s got a new problem. He’s not thinking about winning anymore. He’s thinking about you. 💔 “This was supposed to be a game. So why do I feel like I’m the one getting played?”

You drum your fingers against the desk, watching Professor Martinez pace at the front of the lecture hall. The midterm papers are stacked neatly in his arms, and you can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the two hundred students packed into the room.

But you're not anxious. Not really.

You know exactly what score awaits you—the same score you've received on every major assessment since freshman year: the highest in the class.

Your eyes drift across the lecture hall to where Jake Sim sits, surrounded by his usual entourage. Even now, minutes before receiving a grade that could make or break their GPA, they're laughing at something he's said. The sound of his rich laughter carries across the room, drawing more than a few admiring glances.

Jake Sim. Campus golden boy. The kind of person who walks into a room and immediately owns it. The kind of student professors mention in other classes. The kind of face that appears on university brochures—which it literally does, as he's been the unofficial "face" of the university's marketing materials since sophomore year.

He's also the only person who's ever come close to beating your scores.

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can’t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @kkamismom12 @princesstiti14

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taegularities · 1 year ago

Text

entertainer | jjk (m)

Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut!! ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, a shit ton of sexual tension, sexual fantasies, some jealousy from his side, he is very VERY attracted to her, mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, difficult past(s), (mention of) sexual harassment, mentioned past death of a side character, crying, fear, manipulation, confrontation and fighting, aggression, cursing, cocky and selfish kook, overthinking, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content: kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, dom jk, oc is odd, oral (f. receiving), spit stuff, handjob, manhandling, orgasm delay, lip ring…, light choking, bit of hair pulling, a spank or two, coming on oc, some cum tasting mmmh, ass stuff, protected sex, rough sex, various positions, masturbation; as always THE ENDING!! lmk if i forgot something!! ➳ wc: 32.4k ➳ a/n: MHMMM, it's finally time!! i experimented with the trope a little; def not a professional when it comes to this genre, but i tried my best. both oc and jk are odd in this one, and you might be on either's side and hate either of them, i can't say :'D very curious tho, so come and drop a message to lmk what you think. let it aaaall out :P <3

➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.

Not just to perceive him, in fact. To worship him.

Jungkook doesn’t consider himself a bad person. Spoiled, a little selfish, but not necessarily bad. He enjoys attention, no matter how temporary or who the giver of it. Feasts on it like an incubus.

What’s wrong with that? Nothing.

Or.

Maybe there is. Maybe he’s coming on too strong.

Because you’re not part of his audience, sitting over there, middle row, middle spot, with your eyes lowered to the notebook. And when you do look up, there’s nothing but indifference in your eyes.

It irks him. Maybe he is a little narcissistic, and maybe he can’t quite deny it after all — but as part of his future team, you should at least fake a smile, right? Display a certain amount of enthusiasm, the joy of working with aspiring artists.

But no.

You’re occupied, scribbling into your notebook. Jungkook, cognisant of the fact that he hasn’t issued much of significance today, understands that you cannot be taking notes of his words. And he also understands that… if that is true…

You’re not granting him as much fascination as he’s used to.

General admiration thrown into the same bucket as his unwavering talent — that he’s well aware of — might just be the reason he climbed up so high in no time. Sometimes, gentle livestreams and vlogs do the trick — locals have found reasons to adore him already.

At times, a good song and strong vocals aren’t necessary to woo people.

Jungkook, however, is insatiable — that’s what keeps him pondering at times. That it’s just the locals, and on an international scale, there’s still much to achieve.

But he’s not a quitter, he’s a conqueror.

And he’ll reach that mind-boggling status of a well-known, global icon, name flowing as naturally through the seam of people’s lips as a still-lying, tranquil lake.

Jungkook knows it’s cocky of him to praise himself to the skies and to rely on his resolute hopes so much. He knows life backfires sometimes, and that endeavours don’t always pay off. He only started as an insignificant city boy, too.

Survived the cruelty of elementary and middle school; shared a room with his brother, relying on him until he grew and learned to finally rule over high school; every single soul at his beck and call. Then, trudged through college before any of where he’s standing even existed.

But he’s here now. And people acknowledge it.

Except you.

And it throws him off his balance. Which is probably why he shortens the end of his speech, close to slurring distracted syllables before he realises he’s forgotten a prepared sentence or two.

No matter; the relevant and main message should have been delivered by now.

So he leans back in a chair in the back, flashing a captivating smile and waits for the applause. Somewhat proud when the praise needs a moment to cease for his manager to reclaim the mic, freeing the metaphorical stage, much in the form of a simple pult, for the CEO of the company.

Taehyung is savvy of how to regain control over a stage; Jungkook doesn’t know whether he fucked up his final remarks, but Taehyung summarises his ideas well. But the clapping does say a lot.

And between those raising their hands to appreciate Jungkook’s speech, you were, too. He knows because he looked directly at you; still is. And when your eyes drift to his, the two of you hold each other’s gazes for at least a couple seconds longer than the others.

And your smile, while present, is somewhat tight-lipped, a bit awkward but confident, too. Odd, as well; hard to explain, but as though you know what you want. As though you have your priorities set straight and cannot be swayed by anything the world might throw at you.

He doesn’t have a word for it. Poised? Self-reliant? Fearless? Can a single look even say this much or is he being delusional?

But this can’t be true, honestly. Nobody is this unperturbed or passive. He’ll find out.

Your stare aligns with his a couple more times over the next minutes, staying there before continuing the journey over the crowd. Jungkook’s eyebrows twitch just a little whenever your eyes pierce into his, so tantalising and deep, big sweet ires, but so conniving at the same time.

He doesn’t know your name, but he’s sure that it defines intrigue. And maybe, just perhaps, it might serve as the synonym for drop fucking dead gorgeous, too.

When Taehyung leads you to Jungkook’s stuffy studio, the latter hears your voice through the open door several seconds before you come in. Or actually, it’s not quite his studio.

More like a collective office that a couple of the newcomers use. Jungkook has been part of this crew a little longer, but he needs the additional success, more prosperity; he’s been told to yield more results to earn his very own four walls. Carrying his signature flavour.

But it’s okay. For now, this suffices…

The stench of coffee and the sound of the AC. The pot and plants that always rest in some corner of the room, courtesy of Taehyung who insists on some colour in the grey-white, small room. Jungkook has gotten used to it all.

Which is why it’s strange, seeing your splendour enter the small space, delighted by whatever Taehyung might be explaining. Your grin is the widest Jungkook has seen since yesterday.

He didn’t get to meet you properly yet, so he can’t say where your humour lies. Nobody introduced you, despite your new position as his very own, personal work partner. A second manager, here to guide and aid him when Taehyung can’t; and apparently, you’ve found some charm in Taehyung that you didn’t see in Jungkook during the stupid meeting.

Not that Jungkook would ever dare to doubt his friend’s appeal, but you’ve stormed into his life like a present, and so silently, too; and he wanted to be the one to open it. To reveal it.

Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.

Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.

A motherly blanket of praises and fatherly pats of pride. That’s what’s gotten his head so riled up. He was coddled too much as a child. Made felt special. That’s over now, Jeon, you’re in an industry filled to the brim with competition.

Chill chill chill.

But now?

With that alluring smile staring up at Taehyung, only hints of it left when your eyes move to Jungkook. Fuck.

But Jungkook’s stance remains steadfast and self-assured when he greets, “Hi there. Welcome at last, huh?”

Jungkook notices when your mind snaps out of the conversation with Taehyung and into the one he started; a gentle hand frees your face off your hair to enable a proper view to it. The other is still dug deep in the pocket of your leather jacket, covering parts of the white top underneath.

Semi-long, silver earrings rest right below your ear, against your neck when you tilt your head a little; your expression so respectful and inviting when you smile. Jungkook inhales you in that one split moment, details stinging into the eye without much effort.

And perhaps he’d observe more, appreciate your stunning, obvious beauty and elegance further; but time passes as it does before you finally utter your very first sentence to him, “Hi. Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, but… thank you for having me.”

That’s sweet.

Your words are reminiscent of the adoration his fans grant him, but your expression is as cool as a refreshing autumn wind. The perfect balance, possibly.

Jungkook gestures to a small couch in the back, right next to the door, but you raise a rejecting hand, claiming, “Been sitting all day observing Taehyung. Need to walk a bit.”

And you do. Deliver a last farewell nod to Taehyung who waves a little, gripping the handle and locking you in the room with the younger man nearly drooling over you.

The hand hidden in the jacket before has emerged, arms loosely folded as you take in the interior of the studio, allowing no more insight into your thoughts than, “Nice.”

Jungkook hums in distracted agreement, standing at the wall, watching you roam around the humble space in small steps. It’s odd, being in here with you; the atmosphere fizzles, a little less like electricity, just a bit more than carbonic acid.

But the moment was to arrive anyway; you’ll be a close link to Jungkook from now on. Of course you need to familiarise yourself with his space, too. So far, you seem to have an opinion on it already.

“Easy to trigger claustrophobia, but,” you walk through the open door to the darker recording room, tapping the mic for a moment, “cosy, too. Very cool equipment.”

“Yeah. I agree.” Pause, eyes dropping to your fingers grazing the stand of the mic. Then, “I would’ve come to you today… or yesterday for that matter, but things were so chaotic and—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you assure, waving his concerns off, “I could see people rushing around and preparing the moment I got here. I’m probably not the main concern right now among everybody.”

“Nah, that’s not it. We have a great team here.” You step out again, hands folding behind your back until you’re leaning against the wall opposite of him, mirroring his stance. “I’m sorry you arrived at such a stressful time, though.”

“Not your fault. I decided so myself fully knowing you were in the middle of something.”

Ah. So you’ve seen his interviews, read the news. You came here with sufficient knowledge about him, alright.

“Really though,” you continue, blinking slowly, “I’m just glad to be here at all.”

Ah. Yes — about that.

“What brought you to our company anyway?” Jungkook asks, coating his voice in sugar to decrease the risk of unintentional and prying rudeness. “I mean — it’s been a while since somebody joined the main team, is all.”

“Oh. What brought me here…” You slide down the wall just a few inches, staring at your feet before you meet his eyes again. Something flashes in them for a miniscule second, albeit too brief to be caught and analysed. Then, you say, “Sentiments?”

Jungkook gathers words of confusion the moment you utter yours, a question already on his tongue. Has he been here long enough to evoke sentiments in his followers? Or do you veil a whole different connection to this company than he might understand?

Who knows. It doesn’t feel too deep, at least, when you speak again, elaborating when his eyes reveal his bedazzlement before he can, “I mean, I like your work.”

Okay. So much he interpreted; and he must admit — the feeling of pride is a thoroughly unique one.

“I think you’ve been deserving of your growth, and I just,” you speak, shrugging your shoulders, digging one heel into the solid ground, “I could never stop thinking of what I’d say or do if I was here or how I’d try to help, even though I’m not a true musical genius like you.”

This is so excitingly new.

How poised you remain as you talk about your fascination for him; how carefully you choose your words. He’s met fans before, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever practised such control over themselves.

And harbouring such emotions for a tiny little celebrity like him while simultaneously treating him like a human being is an art you’ve well mastered. Despite Jungkook’s urge to feel loved and worshipped to a dependent degree, you’re an incredibly attractive change in pace.

Ugh.

Dependent degree.

Although, he does wonder what you’d be like if you fawned over him.

Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.

“So,” he starts, “you’re here because you’re a fan.”

“Mmmh. Kind of. My friends started it and then pulled me into this. Honestly, at first I couldn’t imagine ever getting into your stuff.”

Your gaze moved down to your trainers a mere moment ago; whether to hide your expression or give into a habit, Jungkook can’t say. But the honesty surprises him; even stings a little as he voices, “Oh?”

Your head shoots up, lips forming a circle before you imitate, “Oh. Wait. That was… pretty rude.” You seek confirmation or denial in Jungkook’s eyes, and when his slightly wrinkled forehead, tight-lipped smile reveals the answer, you immediately opt for an apology, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it then?”

“Just that.” You fiddle in your position, bringing your digits to waist level. Then, you laugh; a rhythmic sound. “Okay, don’t hate me, but. I was one to judge a book by its cover, and you had this young adult too-confident-too-sly something about you. But your music’s surprisingly sentimental.”

Jungkook halts for a moment, moving his head to side-eye you; producing a hoarse Uhhh before he admits, “I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or fully destroying me.”

Another lovely laugh. “I am complimenting you. To be fully transparent, I was probably, uh, biased? Because my friend. They have a knack for usually pulling very questionable men, so I probably just didn’t entirely trust their intuition.”

“Fair enough. I guess?” Jungkook matches the softness of your giggle, nodding towards you, “And now you do?”

“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”

Jungkook must be stupid. Of course you won’t be able to deduce much from the first meeting yet; perhaps the flirting needs to slow down for just now. You seem the patient kind; much like now, letting the quick silence prevail without much struggle.

No sign of awkwardness surrounds your aura; only a hint of… suspicion? Flashing into your eyes when you let them move through the room again, freezing right next to Jungkook’s head. You’re not looking at him, but at something past him; but you don’t question nor voice anything.

Merely return to his stare with a smile, and he uses the moment to pour some courteous manners into the mix, asking, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, water? A Red Bull?”

But you immediately raise a hand, shaking your head, “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve already got caffeine flowing there instead of blood,” you slide a finger along your arm, indicating a vein under your layers, “I just mainly came to say hi and to introduce myself. And to ask if I can help anyhow.”

“Ah… well, uh,” Jungkook halts mid-sentence, throwing a look around as though he’s searching for something to appear before he concludes, “don’t think so. I was in the middle of some production work, but don’t think I need much.”

“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”

“But,” Jungkook intervenes immediately, adamant on keeping you around. Maybe he can wrap up work earlier today? Bring you home? Probably not — not on Taehyung’s watch. “Maybe you can tell me what you think once I’m done?

“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Would have an excuse for your company, too, then.”

The laugh that follows is so subtle that Jungkook barely hears it. It doesn’t leave your throat, stuck in there, just a tiny sound reminiscent of amused bafflement.

Jungkook knows his way around words — understands what his utterances and implications usually apply. But somehow, not too many people have been the calmer ones in the room; aside from his superiors at work, not having the upper hand is new to him.

So you set a fuse loose in him; destroy a nerve in his brain, changing up his communication habits. Because he certainly did not mean to say this out loud. And not in such a sense either.

He adds quickly, “I mean, it gets lonely here.”

“Right…” you concur, albeit weakly and with somewhat… entertained mystery in your eyes? He can’t say. It’s as though you’re wearing your face as a mask, undecipherable. “I get it. Even though your studio is cosy enough to enjoy your own company at times, right?”

“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”

He cards his fingers through his hair, aware that he is probably more than an open book right now; his usual perfect poker face does not work with you.

Why?

Weird.

“Got a couple things here that are mine, though. Yoongi and the others allowed me,” he adds.

“Ah… Like…”

Surprisingly enough, you take another look through the tiny room, possibly trying to detect something you didn’t see before. Regarding details. Then, you settle next to his head once again… and once Jungkook moves his eyes off you for the first time since you came in, he sees what you see.

Which is to say, nothing much out of the ordinary. In fact, the most trivial thing in the room.

“Like that?” you voice, pushing yourself off the wall to near his relaxed body. The scent of your perfume wafts through the room before you’re close enough; tenderly grazing his senses. “What’s that?”

Focus.

Your finger points to the object next to him, hanging at a nail at the wall; dark blue with white letters on it. Pretty mundane, pretty basic design.

“Just… a cap I bought back in college.”

You read out the name, pronouncing it perfectly, yet slowing down as if you’re learning a new foreign term. The sudden inquiry is strange, too: you don’t seem as truly curious about it as your question did; perhaps you’re playing for some time with him, too?

He wouldn’t hate it if you did.

“Do you know that one?” he questions.

You nod; a main hint as to why you wanted to know, yet indicating that the knowledge wasn’t of much significance. You say, “Isn’t it a popular one? I had a few friends who went there.”

“Hm… yeah, I mean. I guess it’s a known one. I got a degree there in broadcasting and entertainment like… four years ago.”

You exhale a barely audible puff of air before you whisper-murmur the most infinitesimal, petite, “Damn,” underscored with one indecipherable tilt of your head. He can’t see your eyes too well, so the reaction remains as transparent as you have been thus far.

Until he raises a thick eyebrow, confusion hidden in a somewhat relaxed yet awkward smile as he wonders, “What?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing, just. It’s impressive how much you’ve achieved in just four years, right?”

“…Well. If you say it like that, it does sound pretty neat.”

The bubble of pride expands alongside his ego; right beneath his chest. Somehow, the feeling changes his posture, makes him feel bigger.

Perhaps you notice what your praise elicits; perhaps you’ve already fathomed his persona that he usually doesn’t dare to reveal this fast. But whatever he conceals with his fans, lies in front of you with an open access.

You make it easy to feel comfortable; he doesn’t need to know you too long to acknowledge this much.

“I graduated not too long ago, too. Three years?”

“Oh… then look at you,” Jungkook compliments, using the moment as an excuse to examine you further; head to toe and back. Your legs are crossed, upper body and face confident, but the position somehow delicate. Hm. “You’re quite awesome, too, don’t you think?”

“I mean— took a while to get here.”

“Right. So what have you been doing during this time since graduation?”

Whatever distraction you have found in the cap seems to break as you silently forage your brain for a response; possibly attempting not to divulge too much. And your answer is accordingly hesitant, though never dubious.

“Saving up? Preparing for life, I guess. And waiting for a good opportunity.”

For what? Do you usually keep your statements in fragments?

He prods, “To do what?”

“Well, to do,” you gesture to the wall in front of you, albeit clearly hinting to the situation, “this. Hoping to change everyone’s lives around here.”

You smile wide, the joke obvious as can be, but Jungkook can’t help but think that you might not be too far off. Unique minds alter brain chemistries; there’s something unforgettable and magnetising about them, and Jungkook steadfastly believes his intuition that you might just be one of them.

For the first time ever, he murmurs your name, delighted by how easily it melts on his tongue. It falls out breathier than he intended to, but when you tilt your head, the intrigue in your pupils inexplicably matches his tone.

He adds to your name, eyelids drooping just a bit, “So… you’ll turn out a long awaited surprise, huh?”

And you, against all expectations, lean in for just a minimal, not too inconsequential moment, hands back in your jacket. It’s a playful, harmless motion as you move back on your heels, then steady yourself again, bodies and faces still far away. You could’ve just as well given him a pat on his shoulder.

But there’s something in the way you look at him, tempted and ominous at the same time. He can’t say what you’re thinking because every feature in your face implies something different.

Even more so confusing what methods for success you came into this company with when you finally say, no pretext or further clarifications, “I really do hope so.”

“Do you come here a lot?”

Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.

The white walls in the rooms of the company building reflect the sun in the summer and maintain a sense of optimism in the winter. They’re what Jungkook imagines waiting halls before Heaven to look like.

Then the fluorescent vibrancy in his apartment. And the sunlit sky, albeit cold in this winter, giving way to the planetary system’s star through the floating, parting clouds.

Even this modern art museum with its complex design, winding staircases, glass walls and high ceiling. It lets through an abundance of light, unaware of the balance Jungkook usually craves.

Dark and light — a healthy mix.

It’s why he cherishes the comfort of the recording studio so much. Its dim walls and the silence, so unlike the hallways outside of it. Or why he prefers his apartment unlit, often merely allowing the few lava lamps to illuminate his rooms.

But again… it’s only a balance he usually craves.

Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.

Because you’re part of it.

Clad in a beige long-sleeved cotton top, slight turtleneck included. It doesn’t fully cover your neck, still revealing a mole similar to his. It’s tucked into your light brown skirt; your legs are covered in sheer tights, crossed. A gentle hand holds the strap of your bag. Light academia at its finest; somewhat soothing, and somewhat radiant.

You look at him with an initially neutral expression, surprised that someone spoke to you, but more relaxed when you realise it’s him.

“Oh,” you voice; the faintest autumn-tinted smile tugs at your lips. “Hey! I, uh…” Your gaze flits to the painting in front of you, then back to him. “Not at all actually. Which… surprising.”

You gesture towards him before you grant him more of your silky voice, asking, “Do you? Come here much?”

Your eyes are indecipherable to him, cheeks dusted in natural make up. All the damn time, you sport this relaxed, unbreakable mask, and he can’t quite guess what you might be thinking about.

It’s so easy with anyone else. You’re like a scene from BBC’s Sherlock, embodying Irene Adler’s mystery.

But maybe your guard can be broken, too.

“Not really,” he admits, “only when pretty people are around.”

A weak attempt, but it makes your eyebrow cock in amusement. He knows you are, because the hint of mischief that scurries over your face resembles his own.

“Ah, and you happen to know when pretty people are around. Or did you follow me here?” you, however, ask.

It’s an obvious inquiry, but weirdly enough, he didn’t expect it. You exhibit the first sign of a proper, humane emotion. Delivering three quick blinks, voice quiet, suspicion swims in your eyes, slightly irritated.

Or even… scared?

You can’t truly be.

So he backtracks, slightly angling his head. He sighs — hiding how much his lungs crave a breath of air. He doesn’t want to scare you off just yet.

“No,” he defends, “of course not. I was just joking.”

“So… I’m not pretty?”

Oh. Oh?

Perhaps he misinterpreted your expression. Perhaps you’re merely a good actress; messing with him as he is with you. The smirk suggests this much, at least.

Perplexed, he holds his breath before letting out a choked laugh; the head tilt and click of his tongue carry a sliver of scolding before he admits, “That’s pretty frustrating, I won’t lie.”

“I’m just kidding, too. It’s a big exhibition. I expected a familiar face here.”

Why is there something so devilish about you?

He can’t say; maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s enough to join the game, to be just as cocky and see how you react.

Perhaps he’s being selfish and too certain of himself, and in the worst case, he might just be imagining the tension buzzing between you like sparks off an electric fence. But does he have anything to lose, really?

Barely ever.

“Then,” he begins, “is it a good face?”

“All the art around us and you want me to admire you, huh?”

“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”

Jungkook is bold, he’ll admit. He hasn’t always been — he remembers a time spent in the back of classes, preferring to eat lunch alone. Did college tug him out of his shell? Was it senior year?

Then again — did that one kill the timidness in his heart or rather the last shred of humanity?

Maybe his cold matches yours, too. Is that why he feels so drawn to you?

Because you’re as bold as him; you don’t sugarcoat words and thoughts. And Jungkook appreciates the honesty, the ingredient to actual success — even if it’s achingly direct.

Like now.

You uncross your legs; your hips move in an elegant curve, and Jungkook attempts his best to keep his eyes off the arcs of your body. Focuses as you say, “You shouldn’t be flirting with a coworker, Mister Jeon.”

“Wait. I thought we were warming up to each other. Don’t demote me from Jungkook to Mister Jeon now.” You chuckle; that’s something, right? “Besides, I was just conversing. We need to spend all our time together now, so better get along, right?”

Right. Right; of course he’s right.

But… what is that?

It lingers for the faintest of moments, just a glimpse of an unspoken feeling, gone with the next blink. In this crowd of unsuspecting visitors you’re the closest to him physically, but your thoughts are miles and centuries away.

“Maybe you’re right,” you still say, as if whooshing away all unwelcome sentiments, “then I should not… dodge your conversation, right?”

“Sure.”

“Behave, though.”

He’s so confused — but not deep in this enough to question it. So he merely shrugs his shoulder before he responds, “I have been. I can converse, alright.”

“Right.”

“Like… first of all,” he steps closer, raising a hand, gesturing for you to walk on as new admirers of the modern piece approach, “tell me, have we met before? Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You halt in your steps, but immediately resume to the stroll when a stranger nearly bumps into you. “You’re doing it again.”

He’s honestly not. The aura surrounding you like an ominous fog is omnipresent and eerie, yet… you carry a sense of familiarity. But you’re a presence too distinct to ever forget.

Which doesn’t help his case.

“Yeah,” he still agrees before potentially embarrassing himself, kissing his teeth, “sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done this a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.

You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?

Yet.

You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.

Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices when the two of you halt in front of another piece. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me that way?”

You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.

“Then,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”

You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.

But somehow, he only sees a calm ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is gentle, but wrapped in dark mystery. How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?

When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly strange things.

“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”

“And it’s not, yeah?”

“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must have been a trigger, or a thought about something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A soft hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”

Interesting…

“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.

You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”

“Ohhh. Like what?”

“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibit made me realise how this colour makes me cry.”

Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking now. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.

You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who earn it.”

Earn it? How?

Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?

And then…

If that’s what it is.

He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack.

“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.

“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your stare. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”

“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”

Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like that when you were in his office, or at the meeting. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.

And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.

But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.

One who shrugs all the mystery away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.

He inquires, “Are you always this open?”

“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”

“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”

“Yeah. I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Out of the blue, too. Strokes his ego, though. And then, unexpectedly again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”

Jungkook has barely seen half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.

Perhaps it’s enough for now, sitting in this overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.

Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.

But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.

Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”

“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”

Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as heck. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for the two of us.”

You laugh — a sweet, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”

Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip in his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. It’s always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.

He sighs.

“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.

And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, two perfectly prepared lattes and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge slice. You thank her with a gentle smile, tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing the dangling earring.

And he watches.

Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”

Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.

And then… God.

He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head, through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.

Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance at snail's pace… makes him sick.

When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sounds around him come alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.

You see him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.

But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try it.”

You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — then again, maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.

But making you smile must be an achievement. If only… you didn’t think of him like…

He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.

He wishes he could.

His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him relax, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… it’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”

“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you lovely. And somewhat attractive.”

People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t quite budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?

Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”

He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”

Is it the habit of never failing? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?

You’re just a person.

Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest in peace. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. Makes him want you more.

He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before. No matter what it is; Jungkook merely understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.

Wants to be the colour green for you.

“Ah—” you voice.

“In fact, I’m not supposed to hang out here with you.”

“…How come?”

“I should be with Tae,” he admits. Maybe he’s revealing more to you than he should — maybe he should adjust to your level of secrecy and wait. But this is frustrating him. “He dragged me here, so I could get inspiration from all sides.”

You listen; perhaps not quite loving the idea of seeing him in such a way?

Fuck. Maybe it really was a mistake. No turning back now, though.

“He said artists find motivation in art, too, and I do like to paint, so…” He looks at his cup, still left to be tried from, and then stares up from the cream leaf that the barista formed in his coffee. “I didn’t wanna come here, though. I already have an idea of what I want to do.”

“And…” you start, still not addressing the issue on hand; choosing to talk about something else for now, “he doesn’t like what you’ve come up with?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t know about it yet.”

You take a sip of your coffee, softly smacking your lips once to relish the taste. You’re living proof that subtle gestures can make a mind race. Then you say, “Maybe you should introduce it to him then.”

“I will. Just… mmh, need a better grasp on it.” He throws a nod towards you. “I can’t wait to show you either.”

Another sip of the seething liquid.

If the gentle hint of him being bent on your presence flatters you anyhow — stirs anything in you at all — you don’t let it show. Are you, by chance, used to being swarmed from all sides?

Are his advances kindergarten to you?

You don’t budge as he waits for you to respond, setting the cup back on your saucer before you inquire, “Where is Taehyung, anyway then?”

“Uh, I’m sure he’s going around admiring the art?” Jungkook guesses, head reflexively moving to the side, as if his friend and co-worker could materialise out of thin air. “He enjoys it even more than I do.”

“And you separated from him because…”

Because Jungkook ascended a spiral staircase. Because he turned right and halted in front of the second instead of the first room. Because he recognised the familiar curves and edges, as intriguing as ever, from this far distance.

And told Taehyung to continue without him; that Jungkook was going to explore a different corner of the museum.

He tilts his head; his left eyebrow raises just a twitch, fingertips tapping the hot surface of the coffee cup. And then, charisma gathered in the middle of his pupils, he tells you—

“Because I found you.”

There it is.

The slightest of reactions.

Your eyes widen barely an inch, but he sees it. How your lips part a bit, even though you should’ve expected his answer after the conversations hitherto shared. Hm…

“So you did follow me,” you say.

He can’t say if you’re joking or not. But all of a sudden, he wonders if he’s creeped you out. He opted for flirting so clearly, but… maybe you interpreted it vastly differently.

But he keeps himself relaxed; not faltering now when you aren’t either. Answers, “If you want to call it that. I call it finding you and then sticking with you. You’re interesting, Miss Manager.”

You smile.

Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.

The beam reveals more than any word could’ve today — that humanity slumbers somewhere in the crevices of your heart. Your eyes suggest it as much as your stance on art did.

Whatever might have scarred you in life, behind all that ache, you hide a delicate soul.

Green, green, green.

And your cryptic worry, uttered a moment later, doesn’t bring him down from his sense of victory. No. Not now.

“Yeah?” You cross your legs, letting out a breathy sigh. “Then I sincerely hope that doesn’t change.”

[6:43PM] Jeon Jungkook: i’ve been thinking about something. and of you

For a bedroom as sparsely decorated and light-coloured as Jungkook’s, he should be surrounded by a brilliant glow. And usually, he is.

The windows occupy half of the wall, the bedsheets a perfect white; had he texted you a couple hours prior, he would’ve found himself in the gleam of a pale blue late winter sky. But if he’d tapped your name on his device earlier, he would’ve indulged in a whole different mood, too.

Wouldn’t have given into fatigued, delirious fantasies. Daydreaming about the curves of your lips and about the single strands of hair kissing your cheeks. Or the way you love exposing your neck, as if to taunt him.

It’s right there, but you can’t touch it, Jeon.

And…

And the mounds of your chest, slivers of it visible whenever you put on those heaven sent dresses. Their cuts are almost as deep as the ones damaging Jungkook’s brain. And not much for the sake of his sanity, the thirst isn’t quenched just yet.

Crossed legs badly hidden under your see-through tights. The movement of your hips when you walk into his studio, placing yet another gruesome schedule onto his desk. Your scent when you lean into him, pointing to another meeting he barely recalls.

You… you…

If Jungkook hadn’t already cleaned up the sloppy mess previously covering his knuckles, trickling down his thighs, he’d possibly give into the urge to sneak his fingers back to where he craves them to linger.

No, you made that mess.

Of his sheets, of him. And you never needed to be here in the first place.

Jungkook is no fool — unlike many of his friends, he doesn’t deny the way his body winds. He knows what he wants; and right now, he hungers for you. Wants you to eliminate the drought on his tongue; wants you to replace it with some taste instead.

“Fuuuuck.”

The word drags into the emptiness of the room, filling the silence that someone else should be lifting. But you’re not here, and you’re not answering. Not yet, at least. Has it been seconds or minutes?

Too long, is all he knows.

His digits are cleaned thoroughly, but he can’t shake the persisting feeling of sheer, dirty lust as they reach his phone again. Lighting up the screen, then curling inwards in frustration.

He repeats the desperate attempt of manifestation a couple times until he throws the device aside, nearly missing the mid-air vibrations, indicating the long-awaited message. Jungkook’s heart falls out of his ribcage and squeezes his guts; your name elicits far more than it should.

And he feels just a little guilty.

Because he doesn’t deny himself any pleasure — so he knows this isn’t love. This isn’t starving for emotionality. Not for sentiments. What you pull out might be his ugliest, beastliest side; his mind is filled with images of you that he shouldn’t be having.

You’re so respected. So tender and kind. Intriguing, a riddle, but inhabiting secrets probably far darker than his thoughts. So he feels odd about the wanton desire; feels guilty.

But just for a bit. Just a little.

The message you sent back is too humble, too innocent. Sometimes he reckons you’re aware of your power, and sometimes he assumes you think of yourself as… ordinary.

But you’re not. And he wants to show you.

Just one touch, please.

“Fuck, shut up, you creep,” Jungkook whispers to himself, scolding his treacherous mind before he reads again.

[6:52PM] You: Oh? Why would you be thinking about me? Of all people?

Should he wait? You did, too.

Or should he make as crystal clear as he can muster that he’s been waiting for you?

Screw it.

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: what else should I be thinking of?

Your next response is immediate — you’re online. Waiting for him to answer.

Good.

[6:53PM] You: Your music?

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: my music doesn’t talk to me as much as you do these days

He smirks. Keeps the beam plastered to his face until the waiting becomes a little too long. Message on read, you leave the chat room empty of you and full of a nervy Jungkook. He opts out of it the same second, keen on patience before it fades again, bit by bit.

Because then, the thoughts flood in.

Are you rolling your eyes? Throwing the phone into a corner of your couch? Has he fucked up before anything could start?

But it’s been going so well. You talk to him every single day. Ever since the museum, the two of you have been orbiting each other; partly due to work, partly because he’s caught you smiling, too.

Your words are too sickeningly often accompanied by a soft touch of yours against his shoulders; against his arms. Sometimes, you brush his back, his eyes wide awake, the smile timid yet crushingly losing against your confident gaze.

All this must mean something.

“Nah. Fuck it,” he mutters again, sighing over his own constant use of curses. “Come back.”

[6:55PM] Jeon Jungkook: actually… I did come up with one tune. It’s just a skeleton of a song tbh, but I need a sounding board.

It takes another one minute for you to come back, and Jungkook angles his legs, relying on the movements of his body to ease the impatience. But then—

[6:56PM] You: Oh, and? [6:56PM] You: Sorry, I had to step away for a sec

Sigh of relief. Even though embarrassment annoyingly adds itself to the mix, an uninvited guest.

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: …do you wanna come to the studio?

[6:57PM] You: Right now? It’s like… [6:57PM] You: 7pm

Unconsciously, Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, unbothered to the bone, just craving, craving, craving…

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: a true artist never rests. [6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: and I’d rather die than stop hustling for my passion

As the next message appears at the bottom of the screen, Jungkook can’t help but bite into his lower lip with a certain pride. He nods as if he caught his prey, trapping it between his fangs.

[6:58PM] You: 😂LOL. now that, I admire, mister Jeon :) [6:58PM] You: I’ll finish my wine and be on my way

Oh.

Are you tipsy? Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but the emoji seems so unlike you; yet, you somehow manage to capture the core of what and who you are in the rest of the message. Six coherent words. That’s all it takes.

Goddamn.

You’re so thoroughly you.

[6:59PM] Jeon Jungkook: wait. really?

And that’s it. You disappear.

Perhaps you’re joking; perhaps you’re messing with him. The sun has already set; and he doesn’t think he’s ever stayed with you much longer than dusk before.

If he met you in the evening, or on other nights, would you make more sense than you usually do? Are you the type to unravel when the world quiets down? Or the one to blend with the darkness more, drawing back further?

If there’s pure truth in what you just said, devoid of all mockery you could revert to… he might find out. And it seems you’re in the right mood today, earnest with your intentions when he feels his phone vibrate against his thick thigh again, making him flinch.

[7:11PM] You: Yes? I’m already dressed. Get your ass up

Oh shit.

Despite your order, his limbs still shut down. His muscles and bones melt into the bed, a fleeting image of your sly smirk crossing his mind and an assured voice surrounding his eardrums.

And if he didn’t overthink each of your movements; didn’t fantasise about the possible rise and fall of your voice, he would’ve discarded his phone and gotten dressed a lot earlier.

How embarrassing.

The fact that his mind doesn’t want to categorise this as a crush, no matter how much he asks. That his body responds to you like that, superficial and intrigued.

Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.

Yet, he can’t be bothered with the intruding sentiment, shame shoved aside and trampled under his feet as his car turns into a parking lot, perfectly in front of the building’s entrance. Your form is crystal clear in the dark; not even the shadows and lack of light can hide your silhouette.

The radar sensor beeps when he creeps too close to the hood of the car behind him, and he mumbles a curse, averting his eyes from your unmoving self to focus on proper parking. Letting the roaring engine die.

Your shoulders are slightly raised when he approaches you at the door. One hand is stuffed in the pocket of your thin, baby pink coat, the other curled into a fist, possibly resisting the urge to enter the building and combat the cold.

You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…

Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.

You smile, lips reaching far up; he tries his hardest to believe he’s right. Takes the gesture as a good omen, and the hair pulled up in a loose bun as a sign of hurry. You look domestic, comfortable in your skin, no matter who’s around.

But somewhere between the comfort and the softness, there’s that everlingering intrigue, too. And… some timidness. Showing in the crossed legs his eyes drift over, up to the short skirt barely visible underneath the coat.

And your face… so natural. More than usual. Mascara only? He doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he needs to say something.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you throw back, tilting your head in tease, “where were you? Took you long enough to get here.”

He steps closer; fiddling with his jacket’s pocket, fishing for the keys. And his proximity changes something about you so subtly, a miniscule movement. Hand digging deeper into your coat.

You’re on guard for some reason. And he can’t help but admit he’s on guard with you, too, albeit in a less physical and more mental way. The unfathomable, dichotomous sensation of wanting you near, wanting you far is killing him.

What are you hiding?

If he could, he’d speak it out loud.

“I had to freshen up,” he finally responds, “I honestly didn’t expect you to say yes.”

Your body might be in protection mode, but your voice is as composed, even somewhat amused, as always, “Well.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why. But I’m here now, and honestly… a little cold?” Nodding towards the door, “Should we go inside?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He sniffles, fishing for the chip to unlock the door. For an ephemeral second right before walking inside, your breath lingers incredibly close to his own, grazing his lip ring. “Don’t forget to dress warm this season.”

Near enough for his fingers to succumb to the impulse and sidle to you, skimming your thigh so featherlightly. He thinks he hears the sharp inhale you suck in. His skin tickles, the shiver icy on his body. He watches you smirk, lowering your head; his fingertips insist on the vicinity just for the tiniest seconds before he says,

“Okay. Let's go inside before you catch a cold, silly.”

But the bitter frost permeates the hallways of the company in the same ruthless manner. Perhaps somebody’s still lingering around in the daunting dark. Revising steps in the mirrored practice rooms or hovering above lyrics and tunes, neck bent and back tired.

But the building isn’t heated; and it shows in your rather quick steps, an arm wrapped around your chest to rub the layers above your arm. The guarded demeanour doesn’t match your usual confidence; aside from the hollow hallways, it seems that you’re scared of more than just the cold.

He doesn’t point it out. And he doesn’t stare for too long.

If he did, you might realise.

Instead, he saunters to the elevator with you in tow, delighted about the light that never changes in the small rectangular space. You let your hand drop to your purse, lazily toying with its zip, and turn your head to observe the closing doors.

And Jungkook observes you.

The glow of your cheeks in the bright beam, half of your face devoid of the hair tucked behind your ear. As you breathe in, your lips split a fraction, and their gentle, soft curves mesmerise him for a moment too long.

It’s difficult and cruel, being around you. Haunting, agonising, aggravating.

And when your eyes align with his again, sparkling a little in line with your tender smile, Jungkook realises that he’s been holding his breath. Because it escapes between the seam of his mouth in a sudden push, his knees nearly buckling.

He resists the urge to bite into his fist, instead disguising his thoughts when he covers his mouth, teeth digging into his plump, lower lips.

“So,” he quickly adds, leaving no space for you to question his eccentricity, but you initiate another convo in the same tiny second, “It’s…”

You pause, withholding your statement in order to listen to his. But he shakes his head, lifting a hand to sign for you to continue. So you say, “It’s a little scary here at night.”

Okay. Not that tough of a topic.

“Right?” he confirms. “I always imagine getting here and hearing a hum that’s not really there.”

“Uh…” You blink in disbelief, lifting your eyebrows, but when he shrugs your confusion away, your hesitation marker turns into a chuckle. “Why the hell would you say that?”

“It’s just something I imagine. It’s terrifying, but my mind goes places, and I never ask it to.”

“Well, it’s a mean thing of your mind to do.” The ding of the elevator distracts you, and when you step out, your thoughts remain at an afar spot. Kept inside your pretty little head until you whisper, “And? Have you ever heard it, then?”

“Hm? The hum?” You nod, and he suppresses the snicker your curious, cocked eyebrow nearly elicits. “No. Only myself. Humming helps me control my breathing, so I do it to practise.”

“Weird. It’s so different from how I’d imagine you.”

Huh. Seems he’s not the only one sketching your entire being to keep himself awake at night.

“How would you?” he asks.

“As a rockstar?”

“Oh?” That’s new. “As a future RnB slash pop sensation I find this officially peculiar. Why a rockstar?”

You cock an eyebrow; either digesting the confident prophecy or pondering his question. The crooked smile matches his own signature smirk a little, and you puff out a breath before your sombre yet sparkling eyes wander an inch further down, right to his mouth.

Your eyelashes are endless, on their way to brush those delicate apples of your cheeks — in reality, it’s an impossible fantasy written in novels and poems, but it’s exactly how it looks. Exactly how much your curious gaze drops.

Only, the tingling sensation in his chest soon subsides, freeing a path to the realisation that he’s yet again misunderstanding. Because you’re not drawn by his lips, but rather considering a response.

He sighs in subtle disappointment when you point to the shiny metal encircling his lower lip, telling him, “Gotta be the piercing.”

“Ah. Ahhh. Well. First off, this is a very stereotypical assumption.” You shrug your shoulders in amusement, watching him cram for his chip until he halts in front of his studio, keeping you in his vision. “And secondly.”

The lock of the door clicks as he swipes the chip across the reader, defined knuckles paling a bit when he pushes the handle down. He raises his chin by a fraction, pulling out the most-assured smile, and asks, “Do you like it?”

And you, composed as ever, respond, “It suits you. I always wonder how comfortable these are, though.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, like. Do they have a metal taste? Do you ever get hyper aware of them and then get annoyed and want them off? Are they… cold?”

He laughs. There’s something endearing about how your voice quietens further the more your curiosity grows. You’re not quite looking at him, pupils focused on a random spot, hands expressive as you vocalise your thoughts.

“Let’s see,” he mutters, jacket thrown over a chair, “sometimes and, again, sometimes. It feels a bit cold right now because it’s cold outside. I mean…”

He rubs the chill off his tattooed arm, fingers diving under the short sleeves of his white, oversized t-shirt. Attempts never faltering, he leans into you in intrigue, parting his lips before running his tongue over the jewellery.

“Do you just. Wanna touch it and find out for yourself?”

You blink, frozen in place.

The room isn’t too spacious; Jungkook will get his very own studio, name tag and all once he reaches a clear peak. For once, he’s glad about the crowded room, girded by a guitar on the wall, chairs standing side by side, a little couch leaning against the back of the wall.

As ever, he can’t decipher your mood; as ever, you’re still quick to answer, “I… no. It’s okay.”

Why don’t you want him?

Goddamn it.

“Okay,” he simply utters, shrugging his vexation away. “Let’s get started then.”

The excitement in his tone dips, seemingly aloof, but as he walks into the dark square of silence, reaching for the headphones he placed right here mere hours ago, wordless curses dangle off the tip of his tongue.

He makes sure you don’t see the clench of his jaw or the fast and steady fall of his ego, but you’re shoving back the chair and adjusting anyway. Crossing tight-clad legs as you place your coat on your lap, throwing your mane to one side to free that damned neck.

It must be on purpose.

He waits for you to settle, the headphones on the table in front of you enveloping your head. They look way too big on you, and Jungkook can’t decide whether to tut at his anguish or swoon at your stellar being.

Jungkook uses his headphones to communicate through the glass, raising a thumb to ask, “Ready?” You nod, matching his gestures with your own. “Be honest, how professional do I look?”

Carding the fine hair back, he pushes a hand into the pocket of his pants, taking a stand in front of the boom microphone. He mimes a typical grimace of an immersed artist, letting out an immediate, sweet chuckle that you chime in joyfully.

You lean in, long earrings brushing your jaw, pressing down the button for the talkback mic to assure through the intercom, “You look like a born star.”

He rolls his eyes, playfully clicking his tongue, “Ahhh, that’s a nice yet basic thing to say, but. I’ll take it.”

“Why did you go in there anyway? Weren’t you just going to show me a song?”

“Adlibs, baby. I’m still missing those.” He adjusts the headphones again, clearing his throat, almost in position. “But I didn’t warm up my voice, so I’ll need to re-record them anyway.”

“And still you’re straining your voice because…?”

“We’re here to impress you, so let me.”

Your finger lifts off the button, but the movement of your lips suggests to him undoubtedly what your teasing self might be mumbling.

Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.

You raise your hands in defeat until you detect his beguiled smile, raising your eyebrows in a clear question that he answers with two words; a simple title of a song, not as glorious as the tune itself but hopefully as memorable.

Eyes scurrying across the now opened laptop screen, you search for the instrumental until you stumble upon it. 3:54 minutes of what Jungkook prays to be blasted everywhere in a couple week’s time before the big concert, chiming in his ears.

The initial guitar riff drowns the room in a mixture of intriguing anticipation and uncurbed sentiments immediately. Jungkook’s eyes dart to your face, attempting to decode a reaction. And when you notice, hands on the headphones, you nod approvingly.

Most of his vocals are already recorded to perfection; a silky voice laments about a lost time with purity. Jungkook largely listens in, searching for wonky bits or moments to be re-tackled. Of course, he will need to discuss the details with Taehyung tomorrow, but whenever the passion burns the hottest, he can’t help but add an adlib here and there.

As he sings, his eyes reflexively close, and for a couple dozen seconds, the melodic current pulls him towards a bigger ocean; the sense of freedom and possibility is astonishing. There’s a certain ardour he feels towards music that nothing will ever be able to elicit.

Do you feel the same?

As somebody spending day in, day out surrounded by musicians, does that phenomenon make your heart surge, too?

Maybe.

When he looks at you again, it’s at least something fervent he detects in your gaze. A bit like the longing he feels. Intense fondness, or perhaps, even zoning out — until you’re barely blinking anymore.

Your features relax a little more as the song proceeds, bit by bit, the calmest when the ending notes arrive. Jungkook observes you; freezes at his spot. The change from the built-up chorus to the suddenly calm ending, instruments dying, are as forgotten as the last touches… because you, behind the glass, are much more interesting.

Just staring. Looking at the screen, its brightness reflecting in your pupils. When you blink again, most of the preceding smile is gone, something indecipherable in your eyes.

He doesn’t know whether you actually enjoyed the entire thing or became consumed by memories he doesn’t know of. Some the song might have drawn out but shouldn’t have. There’s… a past in your stare.

He knows because much like the vast existing humanity, he’s been tending to faraway memories for years, too.

And he wants to know about yours.

Gently, Jungkook grasps the headphones covering his ears, the mane victim to the impact before his fingers fix it again. He frees his eyes off his strands, never directing them away from you, and when he opens the door to the small room you drifted off in, you look up.

Your emerging smile is unsuspecting and polite as always, and you deliver a tilt of your head. Jungkook could sign the previous oddness off as just this, or a sinking into arts just as he does sometimes.

But what’s enough is enough; brushing questions off his mind has become tedious.

So he rolls back the second chair next to you to take a seat, placing his arm on the one of the furniture before folding his fingers; leaning in, asking, “You okay?”

You react with a soft nod, a tender hum, “Yeah! I was listening.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“You zoned out.”

“Which is a good thing, I promise.”

Jungkook looks for a moment. Waits for you to break or admit that the truth you display might not be as pure as you think; waits for his instinct to wind up correct.

But when you do nothing of that sort, eyes a resolute and solid statement, he sighs. Tongues at the lip ring for a moment before he clears his throat and questions, “Good thing, yeah? What else do you think?”

“It… goes deep,” you confess, an impressed declaration in your expressions, “what are you talking about in that one? I mean, I know, but… it sounds so personal.”

“More or less? I’ve spent most of the last few years dedicating myself to this job. The training, the late night sessions, the failure and lost time. I wanted to depict those hardships.” He nods, emphasising his points. “I want this song to help me look back one day…”

He shrugs his shoulders, thumbs slowly circling around each other, “And comfort my older self that despite the hectic life, things are okay.”

“I see.”

Your tone is neutral, but your chest rises and falls a little too slowly. Your sorrow is quiet. He closes the distance further, nudging your arm, “Hey. Did you not like it?”

“I did,” you defend, honesty and reassurance in your voice, “I do. You have an amazing voice, come on, what’s not to like. And the sound is incredible. Should you manage to release it, it will be celebrated a lot.”

“I will manage to release it,” he says with furrowed eyebrows, resisting the urge to touch your elbow again, but settling on simply calling your name instead, “you’re part of my team. Let’s be optimistic.”

“I am. Teamwork makes the dream work. Etcetera.”

“Right,” Jungkook breathes, word close to a yawn. He throws his body back in the cushioned chair, manspreading as much as the space allows; stretches his arms until his muscles crack. “Ahhh… I really want this to be good.”

His gaze falls to the darkening laptop, soon giving way to pitch darkness, potentially to some screensaver. The title of the song remains still in the opened audio file, and he smacks his lips, blinking only when you voice an approving, “Mhmmm.”

His head darts to you the moment you deliver a subtle nod towards the computer, deducting, “You really strive to be big.”

Well, yeah. That’s been the plan. Always, always.

“Shouldn’t I?” he argues. “It’s a dream.”

“It’s good to have dreams.”

“That’s right. Mine is to… Stand on a bigger stage. I think I’ve reached a solid group, but I think if I keep working hard and with the right team, I can make it?”

“This determined, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he responds with a hint of obvious self-evidence, slight confusion shadowing his mind — have you never wanted something so badly? “The audience’s eyes glued to me. Don’t you have a dream?”

Another deep inhale of air, chest working hard, as if you’re breathing out fatigue. He prepares for another vague answer that might leave him guessing; and albeit clearly seeing the usual curtain veiling your true thoughts, what you say next makes his ears perk up.

“Honestly. I’ll allow dreams again once I’ve moved on. That’s all I want.”

What?

Did you actually want to say that? Was it on purpose? A slip of the tongue?

Because it seems so unlike you. Reveals too much. He doesn’t think you’ve exposed your innermost thoughts like this before, even if still not quite transparent.

“…From what?” The previously relinquished distance dies when he inches closer again, digits sneaking close to your knee. A fingertip floats over your tights. “Hey. Is something bothering you?”

“Ugh,” you say; the sliver of sadness seamlessly transitions into an expression of nonchalance when you wave your concerns off so quickly. “Young adult stuff.”

Nevertheless, you speak on. The biggest development in this friendship between the two of you yet. “I once had a friend that moved away. We were pretty close, and now she’s far away. Which sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

That’s it.

Jungkook offers to listen, but he doesn’t necessarily deem himself the most expressive guy when it comes to emotions like these; even if he so deeply wishes to read your thoughts. Music is different; speaking to an audience is, too. Articulating gratitude isn’t as difficult as extinguishing someone else’s grief.

And while not quite confronted with anguish, he houses demons that still haunt his nights; he can barely obliterate them.

Maybe he doesn’t need to.

Maybe he can comfort you in the only way he’s ever known. The stupid, selfish way; offering relief and distraction in the most sinful manner.

“Listen…” Jungkook starts, but in all honesty — there isn’t much to say.

Only to crave. To look.

At the curve of your lips. The distance between them. The bare wrist needing to be held, tired eyes wanting to replace the sorrow with something else.

Is he an asshole for wanting to annihilate your heavy breaths of dejection and replace them with sighs of his name instead?

He doesn’t know. He barely hears his thoughts. Only the blood rushing to his ears, and then away from his head, down his body.

Fuck.

The levitating finger drops an inch; you gasp almost inaudibly when the tip touches your knee, skin separated by the tights only. Jungkook loves fashion choices like these, but hates the hurdle right now.

His warm palm opens, placing right above your knee, approaching the meat of your thigh. He knows you’re not breathing because he can’t hear the exhales; and when his eyes, hooded and possibly insane, flit up to you, he recognises the change in your pupils.

You gulp; and then finally push out some air again. Your hand moves to his inked wrist, touching lightly, unsure what to do. But when you don’t resist, his other arm lifts, touch moving to your face, holding it.

The world spins, moving like an earthquake as his mouth draws nearer. You let out a miniscule sound that punches him in the guts; sweet and pure.

He wants to shatter and wreck you so bad; wants you to feel the same poison you’ve fed him. Irresistible, deadly.

But just as the metal of his jewellery grazes your lips, the softness and warmth radiating towards him, your breath shakes. Your face budges enough for his upper lip to feel a brush against yours, but that’s all he gets.

Because you retreat without giving in. And he doesn’t know why.

He clenches his jaw. God fucking hell. What’s your problem?

The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.

That’s not the term his mind should conjure. He knows the moral compass hides somewhere in his dark heart; he knows. Yet, he can never give into it. Is he a bad person? He doesn’t know.

Control was never his domain, after all.

But he keeps those intrusive thoughts inside, intending to not scare you off more than he already might have. So he accepts the dodging of the kiss, moving back, immediately leaving you safe from his touch.

And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer, still catching your breath, back to the heavy sighs that he was going to help shove back. Once again, he tries, “Honestly, I apologise, I just…”

“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry,” you reassure, slightly touching his shoulder. A wave of relief washes over him. “I’m just. Not in the right mindset for it yet. But I’m flattered, really.”

“Okay.” He nods. His eyes drop to his fingers; he still feels your heat on his skin, basks in it for a moment. But when the awkward silence lingers, he suggests, “Then. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. I’m definitely getting tired.”

“Me too.”

Jungkook rises from his seat, still unable to wrap his head around what happens — or almost happened. Maybe another time. Grabbing your coat from behind you, he helps you into it, avoiding your eyes, trying not to showcase his frustration.

Uncertain what to say, he reverts back to small talk, stating, “Thanks for still coming so late. You really do like the song, yeah?”

“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”

You smile; there’s something about your honesty. About the way you say his name. And how hopeful you truly seem for him. How much you seem to mean it when you say—

“If there’s anyone who can manage to wrap the world around their finger, it’ll be you, Jungkook.”

“Alright. I think I have an answer to your question now.”

You down the sip of red wine with a delicate smack of your lips, blinking at the change in topic. The evening has followed a pleasant pace so far, conversations well balanced; even though you still carry a sense of caution that Jungkook sees no reason behind.

Perhaps it’s the fact that after weeks of subtle, flirty undertones and advancing attempts you’ve taken the seat on his couch as he’s imagined for so long now. Maybe he still exudes something that screams for caution; maybe that’s just who you are.

Jungkook, for one, is just glad to receive any kind of recognition from you. But he’d be a fool to not insert all his effort into tonight, from the food to the type of drinks and conversations. He knows where he needs to be and he wants you to want it, too.

“What question?” you ask.

It’s just.

Despite the lightness with which you carry your talks, some of your movements feel off, detached from your body. Not quite matching the grace your face portrays; just that one hint. The one hiding in your fingers, tapping the dark screen of the phone resting on your thigh.

As if you’re waiting for a call or something to happen that Jungkook isn’t aware of. Who knows. Nothing has happened in the last hour, so this might be an unconscious gesture reasoned in nothing but an absent or distracted mind.

Yeah.

You’re probably not even aware of it and he’s just overthinking it.

He takes a breath, inhaling the aroma of the almost finished wine, “What I’d do if I could spend a day in a virtual reality.”

“Wait, does the Wembley Stadium doesn’t count anymore?”

Jungkook smirks, dismissing his own prior answer with a click of his tongue. “C’mon. Does it really? You can ask literally any artist ever and that’s what they’ll say.”

You ponder his response, pursing your lips in thought, and then shrug one shoulder. Nodding along, you acknowledge, “Right. So what is it then?”

“I’d just.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply, leaning back with a signature smack of his lips. “Get into a reality in which this damn song is already finished and mixed and ready to be released.”

This song referring to the concoction of sounds he showed you earlier, yet to be concretised and burnished to what he truly envisions. It’s the only song left that shackles him to the studio; at the upcoming concert, he’ll just sing the demo version as a sneak peak if needed. What a source of stress.

But you don’t see it as much of a struggle; you’ve told him a dozen times that hard work justifies a slip-up. That the progress on his album balances out the artist’s block.

Possibly why you laugh his worry off without mocking it, merely throwing back, “I’m disappointed.”

Oh?

“Why?”

“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”

Unexpected and sudden — much like the snicker you elicit, throwing his head back just a little. Concurring, he sighs, “Okay, okay. What about you then?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me what you’d do.”

“You didn’t ask,” you remind him, already slurring your speech a bit, though still remaining a stable and solid stance, “dunno. You want the sappy or the basic answer?”

“Is the sappy one a tear-jerker? Sounds like it.”

“For sure.”

“Then the basic one. Don’t dig being sad.”

“Thought so,” you answer, and Jungkook holds back from prodding again this time, despite wondering what image he gets across, “alright. I’d do things I’m unsure of in real life. Like bungee jumping.”

“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”

“No?”

“Just having a hard time imagining somebody as calm as you jumping off a building. Or yelling.”

You roll your eyes. “Anyway. I’d love to go, but I’m too scared of the risks. Like, rope stuff. Don’t want to be jumping for the last time.”

“Okay, yeah, but,” Jungkook starts, hesitating, “I mean, you could say that about anything. You leave your apartment and get hit by a car and then you’d be going out for the last time.”

You begin shaking your head mid-sentence, already drawing a breath, ready to disagree. Then, “That’s a bad comparison. These things are a once in a lifetime experience.”

“I’m just saying! Why hold back from things that excite you.”

“…Maybe you’re right.”

Jungkook’s proud nod and hum are reciprocated with a soft smile, fleeting when you roll your eyes back to your phone briefly. Absent-mindedly, you drag a fingertip across the device’s side as Jungkook follows your movements.

Yet, unsure what you might be harbouring in this pretty head of yours, he doesn’t ponder but asks, “What was the sappy thing?”

It’s as if you live multiple lives, hiding them in your innermost parts; because once he finishes his question, your sparkle returns, and you smirk a little, suddenly leaning forward.

Wordlessly, you fish a tissue out of the square, wooden box, puzzling him for a second until he understands right before you clarify, “For the upcoming tears.”

His titter is immediate, a reflex. You might be relaxed as a calm river, but your humour does shine through among your other million traits. He shakes his head in rejection, smile still plastered to his lips, and watches you lean back again, clearing your throat.

“Mhh, I’d say,” you muse, “I’d try to get into a simulation of Heaven. Try to meet those I miss.”

“Oh… damn.”

“Yeah.”

“…I don’t know what to say.”

But despite the dumbstruck silence, his mind does conjure prompt associations. Like when the two of you sat in his studio just two weeks ago, you engrossed in his music yet somehow dissociated from reality.

You spoke about lost and faraway people back then, too. And he didn’t ask then, either.

In the depths of his mind, he wants to believe that you’re trying to lead him somewhere, fishing for his hand but never quite reaching it. Drawing back right before pleading for help; or perhaps wanting to make him understand a thought he can’t fathom in the way you form it.

The pattern is repetitive, loud — but he knows you’ll retract the moment he does lean into you, offering his ear to your worries and thoughts.

He can’t win.

“That’s okay,” you say, making up for his lack of proper empathy, and that’s where you leave it. Not hesitating, not indicating another hint to lead to your mind.

Yet, he clears his throat quietly, licking drying lips, and asks in attempt to grip the truth, your whatever-truth, “And, who’d be there? Do you want to talk about that?”

“Mmmmh,” you hum, pondering, before you treat him with the same disappointment he’s suffered throughout the last weeks, “no. I think I’m good.”

Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.

Are you playing this side of yours? Is it an act? Are two sides of you fighting within you?

“Okay,” he simply responds, clearly agitated but unsure whether you notice. You’re looking at your phone again. He sighs. “And… Do you believe in that stuff? Heaven, Hell, stuff like that.”

You shrug a bare shoulder. “Dunno. I like to think there’s something, but then again I don’t.”

“How so?”

“The way I see it, it’s kinda simple,” you explain matter-of-factly, “some people are good enough to deserve a place in Heaven once they’re gone. And some people are terrible enough to burn for eternity.”

Coming from your sweet mouth, uttered in an equally soft tone, the sentence feels jarring. Jungkook has had these thoughts before; he’d be a hypocrite to judge you for yours, recalling moments when he wondered where he’s destined to land once he’s left this realm.

And somehow, it was never the prettier option.

Still, he utters, disguising his own past pondering, “Wow. That’s dark.”

“It’s true. There’s some serious crime in the world.”

Agreed. Perhaps, compared to the extreme sins, he can be forgiven. Right? Maybe…

“Yeah,” Jungkook accords, “then, why did you say that sometimes you don’t like believing in it?”

“I mean, if there’s actually something like Hell, and I happen to fuck up throughout life… I don’t wanna end up there.”

It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.

Even if he never quite thought about it to such an extent. Even though his idea of the afterlife built on what he’s already done, and not what he’s still going to do.

But your words give a subtle hope that redemption is possible. Who knows. Who really knows.

Perhaps it’s easiest to stray away from these thoughts and focus on you at this very moment. Even if it’s you triggering innermost fears; he doesn’t quite have a clue how you do it.

No matter. He’ll focus on you. Altruism might be the first step to vindication. Karma points. Karma points.

“Valid,” he says kindly, “can’t imagine you fucking up, though.”

“How would you know?”

“The company grapevine whispered a lil something about you.”

“Ahhh—”

“Good things! Other than that, I just think. Don’t know.” A small gap, well-hidden so far, grows in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the very front of his mind. Before he’s thought it through, he blurts, “I’ll be honest with you.”

Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.

What was that?

Okay. Whatever. Can’t stop his speech now, “Uhm, I’ll be honest and say that I’m not the best person I know. Like, I’m aware of that. It’s why sometimes, I don’t really understand how people can be as genuine as you.”

…Has he said too much? Or not enough? Because he could swear your face deflates, expression dimming, as if you expected something else.

And all you say is, “I understand.”

A flicker of slight panic creeps into his overthinking head, not usually a trademark of his personality. But you look dispirited, even if just for a second. He tries further.

“And from what I’ve seen, you go through life gently. The way you do anything is how you do everything, right?”

“Hmmm,” you voice again, pupils hidden until you look up. And when you do, he breathes a sigh of relief; deep and obvious, and he doesn’t care if you notice. Smiling sweetly, you tell him, “You said that really well.”

The way you say it is riddled with woe, but within a second, your eyebrows relax, mouth forming an authentic grin. Displaying real emotions suits you better than the mask of the frigid ice queen you keep plastered to your face; you look different right now.

Vulnerable.

And it makes him want you more.

Does it have something to do with the warm light he chose for this room? No. It doesn’t shine brightly enough to really illuminate your face that much. With the intensity lowered beforehand, some of your features hide in the dark when you lower your head a little.

And it’s not the decent amount of alcohol the two of you slurped.

It’s the usual, mysterious shimmer in your eyes, begging to take off more of your mental layers. The fragility behind the pretence of invincible strength. No doubt, you’re still a textbook definition of a femme fatale.

Still, there’s some sweet urge to surrender, visible in your stance. A fragrance luring him in. Warm skin close to his; calling for his fingers.

And he’s at your beck and call, ready and motivated; giving into your wanting eyes — or is that his own desire he’s confusing? — and leaning in. A little more with each tiny moment, advancing until the tips of your noses meet.

Your warmth consumes him; your breathing quickens, resulting in fitful exhales that he takes in with vigour, much drowning in his own head until you gasp and he realises—

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not yet retracting. His hand touches your knee, carefully but with intention. Waiting, he asks, “Is that okay for you?”

“…I’m not sure.”

Your answer takes a seat on his ego and weighs it down. Harsh, sudden, perhaps not unexpected but definitely breaking a string of patience within him. But consent is consent; he understands. He’s grown now.

Yet…

“Fuck,” he whispers under a faint sigh, dejected and confused.

And you hear it. Bambi-eyed, you ask, “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

He’d lie if he suppressed the disappointment. Working towards you for weeks was supposed to end in realising his fantasies into a palpable, actual feeling, with a side achievement of a deeper connection.

You don’t seem to want to provide it; he understands, but the agitation courses through him like a fire burning up a forest. The trees are his nerves; alight with different emotions. You’re fumbling with the soft cotton of your winter dress, and he averts his eyes.

Shutting them for a moment, he ponders his options; does he continue the awkward conversation? Or perhaps, ask you for your opinion straightforwardly? Maybe, after all this while, it wouldn’t be so stupid to swap a penny for your thoughts.

And his mouth opens, but it seems you’re faster. Crushing his questions and uncertainties when he hears you gulp, witness to another change of mind as your knee shifts forward. His eyes open rapidly, and when he looks at you again, you’ve moved closer.

Your leg touches his thigh; your eyelids half fallen, lips an inch apart and fingers hesitating, yet advancing towards him. Hope sparks and sparkles in him anew, and he suppresses the cheeky, triumphant smile.

He feels like an asshole. Oh, he feels so selfish — but he can’t be the only one. He cannot possibly be the first or last to give into deepest desires out of self-interest.

Carefully, he matches your pace, moving into your direction much like you are drawing into his. His hand lifts to your arm, and you suck in a breath as he touches your skin, your chest rising and falling deeply.

And his eyes observe. The motion drives him crazy. He wants to pilot his touch to this spot, wrap his palm around your mounds, desperate to feel your nipples perk up under his skin, your mouth fall wider.

Should he? Maybe, maybe—

Not yet.

Instead, he draws an invisible line with his fingertips, up your arm and to your shoulders until he reaches your neck. The sound you let out is so tiny he barely hears it, and you tilt your head to the other side, giving him free reign over your skin.

A spark lights up under his finger, as if he’s touched a defective bulb. He wonders if you feel the same flame when he charges for your jawline, tracing it for a moment before he moves to your seething hot cheek.

You’re burning up.

So he asks in a quiet, gravelly voice, somehow much lower than usual, “Are you okay?”

Your eyebrows are furrowed, and he starts to worry again; but maybe that’s just the same tension unleashing that he’s felt, too. The temptation runs deep; he could scream it out of his lungs and it wouldn’t be enough.

Relieved as you nod, he mimics the movement, whispering an, “Okay,” before he then dips forward, exhaling close to your neck hotly and… leaves a small kiss right there. He doesn’t know about you, but if you did that to him, he’d possibly faint.

One more kiss, and suddenly, your hand is on his knee. His head spins. Must be the alcohol. Must be you.

And you’re probably in no better state, judging the hot cheeks and the slight sway of your body. Must be the wine. Must be him.

And when his lips graze your jaw, your fingers curl in, clawing onto his knee, and his inner voice celebrates, “Jackpot.”

But not really. He’s going with the flow, exploring your preferences, but this needs to be the night of your life. His mind and ego want you to perceive it that way. So what should he do? What do you like?

Are you one to push him into the bed, holding his shoulders down? Straddling him keenly, pouncing on him, eyes rolled back?

Or do you give away all the power you usually emanate; hands bound with a tie, legs struggling between a rope, screams muffled under a gag? Do you wind and go crazy when somebody has their way with you, edging and then overstimulating, refusing a touch and then slapping your ass wound…

Should he let your siren eyes tempt him into submission or will you be the one drilled into his mattress with a hand around your neck and a trail of black mixed with tears under your eyes?

He doesn’t know. Because you’ve disguised all of you; hidden your mind behind a mask of absolute neutrality, hard to decipher. He can usually read women so easily. They lick their lower lips when they want him under them, and quiver when vice versa.

He’d oblige to either for you. So what does it matter in the end, anyway?

No, it doesn’t.

His tongue that lashes out, however, does matter. Tasting your skin as it drags over your chin and then to your mouth. Insane when he reaches your lower lip and you sigh, then back to your neck, blowing, teasing, still not kissing you… touching your thigh, moving inwards…

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

And this time, while still a little quiet, you finally say, “More. You can do more.”

“Yeah?”

You nod as if starved, relieved when his hands leave your leg and venture further in. It’s hidden under your dress, but somehow, not seeing your full glory just yet, but observing your reactions to his movements, stirs his thoughts. If any were left, that is.

The touch to your panties is light, tender as he reaches the hem, driving a finger underneath it in exploration. You don’t say much, but he sees the zeal in your eyes, murmuring a little, “Mhm…”

And when he finally presses against the fabric slowly dampening, lightly as he rolls his digits right where your skin so incredibly softens… you moan. You moan.

It doesn’t sound the way he imagined. But it kind of does. He doesn’t remember what he imagined — doesn’t know much at all. Just that he wanted this sound to echo within his walls. For him to be the one to drag it out. Not for anybody else, but him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Okay. What if he does… this…

Thought so.

Sometimes, human beings have a fantasy unmatched, don’t they? Able to form and reform expressions on people they know that they have never seen. For example, he can imagine what you look like when you cry. Or when you’re mad. Or…

He knew you’d press your lips together, along with your eyebrows, muffling your sound once he sought out your clit and pressed against it. And not because he’s seen other women contort their faces like this; no… it’s an entirely new sensation with you.

You don’t compare to anyone. Nobody compares to you. Nobody, ever.

Sick of watching the invisible movement under your dress, he lets his eyes wander to yours, and you notice, do as he does. Eyes hooded, staring at him as if drunk — possibly, probably drunk.

Just once, he gapes down again, trying to adjust without crushing your knees with his. Comes closer. Then looks back at you. Absolutely astonished by the coloured lips drying up. Seeing your tongue peak behind your upper teeth, pushing against them.

Then you’re blinking, several times, not rapidly, but enough to indicate that you’re losing yourself, too. And then there’s some melancholy behind your gaze; he can’t say where it derives from… you seem to be coming out of a room that you kept dark for long enough.

He can’t say whether he’s further dimming the light in that room or lightening it up — and as he advances, gauging your reactions, he inwardly hopes it’s the latter.

So inwardly. So desperately.

Patience only persists for a moment; Jungkook barely believes in it. People always break. And he does when you lean forward as he drags his finger between your pussy lips, still over the clothing. You balance your weight with your arms, holding yourself up.

And then…

You so tantalisingly, softly, quietly, whisper his name.

Okay.

The snap was expected. The sigh he lets out was expected. And the way his lips finally crash against yours, making you almost fall back onto the sofa was expected, too.

But your taste… Why did he know you’d be as sweet as a cliché, like a perfume made edible? Matches your mystery and your elegance.

And the mellow, yet wanting sounds fit every move he makes. Like the moan-sigh combination when his bold hand wraps around the bun you’ve arranged your hair into. How you breathe into the kiss when he tilts your head a little, and then proceeds to loosen up said bun.

Releases it. Lets your hair fall. Pulls you in, pausing the make-out in the process, and then diving back in with a greed he’s never been met with before.

And as he kisses you, his index finger still dips into the uncharted territory below, ruining your panties some more as he soaks them; fucking loving how you whimper as a result.

No… this is ruining him just as much.

So he draws back from your body, attempting and probably failing not to look at you like an animal glaring down at his prey, ready to devour. He’s never seen this expression himself, but one or two girls have uttered quiet, “Oh-oh,” in such moments before — do you see the danger, too?

Or is he being cocky? But it’s not his fault. You make him cocky because he can never fucking say what you think! Of course he’d need the mental praise to himself — your opinion on him is too difficult to decipher.

He’ll keep the energy up. Make you shrink in his hold.

Hands under your ass, he lifts your lower body a little, amused by your wide eyes and how you wonder, “What are you d—”

Silencing the moment he uses his palms’ position to grab the hem of your panties and pull them down your legs. Over them and then on the other side of the table. The two of you won’t need those tonight.

“What does it look like that I’m doing?” he teases, smirk effective and permanent.

He likes that about himself. Maybe you’ll do, too. If not, then you at least do like how his fingers, impatient, find their way back home again, not before lifting your dress to your hips until you’re bared to him the way he’s craved.

And he pauses.

Oh, this treasure…

“You…” he starts, moving two ring-clad fingers between your folds. Testing the waters. “I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here…” He leans forwards, body on body, whispering against your lips. “Trapped under me.”

You want to answer, he thinks. Your eyebrows relax for a second, an inebriated smile playing around your mouth. If he knows you well enough, he’d guess you’re urging to dive back into your witty remarks.

But none of it is possible just yet. Because when he caresses your pussy again, increasing the pace without being too unreasonably fast, you bite your lip. He urges you to release it with his tongue. And when you do, his finger plunges in; as deeply as it can. So easily, too.

He kisses your clavicles the moment your nails get ahold of his arms, wiggling underneath him, but still caged in. And he sees the built-up frustration; how you kept yourself at bay, but can barely do it now. How you yearn for just one or two more right touches here and there before…

But before he can, he stops. Immediately, unexpectedly for you. Once again, mean, but…

“You’ll thank me later,” he utters — and with those four measly words, something awakens in you that was hidden for just the last ten minutes.

“Oh? You… you’re confident like this.”

“Of course I am.”

“Jungkook…” you say in such frustration that he thinks you’ll beg some more. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head and say. “Men rarely manage to…”

“This isn’t rare. I’m not giving you rare, ‘kay?”

“I…”

“How…” he readjusts your body, pulling you down the couch, shifting until his knee keeps your legs apart. “How fucking insulting.”

Do you hear any of this anymore? Because your eyes are closed again. Hands still holding on; and… and body winding in order for your cunt to shift closer to him, suddenly rubbing against his knee.

It’s all you can get at the moment since his hands are so far out of reach. And the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll strive for anything at all is cosmic.

“You’re ruining my jeans,” he mocks, clicking his tongue as if to reprimand.

“Then…” You hook a finger into one of his jeans’ loops, pulling and then releasing again. “Take them off, coward.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. They say that if you have waited for so long, what’s ten more minutes? But no more. Not another second.

So he obliges immediately as he mutters, “‘Kay,” offering a helping hand when you work on his shirt. Off and to the ground. Pants off and to the back of the couch. He already knows he’ll be finding them all scattered the next morning.

But that’s the problem of just that next-morning-self.

Boxers still on, he returns to give you another initial taste of what’s to explode. The dress moves up from your hip as he slides it over your skin, stopping right under the mounds he’s still so curious about.

He needs to keep this balanced. Rush as much as might be appropriate, but not too much to make things embarrassing. This… the way he leans down again, opening your legs, erection grinding against your pussy and offering the bare minimum… this is good enough for now…

Or maybe not. Because merely a couple seconds later, you halt mid-moan, letting out breathy words that he struggles to understand until you repeat, “Is that… all you’ll be doing tonight?”

“Hmmm, you want more?”

“I— I don’t know.” Pause, a gulp when he presses his clothed length between your cunt. “Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”

His secrets?

You must be kidding. He has been an open book to you, chasing you around; if anything, he needs to unravel your mind.

But for that, he needs to play along. So he feigns the same mystery you emanate, teasing, “What do you wanna know?”

And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”

…Hmm…

You’ve never seemed as interested as you are now. Never dove into his thoughts and the dim heart like now. If he agreed now, would you blurt out something specific? Questions that you formed when he wasn’t paying attention?

No idea. Maybe that’s something to worry about later. Pillowtalk. The morning after talk. Just anything… just not now.

He removes the obstacles currently standing between the two of you. The cushion standing against the back of the couch, constantly falling into your face. He throws it on the ground, so you don’t have to keep swatting it away.

Then, the dress covering your body. He gives a sign of wanting to proceed, and you play along, lifting yourself, chasing his lips as your outfit follows the cushion. And then, the phone right underneath the small of your back, having snuck there, undetected until you yelp, “Oh!”

“What?”

“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”

He fishes out the device, watching it light up, a notification at the top that he can’t decode and that he doesn’t pay any mind to. Puts it on the coffee table. Then… last but not least… the uncertain atmosphere.

He says, “You want to know everything? Then make a list. I’ll tell you if I feel like it… deal?”

“You’re so…”

“You gotta make me. No other way out, baby.”

An answer lies on your tongue, ready to disrupt the moment. He knows because you look distracted all of a sudden, possibly still thinking about the same thing you did before, dissociating as he sat next to you, wine in hand.

It’s probably about work. Or about Taehyung — God, nobody at work but Jungkook would know, but you mention that guy all the time.

But tonight is not the night to think of others. So he shakes your upcoming inquiries away, giving you no time to think about it further as he, thirsty and impatient, picks you up and off the couch.

Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.

Still a layer between the two of you, watching you grind immediately. For a moment, you put him under your spell, urging him to stay right there and not move away until he’s shot buckets of cum into his boxers.

But…

But he’d rather do it in you, with you, because of truly you.

So he wastes no second as he executes his former plan, large hands sprawling over your ass before he stands with willpower and strength. He throws you a couple inches into the air, making you adjust, and then moves.

Away from the couch, stepping onto the clothes on the floor, careful not to stumble and hurt the two of you. The way to the bedroom seems endless, and you so naked… so… so his for the night. Like what, he still needs to wait those couple square metres?

Fuck, how…

No. It must be a primal instinct that hankers him to give up already, having made it halfway through the room and almost to his bedroom when he suddenly stops. Pinning you against a random free spot at the wall, right under a silent clock.

“What are you…?”

Your voice is trembling, for some reason so incredibly small. For the first time since you lay beneath him on the couch, he sees your eyes properly, and they flit back to the couch as if you’re looking where you just departed from — and then back to him.

“What are you looking for?” he whispers. Tantalisingly, he brings his fingers to your chin, pinching it lightly as he raises your head. “Hm? I’m here. Do you want to go back? Missing the couch? Wall might not be as comfortable, huh…”

“No… that’s not a problem. I’m just… surprised by the change.”

You do look surprised. A little cheekier again as your tone rises, your head falling to the side, lips smiling as if to distract him from something bigger. As if there’s anything bigger in existence right now than you.

“It was just sudden,” you conclude.

“Is that bad?”

“Not at all. I’m just curious.”

He doesn’t need to ask what about. He sees it in this expecting gaze of yours that you want to read and decrypt his next steps. And you can have them.

Because he lets you go, making you fall silently on your feet, kissing you once before he falls to his knees. You groan when he grabs your leg, placing it on his shoulder, restless when his lips charge for your open folds.

He offers you, “Curious, huh? No need,” before kissing your clit, adding another, “Just indulge in it… no need to use your pretty brain today,” and then attaching his mouth and tongue to your dripping pussy.

Digging his large nose into you, tickling your nub, he swirls his tongue around, slurping you up like his favourite drink. Holy fuck, you taste good. He could eat you up, down you in one like a shot. Stay right here all night.

You get ahold of a patch of his hair, but don’t pull — somehow, he wishes you would. Instead, you seem to focus on your body, trying not to fall, keeping it upright. You’re winding, your leg moving, and he soon wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you from stirring too much.

And with the other, he targets your cunt, mouth moving up to make space for the digits to easily, effortlessly slide into you. You gasp, just a bit louder when the metal touches your hot sex, calling his name — and for possibly the first time, he hears you curse, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m— I’m going to pass out.”

Oh my God.

If he could lick you to unconsciousness, he’d feel shocked and proud at once. He wants to see you become weightless, wants to catch you in his arms, and then bring you to his bedroom, still delirious, and fuck your brain out of you.

He wants you so bad. He wants to fuck you so fucking badly. His cock aches, godfuckingdamn.

As he rolls his tongue, lips kissing yours, moving his head left and right as he makes out with your pussy, he almost pulls all the way through. Nearly gives into your body language, nose moving over your clit, fingers pumping in and out, breathing into your pussy hotly.

But he has other plans. He wants to see your damn tears; wants you to unleash all your desperation. So, just when your sounds change, less pauses between them, high-pitched, heavy breathing, he stops.

Draws back, watching you press your ass into the wall, head suddenly hanging low. You whisper, “No…” as he looks up in satisfaction, waiting for you to say more.

You’re out of breath, exhaling through half gritted teeth, a palm on his chest as he rises again. You declare, “I’m going to blueball you, too.”

But the adrenaline has poured buckets of confidence over Jungkook already, and he’s drenched in it as much as in your scent, cocking an eyebrow as he challenges, “You can try.”

“I’m gonna suck your dick so fucking slow.”

“Do it,” he keeps the mask up, wondering how much of the effect you saw upon gracing him with such a provocative image, “let’s see if you make it this far. Might just fuck you into space before that, you know?”

He lets out an unsteady breath, a strand of your hair swaying upon impact. His hand taps at your thigh, testing whether you’ve closed your legs again; and as he realises that you haven’t, much to his pleasure, he palms your pussy, heel of his hand pressing against your clit.

“You’re trying to set me off, because you know you can, right?” he questions, for a split moment distracted by the teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “Smart of you. You are truly smart, babe… but you’re also mine tonight. So don’t play games.”

A slap lands on your vulnerable pussy, and he understands your frustration as you open your mouth, the lower lip previously captive rolling back into place. Soft and gorgeous.

No matter the fading distance, there’s still something inexplicable in the air, as if he can’t really separate a dream from reality. As if he needs evidence that this isn’t yet another figment of his imagination; the ones he’s awoken from several times, underwear threatening to burst.

The hand just torturing your cunt wanders up your body and settles around your neck, like a chain or a necklace or a motherfucking leash. He feels home here, just like this. With your fingers on his wrist, gulping under his touch.

Pinned firmly against the wall, he looks down to where you’re dripping and he’s standing tall, gripping the ever-twitching length that is begging for more. Begging for relief. He’s doing this to himself — because his body is burning up, as if scorched by sun flares.

He’s doing this to the both of you.

The kiss underneath your ear as he leans in. And the still harmless yet sinful touch between his tip and your folds. How he holds the shaft firmly, leading the head between your pussy lips, teasing until just an inch intrudes your awaiting hole.

He moans the moment you do, moving, fucking just the first of the tip into you; scrambling his own thoughts as he says, “God, I could just slide in… you’re so, so wet.”

“What… why say this if you won’t do it?”

Guess you’ve figured him out well enough. Guess that’s the cockiness you implied when you called him a fuckboy in that stupid museum. Or how you kept a safe distance — because thinking about it, maybe Jungkook could be someone to break somebody’s heart.

No. He knows he is. But…

He shakes the thought off his brain, returning to this very moment where you’re waiting for his answer, a heart made of steel. You won’t let him hurt you; you know better than that. You could dodge him easily.

Mentally, at least. Physically, you’re under his mercy.

So he uses this weakness, muttering under his breath, “I will, I will… but not here. We can do better than here.”

Wasn’t this just a pit stop after all? What he’s seeking is still waiting in his bedroom, soft sheets spread over the cold mattress, waiting for a body to warm it up. Or two.

Already hot and bothered, Jungkook lets you go entirely; and the next minute happens in a blur, as though he’s struggling with recognising his own apartment. Suddenly self-conscious about everything and nothing at once.

With you in his grip, he walks along the dark, small corridor; then past the paintings, through the door, into a well-managed, tidy bedroom until he’s sat your ass down. It happens within the tiniest moment — he could narrate how you got here but he can barely recall it.

Dick at the same height as your mouth, he wraps his hand around it. You don’t initiate anything of what you promised, looking into his eyes with a question; he knows you want to avenge yourself and provide the same vanity, but you’d rather skip to the best part.

He wants to, too.

So he doesn’t ram his cock into your mouth, hitting the farthest spot until you gag. Instead, he relishes the image mentally and quietly, fantasising about the warmth of your spit, about the tongue swirling around.

And then… then he goes a step further and imagines the even extended pleasure if he dug into your pussy now, maximising whatever your mouth could make him feel.

Are his thoughts too straight-forward? If he spelled them out like this, one by one, would you find him weird? Too eager? Obsessed?

Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.

Which is why he holds his shaft closer to you, still surprised when you don’t open up, hints of the past confusion alternating with your confident, mysterious, teasing self. It’s weird to witness. But your eyes are still hazy at least. You don’t seem to want to stop.

God. He can’t figure it out. Not figuring out is agitating even in this moment.

But… good energies. Good energies. All the pent-up frustration needs to be morphed into sheer craze. He can do that.

“Spit on it,” he orders.

You only hum. Something in your gaze changes again, eyelids fluttering, as if awoken from trance. But you’re willing. Immediately mimicking him as you bring a thumb to a mole on the protruding veins. Tracing them, all the way back to his balls until you touch them just lightly, but enough for him to nearly lose his shit.

“Fuck, I said,” he reprimands, though delighted by the sudden rapture, “spit on it.”

You nod as if carrying out a task given by your manager; perhaps used to the last days and weeks when he’d command you around. Ask for another meeting, or for your opinion on a song, or just to keep him company to keep him productive.

Or, to keep you close to him. Lost in thoughts. Many thoughts. And even though none of them became a reality in that room, none of the equipment shoved aside to sit you on the desk, this… this right here is more than enough.

You suck in your cheeks, collecting spit, and when you lean forward… you make such a mess. Spitting onto the tip, a string still connecting your lips and his dick, leftover saliva dripping down your chin and then on your tits.

The view is… worth diamonds.

Do you even know?

“Okay,” he utters, no real direction in his mind, no real sentence to utter. “Okay.”

But you’re equipped with ideas, immediately getting onto the trail you left, spreading the spit over his cock, down to the base. The tip and the slit glisten, traces of precum mixing with your drool, but it’s not enough to cover his length all over.

So he mutters a mental, “More,” to himself, tapping your lips until you open, sticking two of his fingers in and pressing against your tongue. Lubricating his digits, he rolls them over your tongue, far enough to nearly make you gag until he draws back.

Watching you work on him rolls a wave of satisfaction over him. He’s proud, enduring like this. Because judging from the creature you are, as if jumped out of dark mythology, he truly expected to give up way earlier.

But he remains steadfast; eager to not explode until he’s filled you up first. Drawn out your own highs.

“Sweetheart, aren’t you a good one?” Jungkook praises, helping you out with whatever his fingers gathered in your mouth. Then, grabs your wrist, pushing you away, hovering above you with a, “Turn around.”

You gulp again. Then shift back on his bed, sighing as you feel the soft silk underneath your skin, kissing and hugging your body. The sight is gorgeous, with you fleeing to the back of the mattress, obliging so easily. Prey.

And…

“Holy fuck.”

Holy fuck, how you look when you finally get into position. Ass up, upper body down. And the arms over your head? What in the world.

Okay… okay…

Wait. You’re saying something.

His knees dig into the mattress, hand unconsciously pumping his cock — he doesn’t even know when he started — as he moves closer, over your body. Kisses your shoulder, bringing his ear close to hear before, “Huh? What’d you say?”

“I’m already so spent.”

“Ah… do you want to stop?”

“No… you made me feel spent. But you’re not done, are you?”

Pause. Bright smirk. Then, “Of course not. Does it feel like it?” Another kiss to your shoulder, wet this time. “Condom or not?”

“Oh.” Seems you hadn’t even thought about this yet. Kind of nice. “I’m… I use an IUD. Have you… slept with many people lately?”

No answer yet. He thinks. Thinks back to the several weeks since he met you. Should he say it? Would you back away if he did? Years ago, there’d be no debate about it — he wouldn’t have told you. Kept it to himself.

Perhaps there’s still a part of him that’d dodge your question, but he somehow feels like you’d see through him. Hear the insincerity.

Fuck, is that selfish? Maybe. Doesn’t he already know that he is? But he’s not bad; and people are selfish.

So a second later, he truthfully admits, “Once. Two or so weeks ago. Nothing special though, just dumb, drunk shit. Some girl from a club. And I tested after.”

As soon as the sentence finishes, he wonders if you deem yourself just another one of those. But… in all honesty. She was a one night stand whose sounds, name, dirty talk did nothing to him.

All he could imagine was you. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but surely out of curiosity.

He can’t fathom his thoughts into feelings yet; he still wouldn’t describe his attitude towards you as falling in love or anything. That’d be too far stretched. But he thought about it — that maybe he liked you too much.

Yet, his heart remained empty; but his body never did. He feels bad; and still, he won’t deny whatever his skin and mind whisper to him.

Other than that, he could probably declare with quite a firm certainty that you don’t feel any different about him. You can’t be.

So maybe this is good enough for now.

“But know what?” he says, voice lower, repeating his thoughts. “Could only imagine what it’d be like if it was you. This pussy,” strokes his cock along your cunt, “and this body,” touches the small of your back, “these thoughts got me going. And you’re so much better in reality.”

“Mmmh,” is all you utter, nearly hiding your face in the pillow before you say, “maybe… maybe we can still use a condom then.”

Shit. Expected it.

But okay. Okay.

Where are the condoms again… bedside table? No. He used the last one ages ago, before he knew you. He gets up; walks to the closet; somewhere near his socks, there must be a new pack. A moment to think.

For a second, he looks back at you. You’re still the same, only with the ass having dropped again, losing balance and energy. And maybe, you’re still drunk, too — probably, because even he still feels the world spin, careful not to close his eyes for too long.

Okay. One… no, two foils out. As he turns back to you, nearing you, his head is just a little calmer than a minute again, and he wonders… were all the thoughts his own? The past half an hour or however much passed, didn’t he spiral more and more?

Did you notice? He shakes his head. Who cares?

Not him, not right now. He keeps telling himself that with a goddess waiting in front of him on all fours, he probably doesn’t need to worry about anything unless there’s a reason to. You’ve been cooperative and the night has been successful, minus the strange gazes you keep throwing at him periodically.

“Alright, baby. Up you come,” he mumbles, bringing your ass back to his crotch. His hands are already trained and incredibly skilled; doing work on the condom doesn’t take him more than a couple seconds. “I should tell you now.”

You pause. Suck in some breath, as if expecting something in particular. You agree with an unmatched thirst for knowledge, “…Tell me.”

“I don’t tend to go easy. If you need me to be, you’ll have to tell me. ‘Kay?”

“I… I can take a lot more than you think.”

Fuck. He’ll wreck your shit. “Perfect. You’re honestly a good one, huh? Such a good girl for real, no— no, you’re the best.”

Is he just saying whatever now? Perhaps he should stop boring you and get to it. Right? Please, the goddamn, blood-filled tower down there is desperately imploring him to.

He collects spit like you did before, targeting your glinting pussy, one blob right onto it. Then, he brings his fingers back to where they love to be, distributing the filth between your folds. And then, two fingers into the tightening hole.

Right before moving north, between your ass cheeks, thumb rolling over your other clenching hole.

And you tense immediately, without saying a word, taking it quietly. Then… then he finally starts.

Brings the annoying rubber to your soaked pussy, poking for a second before he gets serious and eventually dips in. The free hand raises your ass some more, and he shifts forwards, your butt backwards, helping him get in further.

He hears the reaction. Hears the almost-screech in a second, nails biting into the pillow over your head. You hold onto it for dear life as he slowly bottoms out, your sporadic breathing and high-pitched moans mingling with his own bursts of lust.

Deep creases appear between his eyebrows, lips bitten sore, and once his waist has finally connected with your ass, he takes a deep, long inhale. Watches your face disappear deeper into the pillow, sounds muffled.

Enjoys it for a moment before he starts moving slowly. Out, in. Concentrating before he might spill too early. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead, dampening the hanging strands of hair. You feel good. Too fucking good—

He wants to go off right away. But… focus.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“Stop… stop talking.”

Oh. Bold. But a good sign, isn’t it? If you wanted him to stop, you’d say it. So he keeps going… dares just a little more, courageous, encouraged by your cooperation. Explores your ass and what lies between the cheeks more, groaning before he says, “You stop that.”

His hand reaches for your wrists, keeping you from tearing his pillow and leading your fingers to where his touched your ass before. You keep your touch there, unmoving until he says, “Keep them apart.”

And you seem to understand. His thumb returns to your unoccupied hole as his cock impales your pussy whole, still going at a tormenting pace. Thick and soaked, he’s splitting you in two; maybe that’s why the slow plunges are such a plague. Because both of you know there could be more.

Pulling your ass cheeks apart, you remain with your face in the sheets, arms trembling as he circles your hole again. He doesn’t know if you’re into this; doesn’t know if you’ll protest. So far, he’s been pretty obvious with his intentions, and he’s sure you must understand this one, too.

And you’re not fearful; if something bothered you, you wouldn’t hesitate to voice your displeasure. So he spits one more time, right onto his thumb, using the lubrication to carefully, curiously dip the tip of his thumb into your ass.

You yelp immediately; as your hole tightens around the little bit of his thumb, your pussy narrows around his cock, too, and he nearly loses it. Nearly drools onto your back as his mouth drops open, blinking rapidly for a second.

God, your body reacts with such intensity. Still, he makes sure, “Too much?”

And you, candidly, reply, “I don’t know. I… think so.”

“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”

“No. No, wait… I want to— I want to know what it’s like.”

Thought so. He knew that underneath all the chic charade, you crave just as much as he does. And if it’s him that you long for, then what even stands between him and the rocket shooting his ego to the sky?

This feels good. Really good… not just physically. You lift his spirits.

Ready with an exhale, he dares his thumb deeper, letting more of it disappear in you. Out of all the women he’s ever been with, not more than a handful has been willing to venture into this part of sexual desire. Most of them can’t stand the discomfort, and some of them don’t feel any particular way about it.

But you lay open to him in every way possible. An open book for once; easy to read, as if calculating how you wind, planning how to sound, guiding him fearlessly.

Soon, he’s adjusting his thrusts to your moans, and you’re adjusting your moans to his thrusts. Synchronised, the two of you groan and cry out together, and he makes sure to keep you filled to the brim, reducing the pauses between the shoves bit by bit.

Until…

“Hey,” he whispers, waiting for you to react, but as he pumps into you, slowly yet balls-deep, you don’t do anything much but scream into the pillow. So he just continues, “How much do you think you can take, baby?”

“I… I’m—”

You’re attempting your best, but you’re tongue-tied. With each push, he catapults your body forwards, but your mind is long lost in the stratosphere. With gritted teeth and a rising, heavily breathing, golden chest, he leans in close to you, hand snaking under you and around your neck as he retries, “So?”

“I don’t know,” you blurt, and as you raise your head and look back at him, he sees a sight to behold — mascara underneath your eyes, lipstick smeared, a quivering chin. He’s fucking you so good; he must be, because you soon add, “Just do an—and I’ll let you know.”

“Good idea. Very good idea.”

He’s fucking you good. But it’s not all he’s got; not all he’s wanted for days and weeks.

No. If he unleashed all he’s been fabricating in his mind, he’d drench your cheeks in tears. And now that you permitted him to, he might just go ahead, right?

Right.

Which is why the next steps come easy to him, naturally, as if you pressed a button he’s been waiting to smash. A big, red one, like the ones in games urging you to not touch or you’d lose. But by God, right now, he’s not losing.

If he looked into his reflection in the dark window, he’d see a winner through and through.

A fiery rage courses through his burning veins. A face contorting when he lets you go, only to move his fingers back, wrapping them around the back of your neck. Shoving you into the mattress, ramming his cock into you, once more keeping the familiar pace and then—

And then he closes his eyes. Matches an expression to your yelps. Drives into your deepest core and picks up speed until, all of a sudden, it turns jarring.

Jungkook doesn’t get enough. He doesn’t know if he ever will; damn the approaching end of this. There shouldn’t be one; he should be capable of ruining you forever. Maybe he will be.

For now, he directs his thoughts fully on how you feel and how you sound, uncaring about the jagged breathing that burns up his chest. Leaning forward, he attempts twice until he catches your ears, nibbling at your earlobe.

At first, he doesn’t know if you register the touch, given that he’s occupying you with far crazier sensations. But then you reach out a hand, panting into the pillow, grabbing a patch of his hair.

And he, fired up and insane, leans back, gripping your wrist, removing it from his mane and pinning it to your back instead. Your face moves to the side, not muffled by the pillow anymore, and you gasp for air before you beg, “Please, I’m about to—”

That’s all you get, because he soon interrupts with a cheeky, “You can hold on for a bit longer,” pausing on purpose. He wants to see you when you come. Wants to wipe more of your make up across your face. Wants to kiss the colour of your lipstick onto his own lips.

Letting your orgasm fade, he waits, just a couple seconds, allowing you to catch your breath until your eyebrows furrow. You blink repeatedly, then looking up into his eyes, and it’s all he needs to feel his patience dissipate again.

Jungkook gets into a new position, leaving one knee deep in the mattress while angling the other leg, planting its foot on the sheets. He keeps his cock from falling out, leading the tip and the shaft back in before he resumes to fuck you wound.

Your arm is still hostage to his grip, the nails of your other hand gripping the sheet for dear life. It’s gorgeous, the view from where Jungkook looks down at his meal. Crazy how you purr and whine when he leans in, touching your swollen clit, electrifying you. And he keeps looking at you.

At the upper body waving a white flag, too weak to keep yourself upright anymore. And then, the ass in the air staying firmly at its place, his dick aiding you, the flesh of your cheeks wobbling with each thrust, like an ocean wave. Whenever it collides with his hips, the slaps resound temptingly, and Jungkook soon mimics it by letting his hand fall hard on your ass.

You mewl, calling out his name twice, the second cry half uttered, half of the Jungkook omitted. And when you catch the tiniest of your breaths, still working with drying lungs, you say, “L-let me come, please—”

“Wait,” he says again, still sadistic, still masochistic, absolutely out of his mind before an idea lights up his mind. “This isn’t it yet.”

The finger working on your nub was an evil tactic, he’s got to admit. Perhaps he led you to believe something he’s not ready to give you yet, and once you seem to realise, you let out a sob.

And he’s positively delighted once he stops. Lowers his head to look at you. Sees the dark, smeared mascara on his pillow when he digs his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back as he says, “I know. You thought we were done, right? We’re not done, though.”

“Wha—”

He lets his body fall onto the mattress, right next to you, and pulls you in, back against his chest. Hand under your tits, pressing against them, moving them up and down before pinching your nipple once.

“I said,” he repeats, probably unnecessarily, because he doesn’t think you actually demand an answer, “I’m not done. Understand?”

And as expected, you don’t nod or answer. You only push your body further into his, and he reckons that’s a mighty sufficient implication already.

As you lay sideways with a breath as heavy as his, his exhales hot against your ear, you let out sounds reminiscent of marathon runners. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and so is he — but neither of you are finished, and he’d be damned if he permitted the night to end like this.

Diligently, he throws your quivering leg over his; your impish remarks have lessened since he took over, and in turn, his own insolent emotions are reigning supremely. He leads his submerged, rock-hard, twitching cock to your battered cunt, pushing in so easily he thinks he’s dreaming.

It’s like putting a key into its lock.

“Ahh, fuck.” It’s hard to fully bottom out in this position, but he can touch you so much better now. He lets his hands explore your bare body, fondling with your tits, kissing your ear and jaw. “Hold tight. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

It’s cruel, he knows; the gentle praises as he wreaks havoc down there. He crosses your wrists against your tummy, holding them tight, and you close to him. Fucks you dumb and stupid as you wail in his arms. Moves to your clit and gives it pleasant, gentle rubs, so opposite from the rest of his ministrations.

And the pressure builds. His balls, hard as steel, prepare to shoot their load into you, his cock impossibly stiff, but… but…

You haven’t come yet. And this position won’t do. Can’t do, won’t do, he needs to see you.

So he echoes, “Won’t do,” as he gets up again, keeping the previous position short lived. Doesn’t stay away for too long before he’s on his knees, pulling your legs apart, after the briefest interruptions deep inside again before he leans into you.

And then, everything happens crazy fast.

How he keeps you from wrapping your arms around him; instead, capturing your wrists once again, raising them next to your head. How he moves to kiss you for the first time after quite a while, intertwining your tongues, moaning hard as he feels his high approach.

The fast pace changes a little as he loses his mind and focus, one of the strokes stopping as he almost pulls out, and then plunges in again. Your fingers curl in, nails sharp enough to dig into the digits that hold you, and he cries out in delight, letting a breathy chuckle fall.

He says, “Alright, yeah. Next time… we’re tying you up. Love how you whine.” He lets one hand go, gripping your face again and you move your touch to his shoulder immediately, gasping. “You always p-play the mysterious girl, huh? But you’re so pathetic right now.”

The inhibitions are out the window. The overthinking, too. Whatever he thought might make you run away from him has long exited his mind, because he’s got you right here, under his control, nearing the end.

There’s no going back. No return to his yearning, because you’ve satisfied it so thoroughly.

Time to give it all back to you. One last time before he submerges himself in all his glorious egotism.

“There we go,” he says as he watches your expressions change. You open your mouth but don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what your orgasm feels like, but he knows you’re going through it. “Let it all out. Cream my cock, I fucking dare you.”

He’s saying whatever now, he knows. But he doesn’t have the capacity to think much as creases appear on your forehead and between your eyebrows, tongue mingling with his for a short moment when he goes in for another kiss, barely succeeding.

You’re trembling, lifting your hips as much as the weight above you allows, wanting more friction, more of a touch inside your pussy, on your clit, everywhere. And then, when you do come… when he brings the stars from the sky into your eyes…

Yours roll back into your head. Throwing it back, giving him access to your neck. Lips still apart, and he uses it to push a finger into your mouth, on top of your tongue. And fuck… how your pussy constricts. How it tightens so fucking much.

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him.

So much so that his head spins; and as he feels himself getting dizzy, he buries his face in the pillow next to your head before moving it to kiss your shoulder. Barely looks at you anymore; doesn’t care, it’s his high now, he wants to fucking come, and that’s it.

Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.

Will he hate himself for these thoughts later? Is this too over the top? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care.

His thoughts are occupied, alright, don’t need another string of questions to intervene. His attention remains resolutely on his movements, vigorous, rhythmic, your sounds perfectly matching each of his strokes.

And your hands, the poor little palms, unsure where to settle. This isn’t new; across this broad back of his, every girl’s touch wanders like this. Your nails scratch the small of his back, then up his spine, across the muscles of his shoulder blades.

The fact that you’re a goner as much as him, giving yourself to him is probably the last of reassurances he needs — as if any more were required. Because still panting into your skin, eyes shut tight, he works towards the peak of his sanity, exhausted but eager as he relishes the wet tightness of your pussy; surrounding him just right, still clenching, unclenching from your orgasm.

And then—

“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.

His voice is shaking uncontrollably; he barely recognises it. Which… must mean this is new, right? Experience be damned, apparently you spark off phenomena nobody has ever acquainted him with before.

And oh, how you make it worse once he finally emerges again, as if catching his breath after holding it underwater for too long. Your eyes are hooded as he gets on his knees over your body, caging your hips in between his legs. Gripping one of your tits, you nibble your lower lip for a second before letting out laboured breathing, nose flaring.

It’s all he needs. All that’s left when he rips off the condom and envelops his filthy cock with his veiny hand, stroking immediately and hard. Close to the end as he rushes to ask, “Where do you want it?”

You understand what he’s asking, and nod, back to yourself when you utter mysteriously, “Anywhere but inside…” Okay. No time to ask why not — but he wouldn’t have anyway. He obliges, giving his all, one more second left before you tell him just in time, “Here.”

Your palm rubs across your skin, moving over your tits and your stomach. So he’s quick to opt away from your face and redirect his aim to where you pointed, moaning out a couple last, broken vocals before he finally spills.

Milky white, multiple blotches scattered over your skin, like a modern art painting. He’d rather draw these all day than be stuck with you in a museum restaurant, staring from afar, wishing he could reach out under the goddamn public table.

Going until he’s empty, he senses a relief unknown to him thus far, mind suddenly vacant. Once again, the ocean; he feels like the ocean. Like the water as it stills and calms after a thunderous storm. You lifted the waves of his sea high above and have now turned him into a lazy, peaceful lake.

God, he should fuck you more often; you make him a poet.

Okay. Okay, where was he?

When did he unfocus? Dizzy all of a sudden. He puffs out a breath. Then takes another look at you. Watches as you spread the sticky substance over your mounds, touching your nipple, so indecently messy.

The smirk is unintentional but inevitable, reaching far as he shakes his head at you. You smile back wordlessly, and he lets his fingertip run over his cum, too, bringing it to your lips as he asks, “Taste?”

You don’t answer. Thinking for the barest second before you scoff, stretching out your tongue before he puts the finger on it; closing your eyes, sucking it clean. He groans at the feeling; luckily, he’ll be immobile for the foreseeable future, or he’d bend you over again.

“Okay. That should be enough for now,” he breathes, letting himself fall next to you. “I promise I’m a lot more energised on other days. But…” He turns towards you, pinching your chin, bringing your face close. “God, did you take me out there. I’m beat.”

He doesn’t kiss you; only drops back, still filling his lungs with new oxygen. Pity — he still wants you, but his muscles are aching. Eyes shutting.

Then opening again when he hears you laugh, right before you say, “You don’t need to prove your endurance to me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of it now. Besides— let’s be honest. I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, you did more than enough, sweetheart,” Jungkook retorts with a snicker, giving his eyes some relief. He sighs, and then adds, “Your existence did it for me already. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

He shoves his arm under his head, the other untidily covering the two of you with the blanket; whatever. He’ll wash it tomorrow. For now, the two of you should probably get some rest. Although—

Did you say you wanted to stay? He didn’t catch it if you did. Perhaps he’s also just inattentive; suddenly remembers that he still has a long way to go socially, remembering that permission is courtesy. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Uhm,” he starts; this is awkward. He doesn’t do this often — not many stay overnight anyway. Strangely, he didn’t question it with you; maybe because he wants you to. “Do you want me to bring you home?”

“In all honesty, I… I don’t think you can drive tonight. We’re both not sober yet, so I’ll just leave in the morning. Need to be in the office by noon.”

“Ah? Why?”

“Meeting with Tae. I forgot that he wanted to go through a few organisational things for the upcoming concert.”

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.

Jungkook forgot about it all. Responsibilities still exist. Of course, he needs to be in the office tomorrow afternoon, too. This is his dream, his goal, everybody’s eyes on him, the biggest source of entertainment in the country.

Feels so stupid, forgetting you’ll leave at some point. That he can’t flip you over again all day tomorrow, that you’ll be occupied somewhere else, with someone else. Jungkook grits his teeth.

“You wanna come over again tomorrow night?” he asks.

And all of a sudden, despite the last hour, you seem lost in thoughts again. Probably tired, but he can’t help but overthink. You don’t answer immediately, keeping him on the edge, and as he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, he looks over, seeing your eyes open when you say, “Don’t know. Might have a couple things to tend to.”

Ah… okay. Sure.

Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?

Maybe circling around work. Maybe your urge to go is as little as his? All these things, they don’t sound too delightful right now, do they?

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.

When did you start using his nickname like this? Weird. Didn’t know the two of you were so close. Then again, does it matter? No. He shakes his head.

Shakes it slowly, making sure you don’t notice, sighing again before he breaks into a smile. It’s okay. You’re next to him. Not next to Taehyung. His friend. You’re covered in him. So he doesn’t let another’s name fog his brain, instead seeking peace and succeeding until—

“Don’t worry, another time,” you say, following up with a goosebump-inducing, “I’ll stick around until my feet tingle.”

Somewhere… at some point in his life… under probably not the best circumstances—

Wait.

THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

as always, tumblr hates content creators and has a 1k block limit. which is why you can read the rest of the story in this reblog hehe we're almost at the end <3

#jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagine #jungkook

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