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alphabetboyluvr · 2 years ago

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NIGHT CRAWLERS - JJK

title credit: night crawlers - kids in glass houses

pairing: drugrunner!jungkook x sugarbaby!reader, college au

synopsis:

jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too. but he doesn’t expect to run into you. in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning. there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it. so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?

warnings: jungkook and o/c are polar opposites, but y’know what they say, opposites attract and all that jazz, jk is a college student but also a drug runner, mentions of gang dynamics and hierarchy, oc is a sugar baby, mentions of consensual but uncomfortable sexual encounters as a result of this (proceed with caution), drugs, violence, blood, motorbikes, hurt/comfort, all the good stuff, smut – fingering, tittie sucking (wow pretend to be shocked!), unprotected sex, jk has the hugest cawk in the whole entire world, jk is a lil aggressive but in a sexy way, he accidentally says something mean during sex (not sexy mean, actually mean (he makes up for it tho!)), jk on top, oc on top, mentions of his pubes (yummy), tummy pressing, kissy kissy kissy koo, creampie, post-coitus nap, they’re literally in love idk what to tell you, ambiguous ending!!

wordcount: 26K

note from holly: originally published to wattpad in 2021 and also briefly uploaded to tumblr, too. It’s just hit 100k reads over on wattpad so I thought I’d put it here too!! There are two additional chapters on wattpad, connecting the story another fic of mine and also showing us jk + oc four years on from the events of NC!! If you’re interested, you can find it here (x).

i write in british english!! both in spelling and dialect!!

minors dni // cross posted to wattpad

IT'S BEEN SAID that with great notoriety, comes great responsibility to uphold the expectations of those who presume the worst about you.

Okay, so that's a lie. No one's ever said that - but Jeon Jungkook has never been one for sticking to traditions, and so he likes to live his life as if that's his motto.

That, and 'rather be dead than cool.'

Which is ironic, because it's only the heteropatriarchal bores - the ones from upper-class families, who want a white picket fence and 2.4 kids - that actually think he's lame.

And he doesn't particularly give a shit about their opinions.

Everyone else thinks he's actually pretty fuckin' cool.

Black nails, black cargo pants, black hair that waves loosely over his sharp features. An air of command as he walks, a swagger in his step that lingers in stranger's heads like the silage of his aftershave.

Yeah, Jungkook is cool, and he fucking knows it.

A rucksack is perpetually slung over his shoulder, the top concaved slightly to indicate there's very little in there, not much more than a tatty notepad and a few loose pens - or so you assume.

You've never actually spoken to him. Why would you?

Daddy's little princess, glossy lips, manicured nails. The kind of girl who gives him a second look, but only to sneer. He doesn't think of you often, but when he does, it's never nice.

Jungkook doesn't have time for you, and you don't have time for him. Your paths rarely cross.

At least they barely crossed. Past tense.

Now that you're taking a few of the same classes as him, he sees you a lot more than he likes. Hair always up in that stupid fucking ponytail that he can't see past, perpetually on your phone. Attention seeking little bitch.

He'd ranted a little to Jimin about it, told him that you really must have been a dumb bitch to swap from an economics major to a film studies major with only a single semester left.

Jimin hadn't said much in return. Unlike Jungkook and his insatiable hate-boner for you, Jimin really doesn't give a shit about you. Barely knows your name, let alone the fact that you studied economics before switching over. Was kind of curious as to how Jungkook knew that. Not enough to bother with asking, though.

Jungkook thinks it's normal to scope out the competition. A little Facebook look-up, Naver search, Instagram scroll. Surely it's rational to do that? Check out their LinkedIn, cross-reference their Twitter history to see what they've said about the course.

It absolutely isn't normal, but then again, nor is Jungkook.

He's exactly as he appears to be; the rogue look isn't a front.

But beneath the exterior, there are a few more traditions he's subverting.

He's the first in his family to attend college, and he needs to ace this class to keep his scholarship.

It's all just projection, the way he despises you.

You've got everything he wants. A well-to-do family, money, prosperity, financial security. He's never known that. And while he shits on you for having parents that have provided for you, all he wants in life is to be able to do the same for his own children one day.

"I've matched you all with students of a similar grade level, so no one is at an unfair advantage," your professor calls out, tearing Jungkook from his thoughts. "Not a single one of you will experience the city in the same way. From shortcuts to your favourite coffee spots, your lives here will have been different to those of your peers."

Jungkook smirks, leaning back on his chair. He knows this city better than most; its dark corners, where the monsters lurk... how to hide and where to run.

Again, the rogue look isn't a front.

But he also knows how to work a camera better than anyone in that room, how to time his shots, how to frame them, too. Top of the class, though modestly quiet about it (he's got a reputation to uphold, after all), he's curious to see who would be considered an even match for him.

"That being said, your experiences are also shared with those around you. For this assignment, with your partner, I want you to create a unique piece of film that captures what the city means to you. Think outside the box. Create something that excites, that invokes. You've got eight weeks. The partner list is on the noticeboard at the back of the hall. Dismissed."

Footsteps echo around the lecture hall as everyone trundles out of the room. You wait back, having already seen the list before you entered the class.

Instead, you pull out a pen - one of the ones that Jungkook hates, with a ridiculous fluffy pink pom-pom on top - and jot down your number. You aren't aware of his insatiable hatred, and either way, you don't really care.

He ignores you as you approach his desk, eyes only drifting upwards when you slide the torn-out piece of paper towards him.

"Mhmm?"

He's rude, you notice. Brows raised, expression flat, he's fed up with you before you've even said a word. Kinda hot, admittedly, but rude.

"We're partners," you say with an ambivalent shrug. Jungkook's jaw seems to tense, head tilting as he breathes out a short smirk.

Partners?

"You haven't even gone out to check the board."

"So what?" You scoff a little. He doesn't like your tone. The feeling is mutual. "I just made it up?"

It's his turn to shrug, now. "Dunno. You tell me."

His hair waves around his features, and you wonder how long it takes him to make it look so natural. The girls around campus swoon over his hair, like he's some kind of God. Other boys try to emulate it, but they can never quite pull it off like he does.

Another thing that all the girls giggle about are his doe-like eyes, but they're hard, now. Narrow, almost. Less of a doe, more like a dragon. Maybe if you get his nostrils flaring, he'll breathe fire, too.

Yeah, he's hot, you want to laugh to yourself, but not that hot.

"I checked before I came in. Didn't take a genius to work out what it was for."

He takes a moment before he nods. "Right. Well, you should probably know that I work better alone. Just let me handle the assignment, a'right? You can put your name on it, whatever, I don't care. Just let me handle it."

A control freak, you note. Nice.

You didn't transfer majors in your last semester, and face all the hardships that came with such a decision, just to sit back and let someone else do the hard work for you.

"With all due respect, it's a joint assignment. I'm not putting my name on work I didn't actually do."

A stickler for the rules, he assesses. Fucking fastastic.

"Look," he sighs, adjusting his body so that he's practically leaning halfway over his desk. As much as it sounds like he doesn't want to be a part of this conversation, his body language is oddly engaged. "I need to ace this class. You've been here, what? All of three minutes? Film what you wanna film, send it over to me for editing."

"I'm very much capable of editing-"

"And if you could do me a favour and keep the nail salon footage to a minimum, that would be much appreciated. Everyone's seen that shit. It's not interesting. Gangnam underground shopping centre B-roll, too."

It's a thinly veiled insult. Assumptions he's making about you based on the clothes you wear and the company you keep. He doesn't explicitly say it, but you know what he means: you're not interesting.

Jungkook doesn't mean to be an asshole. Not really. He's just got a lot riding on this course, and doesn't want to risk it all for the sake of keeping the peace with someone he doesn't particularly like in the first place.

"Like our Professor said, we all experience the city differently," you plaster a smile on your face, the plastic kind that Jungkook hates. "You might just be surprised at what I can offer."

Private tennis clubs and shopping sprees worth more than a second-hand car? Yeah, no. He'll pass, thanks.

"Whatever," he reclines back, giving your number the once over before tearing a strip of empty paper from the bottom of the note. His hand moves quickly, scrawling his own number onto it. He doesn't hand it to you, but instead tosses it down onto the desk as he stands. "As I said, I work best alone. Don't bombard me with messages about the project. I'll have it under control."

He vacates his desk with an air of arrogance that you don't think he's yet earnt. Sure, he's hot, and from what you've seen of his work, he's pretty talented, too. But no one likes working with assholes, and the whole point of being at college was to make yourself a desirable candidate for jobs.

Or at least that's what your parents had always said.

When they were still talking to you, that was.

Before they decided that you're a disgrace to the family name, all for the simple desire of not wanting to spend your life slaving over finances and spreadsheets.

Like inheritance and a slightly crooked nose (straightened out for your high school graduation gift), econ majors ran in your family - and just like you'd cut off your parents' dream of watching you become an economist, they'd cut you off. Full stop.

So as far as you were concerned, Jungkook could take his arrogant whining about your financial situation, and the hobbies you might have enjoyed as a result of your upbringing, and shove it up his ass.

You really wish he would. Shove it up his ass, that is. Might relieve him of the pent up tension he seems to have going on.

Swiping up his number, you tuck it into your back pocket, ruing the day you'll actually have to text it.

It comes as a surprise to both of you when, a week later, Jungkook is the first to type a message into your fledgeling chat window.

I'm filming tonight. Could use a Grip, if you're free. Dongdaemun Design Plaza, 7pm.

You wonder how much pride he must have had to swallow in order to send you that.

On occasion, during the past week, you've caught him looking at you in that slightly menacing way he always likes to do.

Part of you thinks he's unaware that he's doing it, just zoning out in your direction, but then you see him shake sense into himself - quite literally, a bunny with an itch behind its ear kind of shake - before he averts his gaze.

He does a similar shake of his head when your response pings through to his phone.

Can't do Tuesdays or Thursdays. Sorry. Maybe another time.

He doesn't reply.

REJECTION HAS NEVER been something Jungkook has taken well. It's why he works so hard, fearful of being told that he isn't good enough.

He'd only sent that text because he genuinely did need a Grip.

Well, no.

That's not quite right.

He needed a muse; a subject of his shots, a pair of eyes to catch the confetti of night market lights in. Someone's hand to film as they exchanged money with a hotteok stand server, another human to get lost and found all within the same shot.

But that felt awkward to ask, especially after his insistence that he could do it all alone, so he'd settled for pretending he'd needed a grip. Just someone to hold his gear while he took tricky shots. That's all.

Given your rejection, he was pleased with his choice.

"Familiar," Yoongi nods over lunch the next day, following Jungkook's gaze. "Yeah, I've definitely seen her around. Dunno where, though."

"Campus, maybe?" Jimin rolls his eyes, confused at the fixation Jungkook seems to have on you.

Yoongi shakes his head. "Nah... She looks like-" he glances over to Jungkook conscious of Jimin's listening ears.

"Like?"

"Just like a girl I see occasionally," Yoongi pauses again, making sure Jungkook's focus on him. "At work."

Jimin laughs. "So yeah, on campus. You work in the campus cafe, Yoongs."

It was the only legitimate place that would hire him. Dumb choices as a kid - and a questionable nickname that's now etched into his knuckles - prevents most places from seeing him as a viable candidate.

Yoongi laughs along with Jimin, but Jungkook knows Yoongi isn't talking about the once a week shift that he picked up as a form of extra credit.

Jungkook knows, because on paper, he doesn't have a job either.

On paper, he manages to survive on his scholarship bursary, The Holangi Honour, awarded to gifted students from underprivileged backgrounds.

On paper, Jungkook is the Korean dream of hard work and perseverance.

His reality isn't so pristine, but it never has been. He comes from a long line of high school dropouts with dubious morals and criminally reckless career choices. It was naive to have thought attending university would help him escape it.

Scholarship funds dried up pretty quickly, rent and t-money cards eating away at it, until Jungkook had no choice but to revisit old haunts.

Yoongi had told Jungkook that he didn't need to worry, that he could help him out if he needed money, but Jungkook was no leech, much to his older friend's despair. He didn't want the kid getting into the same trouble that he was in.

One meeting with Yoongi's old school friend, Hoseok and Jungkook was in the rat race again, delivering people's come ups for when the sun went down.

He'd always been good at running. Track, field, red lights, out of luck. Drugs, now, too.

Jungkook had managed a good year and a half on the straight and narrow. For that, he was proud. And sad.

But he's also determined.

Top grades mean top jobs in the future, which means never having to traipse around Daerim at ass o'clock in the morning.

He hates this part of town, but it's where business is currently booming.

Hobi texts him a drop-off list each morning, ensuring his nights are almost exclusively spent in Daerim.

This is how Jungkook sees the city: grotty back allies, groups of men huddled around a pack of cards and dice on the floor, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, phlegm spat onto the foor. He sees the women of the night in the early hours of the morning, and the sadness in the smiles they give to the men who approach them on street corners.

There's only one club of any worthwhile note in the area, and between jobs, Jungkook likes to sit up on the fire exit that rests above the back entrance.

It's where Hobi works, assisting some other reprobate that Jungkook doesn't care to learn the name of. Nasty piece of work, or so he's heard. The son of some powerful motherfucker that Jungkook knows to stay away from. He isn't interested in joining any stupid fucking gang. He just wants to get his money, get through university, and forget about this place.

That's the big dream at least.

His current wish, which feels much more immediate, is to outrun the fucker who has been on his tail for the past half a mile. Jungkook's pretty fast on his feet, and he gives a mean left-hook, but the guy chasing him has a pocket knife and that doesn't really feel like a fair fight.

It's his fault, and he knows it.

As per usual, Hobi had texted Jungkook his drop off list. Six of them, all in Daerim. He had no business being down by Jungang Market, especially not on a Thursday evening.

He couldn't even explain why he was; he was just curious about what life could be like if he ended up flunking out of college. He wanted to see where the monsters liked to lurk, or if they hid in the shadows like boogeymen.

But reprobate recognises reprobate, and drug runner recognises drug runner.

So now Jungkook really is running, out of territory that he shouldn't have infringed upon.

He's not out of breath yet, but he is conscious that his heartbeat feels like it's in his throat. A few streets over, his motorbike is parked behind an industrial-sized trash can, and he prays that no thieving cunt has tried to make a get away with it. They wouldn't have managed it - it's his prized possession and he never leaves it unprotected.

When he spots it a few minutes later, he laughs, relieved. "You beauty," he praises the engine, pulling his key from the pocket of his leather jacket.

The fucker chasing him is nowhere to be seen, probably nursing a stitch or panting down a different back alley. Jungkook doesn't want to risk it, eyes darting all over the place as he unbuckles the chain on his bike wheel with muscle memory alone. The metal clangs through the iron bars that protect the banjihas down the alley from break-ins. He always feels a little bit of guilt for chaining his bike up to the only source of natural light for the half-basement dwellings, but it's quarter past two in the morning. Not exactly sunshine hours.

And yet his eye is drawn to the light pouring down from a street lamp at the entrance of the narrow lane.

Usually, you ignore the noises you hear on your walk home - but, as strange as it sounded for Jungkook's voice to issue a compliment, you're almost positive that it is his voice.

Dark hair, dark eyes, he doesn't recognise you at first. You're wearing black, and your hair is down, but your lips still have that stupid fucking pink lipstick on, the one he'd seen you blot away onto a tissue in the middle of a lecture a few days prior.

His eyes linger, the lights flickering in his glossy dark irises as if there are fireworks inside that pretty little skull of his. For a moment, he thinks you must have been filming for the assignment.

The lack of a camera proves otherwise.

"Get on the bike," he yells over to you, tugging on the sleeve of his leather jacket, pulling it down. Cognitive thoughts aren't something Jungkook's really working with, the adrenaline speaking for him.

That, and the fact that he's acutely aware of what men like the motherfucker who was chasing him down did to girls like you. Might not like you, but he doesn't want that on his conscience.

Plus, he needs your signature on the coursework documents, too. You're no use to him if you end up chopped into little squares and scattered in the river.

"Damnit, just get on the fucking bike!" He continues, noticing that you haven't moved a muscle. His jacket is off now, held out for you to take. He's impatient, eyes darting down the alleyway, as if he's scared of the rain that's pouring down around you. "Look, I ain't asking again. Just get on the bike, or I'll fuckin' leave you here. Some nasty fuckers about tonight."

And while you may not trust Jungkook, you don't trust the alleyways of downtown Seoul even more. You've seen the horrors. You know the dangers. Your mother didn’t raise a fool.

She also didn't raise you to bow to the commands of assholes like him either.

You ignore his jacket, hiking up your skirt, revealing far more of your thigh than most get to see. He doesn't make a comment, but you know he sees a flash of your underwear as you do so.

For once, sex seems to be the last thing on his mind.

Rain pools in the gutter by the drainpipes, trickling down, collecting in the ducts. A puddle sits on top, a tell-tale sign that the street is going to flood soon, but Jungkook also doesn't give a shit about that. Not right now - but he does make a mental note to check that the drains are unblocked by his place when he gets home.

He's a fellow basement dweller, dependent on the cheap rent. A banjiha boy with big dreams of getting out.

You hoist your leg over, ignoring the droplets of water on the leather seat, as your hand wraps around his waist. The front of his white shirt is damp from the rain, elevating the scent of his laundry detergent. You don't hate it. Quite like it, actually.

"Wet conditions," he rasps, voice still hurrying out of his mouth. "So take the jacket. If I slide, the tarmac will rip your skin off." He turns, wrapping the jacket around your shoulders. "I'm not your father. Dress yourself."

"I'd be a bit concerned if my father was trying to dress me at the ripe old age of 21," you bite back, as if the fabric of his jacket doesn't feel like it's melting into your skin on account of how bloody warm he is. You push your arms through the material, shaking it ever so slightly as Jungkook begins to rev the engine.

"Thanks would have sufficed," he bites back a scoff, not wanting to waste time arguing. "Try not to fall off, a'right?" He gruffs.

Some would have considered his concern endearing. You know it's just because he doesn't want to spend his evening scraping your flesh off the sidewalk. Not because he gives a single flying fuck about you.

"Hold on."

He doesn't wait for longer than a second, just enough time for you to wrap your arms around his waist, before he pulls down on the accelerator. His exhaust chortles, spitting out petrol as he goes, water from the ground splashing up against your bare leg. You can feel goosebumps forming, and yet your arms are completely warm.

Of course they are. Jungkook's chest is a fucking furnace, heart pumping blood through him faster than the speed of light. Forward, forward, forward, he pushes his bike on, away from the downtown area he found you in, and away from the demons who were hunting him.

The vibration of the bike is a welcome disguise. Beneath the motor's veil, you're shaking. Partly terrified, partly the victim of an adrenaline surge.

Hardly a surprise. You've never been on a bike like his before.

There weren't many men on motorbikes around your neighbourhood as a child, only Old Jinyeon, who had a Harley that he only rode on the weekends, or when his wife was away at that spa retreat that everyone knew was really code for 'rehab'. Prescription medication was her poison, mostly. There were whispers that alcohol was a bit of a problem, too.

It was a shame, really. She was a nice lady - she'd just married into a lifestyle that didn't suit hers.

Old Jinyeon's father had also been called Old Jinyeon, and his father before that, regardless of their age. The name wasn't the only thing inherited, but a fortune too. Old by name, old by money.

He'd met his wife at a gentleman's bar; gambled all of his chips away just so that he could keep talking to her as she worked.

But the good is rarely easy, and the easy never good. Women like her weren't supposed to be with men like him.

And girls like you aren't supposed to be on the back of boys like Jungkook's motorcycle.

But here you are, hurtling through the city at a speed you're pretty sure isn't legal, clinging onto him for dear life. Your eyes are shut, streaming with tears from the wind, mascara blotting onto his back.

"Left turn," he calls over his shoulder to brace you. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, stomach losing all stability as he rounds the corner. You've never suffered from travel sickness before, but now seems like the prime time to develop it.

The lights of the city all bleed into one kaleidoscope of colour. Your sense of direction has been rendered useless, only opening your eyes once every few seconds to make sure that this is real. And every single time, you're surprised to find that it is.

You expect it to be like a dream where you fall, only to wake up at the last second - but you've never had one of those dreams. You've only seen them in movies. You're not even sure they actually exist in real life. Perhaps this would be the closest you'd get to one. A main character moment - though this felt more like a crime-thriller than the rom-com you would have liked.

The feeling of damp wind in your hair like this is new, and exciting, but all you can think about is the fact that you're pretty sure one of your fake lashes just flew off. You pull your hand back to stroke at your lashes, just to check, but it's caught by Jungkook grabbing for it.

"I told you to hold on," he shouts, though he doesn't need to. The vibrations of his vibrato can be felt through his back. "So hold the fuck on, a'right?! I don't say shit like that for fun."

Jesus, you think. Who pissed in his cornflakes?

But he's right. You do need to hold on. He proves it by not warning you the next time he turns, the bike leaning so close to the tarmac that you're convinced you can feel rubber burn. He eases as soon as he hears you shriek, the grip you have on his chest so hard he swears you might puncture his skin. Reaching back, he cups your knee with his palm, checking for any sign of blood or broken skin. Negative. And yet his hand lingers before he retracts it. He's just making sure. Double-checking. Over-indulging.

"The fuck was that, asshole?" You all but scream.

"I told you to hold on, didn't I?!"

He did. And if you weren't doing so now, tighter than before, you'd have hit him so hard in the balls that he'd have no choice but to adopt in later life.

"You could have fucking killed me!"

"Oh, boo-hoo," he sneers, catching his tongue before he says something he'll grow to regret.

Jungkook would never have killed you. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, and how to ride his bike almost as well as he knows how to get himself off. It's second nature. Innate. A gift.

But before you can argue back, he draws to a stop, his exhaust rattling, the motor purring. As much as he'd like to tell you to get the fuck off his bike, he can feel you trembling now. A part of him - a very slim, deeply hidden part - feels guilty for being so hard on you.

He's grown up with bikes. Trusts them. Lives, breathes gasoline.

He doesn't imagine you know how to change a bicycle tyre, let alone anything with a motor.

The hand that had checked you for damage earlier returns, his fingertips warm against your goosebumps skin. He strokes lightly, once, twice, quickly. "You're fine," he tells you, and you want to believe him.

"Never said I wasn't."

He snorts a small laugh, then taps your knee, encouraging you off of the bike. His hand remains close as you do so, conscious of the fact that you'll most likely be unsteady on your feet - feet that he now notices are clad in the strappiest pair of heels he's ever seen in his life. Perhaps he doesn't need to worry about your stability at all. If you can walk in those, then you can surely handle a pair of wobbly knees.

Without much thought, you take his offer of assistance, his jacket dwarfing you as you stand, hand clasped in his.

"Where are we?"

The alleyway you're down is unlike the previous one he stole* you from (*rescued). It's cobbled and damp, yes, but the doors down here lead to dwellings, garages too. Not an industrial-sized trash cart in sight. And it doesn't smell like fermented piss either, which is a surprise. You thought that was just the standard for side-streets around these parts.

"Doesn't matter," Jungkook shrugs ambivalently as he unhooks his leg over the bike.

He wants to ask why you're wearing such stupid shoes.

That's a lie.

He doesn't think they're stupid.

He actually quite likes them. You've nice ankles. They look good.

What he really wants to ask is why you're wearing them on a school night. The pair of you might be in college, but it wasn't student night at the clubs, and he hadn't picked you up from a particularly nice part of town.

There are only three types of women he ever sees in Daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. You aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get Percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. He's sure of it.

So it then further begs the question: why the fuck were you there?

Sliding off his jacket, you offer him a small smile. It's the least you can do, you suppose.

It's funny, because you only ever see three kinds of men in Daerim: drunks, gamblers, and dealers. Jungkook isn't any of those. You might not know that much about him, but you know he's a scholarship kid, and that he won the winter film festival on campus for his documentary on back-alley gambling.

"We're not too far from campus," he eventually states. Few blocks over. He assumes you live on campus. Got the money for it.

"Cool," you nod, sure that you'll be able to find your bearings from here. You don't live on campus. Not anymore. No money for it. "Thanks for the lift, I guess."

The atmosphere is awkward, dewy mist in the air dampening both of you. He nods back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

He knows he should invite you in, offer you somewhere to wait while you call a cab or something, but he's embarrassed. Of himself. His living situation. The fact that he doubts you've ever even been in a basement that isn't a wine cellar.

"Look I-"

"So-"

Jungkooks nose scrunches, cringing at the awkwardness. You glance down, self-conscious.

"What were you doing over in Daerim?" he asks rather out of the blue. He doesn't even process that he's asked until it's too late.

You clear your throat a little. "Just had some errands to run."

"At two in the morning?"

You nod.

"Right," he doesn't believe you, but can't think of a better explanation.

"Well, what were you doing there?" You ask, albeit a little more confrontational than intended. You were on the defensive.

His mouth is flat as he speaks, a narrowness to his eyes that makes your lips purse to suppress a smirk. "Running errands."

So you're both dirty little liars. Who'd've thought?

"Fairplay," you say with a smile. "Look, I still appreciate the ride. I'd have been fine," you add."But yeah, appreciate it nonetheless."

"Was nothing. I was headed in this direction anyway. If you take a left at the end of the street and follow the road down, there's usually a bunch of taxis waiting for the university cleaners to finish their night shifts. I'm sure you'll be able to get one."

"Take a left," you hum. "Cool. Will do." Bracing yourself to leave, Jungkook wonders if he should offer you a lift to your place too. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow. Class? That thing we attend during daylight hours?"

"Oh right. Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Bizarrely enough, if this is how awkward Jungkook is when he's being nice, you think you prefer him being an asshole. At least he has a little spark in him then.

Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook feels overloaded with fucking sparks, like someone's holding an axe grinder against the metal of his earrings, deafening him. The reality of his evening is kicking in, and the knowledge that he came a few metres from having a hole in his abdomen becomes overwhelming. He doesn't let it show, though.

"Thanks, again."

You make a promise to punch yourself in the face if you say thank you one more fucking time.

"It's fine, again," he smiles, with a small laugh, before focusing those eyes of his on the floor.

And so you leave, walking straight past the taxi rank and taking a shortcut to your apartment, which is a lot closer than you had realised.

Seven steps below street level, you jog down to your front door, petting the neighbourhood calico stray on your way down. The door closes with a slam, but you don't give a shit because the people in the apartment above never seem to give a shit when they stumble home at four in the morning.

Before he sleeps that evening, Jungkook wonders how much of the skyline you get to indulge in. Your dad works in the accounting side of one of the largest law firms in the city, he knows that much from his research. Knows that your immediate family has more money than probably all of his relatives combined. Alive and dead.

He just isn't aware that you're not seeing a single dime of it. Not since you dropped out of the economics and business side of school to focus on the creative arts. All that money your parents had 'wasted' on your education? Well, they weren't wasting any more.

Because you're a commodity, to be bought and sold, apparently. Not their daughter, who they should have just wanted to be happy.

So now you spend your Tuesday and Thursday evenings down in Daerim.

Because you are a commodity; and if anyone's gonna be selling you, then it may as well be your fucking self.

A stack of yellow 50,000 won bills sit on your desk. Twelve of them. 600,000 won. Not bad for a week's work. 6 hours.

Might have been cut off from your Dad's money, but your replacement 'daddy' wasn't a bad substitute.

The bluntness of such a statement usually makes you laugh, but not today.

If Jungkook knows the Daerim area like you think he does, then he'll be able to work it out soon enough. A bitterness fills your chest, like coffee dripping through a filter, forgotten about and left to go cold. You've been so good at playing pretend.

Secrets are so much easier to keep when they're not shared.

Perhaps that should be your project piece.

Secrets of Seoul: The Seedy Underbelly of The City.

After all, that was your unique view of the city; the side you saw that you were pretty sure no-one else did.

At least, no one else except Jungkook. Go figure.

"SEVEN WEEKS LEFT!" Your professor reminds the class as they dismiss you from your lecture. There's a little chatter, partners sharing ideas and friends discussing what to have for lunch - and then there's you and Jungkook.

He waits by the end of his row for you to walk to meet him, an inconspicuous look on his face.

The girl who he's watching neatly put a fluffy pen into her handbag looks a lot like you, but a hell of a lot different from the girl he gave a lift to last night.

Who the fuck are you?

Jungkook has always liked a little mystery. Seen the romanticism in the unknown. Still doesn't like you - but you've gotten him curious.

"You haven't sent anything over yet," he notes, keeping a slight distance from you as you walk together up the stairs.

"You told me not to bombard you," you remind him.

"Sending me video files once in a blue moon is fine."

"Once in a blue moon. Gotcha."

It's Friday, so he knows it's not one of your pre-determined days of having prior engagements.

It's only now that he realises that must have been why you were in Daerim last night; that your 'errands' are actually scheduled into your routine. It doesn't bode well for his 'not a hooker, an addict or a sugar-baby' theory.

"I was thinking of heading over to Dongdaemun this evening, seeing as you weren't free on Tuesday," he starts a little awkwardly, but the more he speaks, the easier it becomes. Being nice, that is. "I could still use a hand, if you're free? If you're serious about helping out, I mean. It would be good to make a start on things."

Relief washes over you. You've been fearing a conversation about the night before, but Jungkook doesn't want to talk about it just as much as you don't.

You meet him at seven o'clock that evening at Dongdaemun Design Plaza. You've always loved the green roof, how organic the landscaping looks above such a futuristic building. He listens as you explain this, eyes wide and in awe of the sloping pathways and curved walls, showing him your favourite of all the trees in the park.

Jungkook looks at you for a second, observes your hands, how they delicately move a few leaves to frame the shot you're taking. You've a Midas touch, and Jungkook wonders if your fingers would turn him to gold, too.

It's a silly, fleeting thought, but it doesn't stop him from focusing the camera on you as you roam Dongdaemun night market later that evening, lights cascading over you like glitter.

He thinks you're pretty in this light. Pretty when it's just him and you. No distractions.

Except there's hustle and bustle everywhere, a vendor chasing a thief, groups of high schoolers laughing on their way home from Hagwons, food sizzling, vapours making his stomach rumble. Perhaps you're the distraction, instead.

The pair of you spend the next week traipsing the city together.

Somehow, you only ever come together when the sun goes down, but it's fitting. You're a pair of nightcrawlers, swarming through the city when traffic sounds like a melody and destinations are unknown.

He learns that you drink your coffee black, no sugar, lukewarm. You learn that he'd rather rub coffee granules into his eyes than drink it.

And despite your preference for no sugar, he always tosses a little white sachet towards you whenever you order a coffee. He finds it funny. Insists that you have to be a sugar baby. It's the only way he can explain that night he saw you Daerim.

He's just joking. And you pretend not to, but you find it hysterical.

Mainly because he doesn't realise how bang on the money he is.

But also because you can't help but laugh whenever he does.

There's a comfort that grows between the pair of you, a familiarity. A casual ease that doesn't feel dangerous, not even when he's pulsing through the city on his bike, you holding onto him, his leather jacket wrapped around your body. You begin to like the way that the wind feels in your hair, and you stop wearing fake lashes. Jungkook doesn't tell you, but he likes you better with a few freckles showing, dewy highlighter and a little mascara being the only makeup you wear for the midnight city roams.

It's only because you can't be wasting resources reserved for clients on a boy from your film studies class. Times are tough, money is tight. No point in pouring funds into a boy you won't make revenue from. It's a bad business decision.

A few months ago, you did your makeup multiple times a day just for fun. Now you have to ration it. Life... life isn't what it used to be.

But Jungkook is ignorant to that, and you quite like it. Escaping from your reality. Becoming the version of yourself that he thinks you are.

He isn't sure which version of you he wants to spend time with the most; the too-good for him daddy's girl who dresses in Celine and comes with a pout, the enigma who lurks in the shadows that he thought he had a monopoly over, or the master director who seems to rival his talents for capturing moments of life in 4K.

As he watches your brows furrow while you turn your phone upside down, trying to understand a map, he decides that he doesn't care which version he gets.

Jungkook wants what he wants.

There's an impulsion to his desires and subsequent actions that he takes to obtain them. He's driven by gratification, and little else.

On the days he wants to feel wanted, he'll go to a bar. He never whispers false promises or pretends like he's after anything more than what can be achieved in a single night. The girls he goes for tend to see that as a challenge. They think they can convince him otherwise. It's not his fault when they can't. It's not his fault that they end up falling for him regardless. It's not his fault that he never has any intention of loving them back.

He tells them this. They ignore him. It isn't his fault.

On the days he wants to feel accomplished, he'll stay on campus until the cleaners usher him out of the room so that they can prepare it for the next day. Their insistence is lost on him - no amount of Cif can polish the dirt out of the walls. Once a shithole, always a shithole. He'll offer his apologies for getting in their way, and they'll coo over him like he's their own grandson. It's all very sweet.

They tell him not to overwork himself. He lies and says he won't.

On the days he wants to eat more than a single cup of ramyeon - which is most days, given his absolutely mammoth appetite - he'll send Hobi a text and request more drop-offs for that evening. Yoongi will give Jungkook a subtle look whenever a message from Hobi pings through, knowing it mustn't be good news. It never is.

Jungkook tells Yoongi to mind his business - but with a grin and a glint in his eye that eases his friends worry ever so slightly.

Disapproval never stops Jungkook from doing what he wants, regardless.

Not from his friends, from the cleaning ajummas, and especially not from you.

So he ignores the look in your eye, as he encourages you to follow him through a gap in the chainlink fence, which surrounds a disused water tower on the outskirts of the city.

Jungkook wants what he wants.

And right now, he wants to get a shot of the midnight city from his favourite vantage point.

"You said you've taken thousands of shots here," You hiss as a twig snaps beneath your foot. He smirks as you utter out a curse. "Surely you can just reuse one of those?!"

He guides you round, ignoring the ground level rubble, until you get to a ladder that definitely isn't safe for use. It's rusting by the bolts, and has a few vines trailing up it, undisturbed for months. Remnants of paint are flaking from the structure, collecting like ashes on the ground below.

"I have," he shrugs, unhooking your camera bag from your shoulder, popping it into his rucksack for safe keeping. He crouches, putting his palms upwards to offer you a leg up. "You haven't, though. You see the city differently to me, remember?"

He's taunting you. Reusing the phrase from your Professor that you had quoted to him on the first day of the project. Asshole.

Asshole with a smirk that suggests he's only teasing. Suggests that he's fond. Words that suggest he remembers the things you say to him. Memorises them, even.

Curious.

"Can't we just pretend like we see it the same way?"

"No can do, sugar."

"Oh my god, stop calling me that."

You're thankful for the midnight sky and the way it disguises your blush.

As if throwing packets of the white stuff at your face in coffee shops isn't enough, he's taken to calling you 'sugar', too.

"Give me a reason not to," he says as he tilts his head, encouraging you to accept his leg up. You check your feet for mud, then put your trust in his grip.

"I've already told you, I was just running errands," you defend yourself for the thousandth time. A short yelp escapes your lips as he boosts you up, your hands gripping onto the flaking bars beside the ladder.

He doesn't believe you for a second. He also doesn't believe that you're actually a sugar baby. It's just fun to fuck with you a little.

Once you're up, he waits for you to safely sit on the ledge, and then he makes the climb too. He's up a lot quicker than you, coming to sit beside you with his legs dangling over the ledge of the railings.

"Tell me it isn't worth it," Jungkook says a little airily, enamoured with the view.

And he's right. It is worth it.

A maze of city lights twinkle like the Carina nebula, interstellar, yet entirely of this earth. Bright whites, reds and greens speckle the horizon, and for a moment, it's easy to forget that you're looking at Seoul. There's a magic that can only be appreciated from a distance, far away from the scent of alleyways and the void nothingness of grey brick buildings. Skyscrapers tower above the skyline, but still look small from where you and Jungkook sit, silently, in awe.

"Look over there," he points across the vast expanse. You follow his trajectory, but you have no idea if you're picking out the right spot. "Daerim. Can always tell. Know the street layout too well."

"You're gonna get me thinking you're a sugar baby," you nudge your shoulder into his, and he laughs.

Reaching into his rucksack, you expect him to pull out your camera. Instead, his hand comes back into vision holding a pair of chopsticks and a tub of instant ramyeon. Uncooked.

He pulls the seal back, stabs at it with the chopsticks and offers you the small chunk he's broken off.

"It's good," he promises.

You know what dried ramyeon tastes like. You know it's good. You just can't understand what the fuck is wrong with him.

"Are you broken?"

He grins as he tosses the chunk of dried noodles into his own mouth. "Absolutely - but ramyeon is ramyeon."

You tell him he's weird, and he continues to smile, not resisting as you take the tub from him and break off a chunk with your fingers.

It's one of his favourite snacks. He's impatient and impulsive at the best of times. Waiting for it to cook? Too much effort. Cooking it at the convenience store and carrying it up the tower with him? Disaster waiting to happen. It's just easier this way.

And so the pair of you sit, not really saying much, watching the city roll by. Every now and again, he offers you a chunk from his chopsticks.

By the end of the night, neither of you have gotten any footage of the city.

And neither of you really care.

AS YOU SPRINT home after yet another spree around the city with Jungkook, running late for your Thursday evening appointment, you curse your inability to send his calls to voicemail.

You should really be working more. You need to be working more - but for the past four weeks now, you've answered every single one of his calls.

His messages? Yeah, you ignore those. He's learnt this, though. He messages you regardless, because... well, because he wants to, quite frankly. He doesn't give a shit if you respond.

He knows you read them.

He knows you saw that picture he sent of a flyer detailing a live art event last week. He knows that you noticed the veins on his arms.

You don't know that he'd spent a couple of minutes tensing his arm before he took the picture. Deliberately.

It's been said before that Jungkook wants what he wants - and what he wants more than anything, frustratingly, is your attention.

The way you study his arms the next time you see him proves that he's gotten it.

If anything, the delayed gratification makes it so much more worthwhile.

You have been thinking about him.

So as far as Jungkook is concerned, you can ignore his messages all you like, because you still always answer his calls with an airy 'hi,' as if talking to him takes your breath away.

The only time you don't answer is between the hours of eleven and two on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

Chances are, if he just so happens to be in the area - which he always is - he'll catch you down on the wrong side of the tracks at just gone quarter past two.

He still calls you 'sugar', teasing you for the reputation of the area. You just roll your eyes and grin, then banter with him about how even if you were a sugar baby, he wouldn't be able to afford your prices.

He argues that he'd pay in ways that didn't include monetary value.

You don't ask him to expand.

But as you wipe your watery lash line in the bathroom of a shitty rental apartment in Daerim, you think about what he could have meant. If he actually meant it.

The TV blares from the living room, faint vapours of a mango e-cigarette wafting through the gap beneath the door. You've always thought mango smells like cat piss. Rancid.

Whatever Jungkook could have meant didn't matter. His flirty tone and angel eyes didn't pay the bills. The cash tossed down on the bathroom counter did - or more specifically, the widower, who occasionally wanted company from a pretty young girl, did.

A hundred thousand won for an hour, three hundred thousand total. It takes you just a week, two appointments, to make up the month's rent - but you still need to eat, to study, survive.

And so you return, every week.

It's not his actual apartment. He lives over in Gangnam, close to his kids' schools. More money than sense. He doesn't tell you much about his personal life. You think a lot of his small claims are lies, anyway - but you smile and flutter your lashes as if he's reciting bible verses.

Some nights are better than others. Sometimes, he genuinely makes you laugh. Occasionally, he'll ask you what you want to do. Takes you to museums. Fancy dinners. Theatre shows.

But he has a nasty streak, and in those three hours, you're his. He owns you. There's no sex, that's not the arrangement, but his hands have been known to roam, and the disparity of equality within your working relationship becomes apparent. You brush it off, tell yourself that it's natural for a man engaging with you in a romantic capacity to forget the rules. You tell yourself that it's okay.

The churning in your stomach and dis-ease of such a situation tells you that no, it isn't okay. But if you laugh at his painfully unfunny jokes loud enough, you're able to drown out the noise in your head.

The worst nights are the ones where he pays you extra.

There's no discussion anymore. The stack of notes is just thicker than usual upon arrival, and you know that at some point during the night, you'll have to sit in silence and watch as he sinks his hand down into his pants.

It's easy to forget the way it looks. Your eyes glaze over, and the discomfort, the slight disgust, indicated in your features gets him hard. He thinks it's taboo. Thinks you enjoy it too. That your panties look a lot like his hand by the time he's finished.

The snort-like grunts are what you find hard to forget. The wail of a moan that comes when he does. You hear that shit in your nightmares.

But it earns you an extra two hundred thousand, so you endure it because you don't have much of an option at this point.

Come 2 AM, cash stuffed down your bra, you don't have to think about it anymore. The fresh air of the city, a little smoggy and polluted, hits you like a freight train. You thank it.

When Jungkook enters Daerim that evening, he expects to find you. He normally does. You never look particularly happy - in fact, he often tells you that you've got a face like a slapped arse - but it's more so today.

He whistles from across the street, clad in black, a thick hoodie keeping him warm beneath his leather jacket. "Oi, Sugar," he calls, that boyish grin on his lips. Teeth so pretty you wonder how much novocaine it would take for you to be numb to the way it makes your stomach flip.

Eyes dancing up and down your body, he likes what you're wearing. Black tights, black dress that cuts off at your mid-thigh, a sweetheart neckline and chiffon sleeves that puff around your slender arms. He decides your boots are far more sensible than the heels you're usually in.

"That'll be twenty thousand, Jeon," you call back, arms folded over your chest as you change direction to walk towards him.

"Per hour?"

"Per every time you call me that stupid fucking name."

"What would you rather?" he goads, leaning against a window ledge on the back of a restaurant building. There's nothing down the alleyway, just trashbags and the distinct scent of fermenting piss. "Shugs? SB? Baby?"

You smirk, walking to the wall opposite him, mirroring his position, hands resting beside you on the ledge. There's a safe distance between the pair of you. A look, but don't touch type of vibe - but this time, unlike earlier on in your evening, you actually enjoy it.

"You really gotta make your mind up," your eyes roll, lips rising into a crescent. "One minute I'm a trust-fund princess with Daddy's money on tap, the next I'm a sugar baby with a different type of Daddy altogether."

Jungkook shrugs. "Just don't see why you waste your evenings roaming fucking Daerim of all places."

"Best dandanmian in the city," you say, referencing the abundance of traditional Chinese restaurants in the area. "Can't get the authentic stuff in Itaewon."

"Can't get hookers in Itaewon like you can in Daerim, either," he taunts you.

He doesn't really think you're a hooker, but he likes the way you grin whenever your eyes roll.

"Ah, so that's why you're here."

He holds his hands up to playfully admit defeat. "Guilty."

You laugh, knowing that there's no way in hell Jungkook will ever have to resort to hookers. Not when he looks like that. All doe-eyed and charming, floppy hair just begging for a pair of hands to run through it.

The pair of you let the moment simmer, droplets of water dripping from the drainpipe and into the sewer. He's lit by the neon light of a restaurant sign, red and yellow painting him like an impressionist masterpiece.

"You look cold," he acknowledges, but you shake your head and insist you're fine. Your hair is a little damp from the small shower you'd been caught in a little while previously, mascara smudged around your eyes. You looked like that before the rain, mind you. He shakes his jacket off and tosses it across to you, snorting quietly as it hits your face and crumples over your feet. "C'mon. I'm now about to ride home. I'll give you a lift."

He asks for your address, and you tell him that you'll just get a taxi from his place like you normally do. There's no need for him to go out of his way.

"The princess doesn't want the pauper to see her castle, huh?" he teases, always talking in bloody riddles.

"See!" you protest. "Always changing your mind! A minute ago I was a sugar baby, and now I'm a rich bitch again. Which is it, Jeon?"

"I dunno," he reaches behind himself, adjusting your legs and pulling you a little closer into his back, tapping your side to make sure you've got the jacket on. "You tell me, sugar."

He doesn't see you roll your eyes, but he knows you do it. You always do. Even when your pretty pink nails are clutching the fabric of his shirt, you pretend like you don't enjoy his company.

You've gotten good at playing pretend.

Jungkook only jokes about you being a sugar baby.

He doesn't fathom that you actually are one.

His engine begins to purr, and Jungkook kicks up the stand, setting off into the night.

The way you hold onto his waist is different tonight.

Physically, it's the same.

But it feels different.

And it is, because you're not just holding onto him; you're hugging him. Comfort in an old routine. You adjust your arms, keeping tight against his back, and he pretends like he doesn't notice the shift in dynamic.

He pretends as if he didn't notice your sad eyes earlier, too, and as if he can't feel the stutter in your chest as if you're trying not to cry.

Jungkook isn't a knight on a white horse, and nor does he want to be - but he doesn't mind being your rogue bandit who steals you away from the things that make you sad.

He's just an arc in your fairytale, not your happy ending.

But you've always been a sucker for a bit of a plot twist.

When you arrive at his, he wants to ask you to stay. He doesn't want an orange taxi cab to appear at the end of his lane and act like your actual knight in shining armour. He doesn't want you to ride into the sunrise with anyone but him.

And as luck would have it, your phone shares his desires.

Well, no. It doesn't. It's a mobile phone. It doesn't have cognitive thoughts - but it is out of charge.

"Different charging ports," he grits his teeth as he holds up his Samsung after you ask if he's got an iPhone charger. "I'm pretty sure I have an apple cable lying about though. You can come in for a second, get a little bit of charge just so that you're not stranded in a taxi without a way to contact anyone."

You nod appreciatively. "You sure?"

He doesn't answer, instead holding his door open and ushering you inside.

Jungkook cares in strange ways. He's practical, forward-thinking, trying to find solutions to problems that you'd normally shrug your shoulders at.

He's never told anyone that he loves them before, but he did once swap the hinges on his ex-girlfriend's bathroom door to the other side, so that it would stop hitting the sink basin every time she opened it. He shows his affections in meaningful ways, often without being asked or expecting anything in return.

Neither of you realise it yet, but this is one of those occasions.

It's not until you're perched on the worktop bench in his kitchen that he realises he let you in without hesitation. No longer embarrassed of where he lived, he kind of likes having you here.

You look out of place, silver pendant round your neck, expensive, and hair professionally coloured, nails done, toes, too. Not that he can see them. He just remembers a conversation you had once over chicken and a beer about the fact your toes always matched your nails.

Small details like that are what he thinks about when he's alone; like the way you blink a little faster when you're confused, and how you sprinkle Cheeto dust back into the bag off of your fingers instead of licking them like he does. He thinks about the way you laugh in his company, and how he's never heard you laugh like that with anyone else. And he tries to stop, but dammit, he thinks about how sexed up you look on those Daerim nights.

You're dressing like that for someone else, he knows that much.

But he gets to indulge in it too, when your body is pressed against his back as he takes you home.

He's stopped asking what you do in Daerim. He doesn't want to know.

For a few minutes a night, when he's alone, he likes to pretend what it would be like if he was the one you were dressed like that for. Only ever a minute or so. Gets him too hot. Finishes him off too quickly. Absolute sin.

"Kook?"

He doesn't even realise he's halted his movements until your voice breaks him from his thoughts. His jeans tonight are tight, and do a pretty good job of hiding the swelling between his legs. Fucking uncomfortable, though.

"Sorry," he doesn't turn to face you. "Was just trying to remember where I last had the cable."

"I was just saying that it's fine. It's really not that far. Don't wanna be a bother."

"Why'd you say shit like that?" he turns to face you, face twisted a little. He's annoyed.

"Like what?"

"Call yourself a bother. You do it a lot."

"I don't."

"You do," he insists, and you can't work out why he's so annoyed by it. You want to apologise all over again. "You just-" he takes a moment to find the right words. "I dunno who's conditioned you into thinking everything you do is bothersome, but it really isn't. If I didn't wanna help, then I wouldn't. It's not a bother. You're not a bother."

And you don't know why, but for some reason, you choke up a little. It's not like he said anything particularly groundbreaking, it's just for the last few months, your entire existence has felt like a drain on those around you.

The money you can live without, but you miss family dinners on Sundays, and face timing your little sister, more than you can even begin to explain.

And while no, you didn't want your parents' money, you didn't want to keep seeing a perverted old man just to be able to afford to eat, either. The flat rate was 500,000 now. Every single time. Without fail. You hadn't put the price up. He was just always paying extra. Always touching his prick. Always jerking himself off over your repulsion.

Earlier that evening, he had queried how much it would cost him to finish on your chest. You told him a million. He asked if you accepted bank transfers. You told him no. He offered 1.2 mil.

Part of you considered it. It's a lot of money. Not something to be taken lightly.

But when you ran into Jungkook, just like you knew you would, you were adamant you had made the right choice. He had scanned your body, getting a read on your mood, assessing what you needed, what you wanted, and then had offered up his jacket. All doe-eyed and sparkling. You finally got what all the girls swooned over, 'cause you were doing it too.

"Hey," he says softly, noticing the way your eyes are reddening. "Hey, hey, no. Don't cry, sugar."

You laugh through the first couple of tears. Stupid fucking nickname.

"I meant it," you sniff, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hands. He's standing closer now, hesitant to touch, hands hovering around you. "20 thousand won, Jeon. Pay up."

His fingers tenderly wrap around your wrists, keeping them from rubbing at your face again. He's smiling, eyes ever encompassing, cheeks so appled that you bet you could get drunk off the cider he'd produce.

"Can we do it on an I.O.U. basis?" he speaks quietly, playfully. "I get paid on Monday."

It's a lie. He gets his commission cut straight from his sales figures. There's 2 million won in his rucksack. He only gets ten percent. 200K. His job's not nearly half as lucrative as yours, but it's still nothing to be laughed at. He's making bank.

"Nuh-uh," you sniff again, letting out a little laugh. He laughs too. "Told you that you couldn't afford me."

And then it's silent. You can hear your heartbeat. He moves a little closer.

"Told you I'd just pay in other ways."

His voice is hoarse, as if he's scared.

As if he fears the consequences of his claim.

Your eyes drop to his lips. They're trembling slightly. Preparing.

The grip he has on your wrists loosens. He's giving you freedom. He's giving you the chance to back out, to run away.

But you don't.

"Pay up, then," you all-but whisper, lips closing on his.

Jungkook doesn't stall, no, but it takes him a second to respond. To realise.

And once he does, his brows furrow into the kiss, demanding that you know just how much he wants this. Wants you. Has done for weeks, now.

He pulls your body into his, needing you close. Your body curves, his arm hooked behind your back to keep you balanced.

A surge of intensity washes over you like crimson paint. It'll stain you, and everyone will know: That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it.

He kisses, and he kisses, and he kisses, and he doesn't stop, as if he knows his first with you will also be his last - and when he finally does stop, forehead on yours, the pair of you are breathing so heavily into each other's mouths that it's as if you're sharing oxygen. Keeping each other alive. Both capable of first-degree murder.

And so neither of you pull away. There's no way he's doing time for you. There's no way you're doing time for him. Looks like you'll just have to kiss forever. Shame. Such a hardship. However will you cope?

"I-" he begins, before cutting himself off, easing his grip on your waist. One of his hands lingers, while the other pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes wincing. "Shit-" he finally lets you go. "I don't know what that was. I'm sorry."

You want to tell him that it's okay, that you didn't mind, that he could do it again - but it's clear he doesn't agree.

"Just adrenaline," you offer, sinking down to perch on the worktop bench. Your defeated posture is hidden well like this. "Don't sweat it."

He stays silent as he turns around to resume his rummaging, looking for a charger that will fit your phone. He knows there's one in there, he just can't for the life of him remember when he last had it.

Everything feels a little awkward. You half think that you should fill the void with something, that you should break the ice, but what was the point? You'll be out of his hair soon.

And you are, home twenty minutes later. You had only charged your phone for ten minutes at his, just enough to get you home. It's about to die again. Not before Jungkook pings you a message, though.

He doesn't expect a response, but he lies awake until he sees your read receipt confirm that you've seen it.

Sadness doesn't suit you, sugar. I'm not gonna pry, but if you ever need a ride earlier than normal out of Daerim, give me a call.

He spent a good six minutes debating whether or not to end his message with a kiss, eventually deciding against it. No need to make the message any softer than it already was.

To his surprise, a bubble pops up on your side of the chat thread.

His heart twinges, your response saying everything he wished he had with just one simple letter:

JUNGKOOK HAS A terrible habit of taking out his stress on the people around him; the ones that he holds closest.

"I just don't see why it's such a big issue," Jimin says through a mouthful of salad greens. His teeth chomp so loudly that Jungkook thinks they'll have to swing by the dentistry labs later that afternoon. Which Jimin'll probably like, considering he won't stop fucking rambling on about a dentistry student at the moment. "She's hot, she's got guys practically falling at her feet and she's interested in you. It's one party. Stop being so fucking boring."

Yoongi casts Jungkook a sympathetic look. He doesn't work so much at the moment, what with his chemistry finals coming up, and especially not in the Daerim area.

That's Jungkook's market now - but he did happen to have a drop-off for a last-minute order a couple of weeks back. Territory isn't an issue between the friends, with Jungkook respecting Yoongi far too much to ever tell him to back off, or to not take deals in that area.

He had been about to approach Jungkook that night, when he noticed you crossing the street, a smile plastered on your face. He couldn't see Jungkook's face from the angle he was at, but he could see how raised his cheeks were. And so he left the pair of you to it, knowing better than to stick his nose where it wasn't wanted.

Unlike Jimin, apparently.

"Not boring," Jungkook retorts, tossing the wrapper his chopsticks came in at Jimin's face. "Got a bunch of assignments due in."

"Dude, you've been MIA for weeks. If we didn't have classes together, I'd have sent out a search party by now."

"You're being dramatic."

"You're being boring."

"Kids, settle down," Yoongi interjects, and wonders why he doesn't just find friends his own age. Logistics, he decides. The perils of having to save up for university before he could actually attend.

Jimin, being Jimin, then proceeds to bicker with Yoongi, leaving Jungkook free to find your face amongst the canteen crowd. You're sat with friends, none of whom he's ever met.

Your hair is up, like it always is during school, but you've let your grown out bangs frame your face. Pretty, he thinks. Prettiest girl here.

But then you stand up, and Jungkook turns caveman. Head empty. No thoughts. Just nonsense. Jesus Christ. Who gave you the right? God damn.

A few months ago, he would have looked at you in that outfit - a silky sage green playsuit over a white tee, sunglasses resting on your head like an alice band and a pair of white converse on your feet - and he probably would have scoffed. Wouldda said some bullshit about the fact you're dressed like a child, or that the weather isn't good enough to warrant such an outfit.

A few months ago, he was a fucking idiot.

You feel his gaze on you, just like you always do.

And you ignore it.

You've been getting good at that. Pretending as if you don't feel his eyes. As if you're unaffected, unbothered by the simplest form of intimacy: a single look.

He knows you've been keeping your distance. Watching from afar is all he can do when you slink out of class before he can catch your attention. He tells himself that he doesn't care.

Jungkook mutes the audio track of the editing software he uses when he stitches together your footage, so he doesn't have to relive your conversations or hear you laugh, or worse, hear himself laugh.

It's all a bit nauseating.

Maybe a party would actually be a good distraction.

"Tonight, did you say?" Jungkook pipes up out of nowhere, only dragging his eyes away from you when he sees you pull your phone out to send a text.

He pouts. You never text him. Not once since last Thursday.

And you were nowhere to be seen on Tuesday.

He had called you, and for once, you didn't pick up. He didn't try again. Decided that it was on you just as much as it was on him.

That being said, he didn't get home till four in the morning, two and half hours after his last deal. Spaffed away an entire tank of petrol. Rode in fucking circles. Just in case.

"Now we're talking!" Jimin grins. "Tonight. It's her birthday, she's rented a bar in Itaewon - Dad knows the landlord or something."

Jungkook didn't know who 'she' was. Hadn't been listening to that part of the conversation.

"Well, you kids enjoy yourselves," Yoongi sighs as he gets to his feet. "Can't risk my finals over a few crappy drinks in a shitty bar."

"Oh boo-hoo!" Jimin pouts. "Spoilsport."

When Jungkook enters the bar that evening, he's greeted with everything he expects. E-cigarette vapours cloud the air, a cocktail of flavours violating his senses as he heads to the bar, shitty EDM pumping through the speakers. It's been a while since he let his hair down, so to speak.

There's something about him that commands attention. People gravitate towards him, even through the smoke clouds and sweaty bodies. Girls buy him drinks. Guys buy him drinks, too. Anything just to spend time in his presence. Like leeches, they hope to share some of Jungkook's aura.

It's impossible, though. It's Jungkook's authenticity that gives him such charisma. Trying to emulate it only ever comes off as tacky - like the guy towards the back of the room who's permed his hair to look like Jungkook's. Pierced his eyebrow, too. Looks like shit. Jungkook doesn't want to judge him, but he's a few drinks deep, and being kind is what got him into that mess with you in the first place.

No good ever comes from being nice.

He takes a shot. Tequila. Chases it down with lemonade. The girl next to him is playing with the bracelets on his wrist. Her nails scratch a little bit, and he quite likes it, so he doesn't resist when pulls him onto the dancefloor. He observes the way she moves first, and isn't disappointed. She knows how to move her hips, and seems to like it when he puts his hands on them. He can't really feel the sensation when she kisses him. The alcohol has numbed his lips. Maybe Jimin was right to force him into this.

By the time he goes to the bar for another drink, he's faded. Off his tits. Helped himself to some of Hobi's stash that he was supposed to be distributing that evening. A little bit of coke never does him any harm. He knows his limits. Tastes like shit down the back of his throat, but he kind of enjoys it.

At first, he thinks he must be seeing things when he catches you with an espresso martini in hand, laughing with people he doesn't know.

You've this whole life that he's no part of. A whole entire world. He really is an outsider looking in.

You're one of the elite; an old-money heiress. The type to own a miniature dog breed and only fly business class. It was stupid of him to think your interest in him had been anything more than entertainment. A 'little bit of rough.' Excitement away from the confines of the life he's sure your parents must have planned out for you.

It might just be because he's coked up, but he doesn't care about any of that.

All he can think about is the fact he's pretty sure you've never looked more beautiful.

He feels so lost looking at you like this, as if he needs to be closer, for fear of losing sight of you entirely.

And so he sits beside you at the bar, orders his drink, waits for you to notice him. Which you do.

You'd spotted him the very second you walked into the bar, his hands all over some girl you don't know.

In all fairness, you didn't realise he would be there. Sohyun, the girl whose birthday it was and an old friend from high school, has been fawning over Jungkook for months. Just superficial drawling, comments about his thighs and the fact she'd quite like to be suffocated by them. Harmless, really. You know she's never actually made a move.

Sohyun doesn't know you're working on a project together. You avoid the topic of him altogether, especially with her.

But she does notice the way Jungkook is looking at you like he's seen a ghost; haunted and comforted all in the same expression.

"You're here," he finally says, and it feels as if your chest is about to cave in.

Turning to face him, you're casual in your posture. Unbothered. Completely unaffected by him, and the lipstick that's painting those lips of his that you like so much.

You raise your thumb and swipe it across his bottom lip. He's silent as you do so, watching you, holding his breath. His lip moves like rubber beneath your touch, soft and supple, springing back into position once you release it.

You raise your thumb to study the lipstick you've collected from him. "Plum's really not your colour, Jungkook."

He doesn't say anything, a little transfixed. It's barely ticked past midnight. You should be in Daerim.

In all fairness, so should he. Hobi had some choice words for Jungkook when he told him that he wasn't working that evening at such short notice.

You swipe open your phone and repeat the step, filming your thumb as Jungkook becomes captive to your touch. You want to look, to see how wide his dark eyes are, but you're too busy feigning disinterest.

"There," you smile, forwarding the video along before you lock your phone. "Just sent you a video of how I see the city tonight."

You've no right to be annoyed. You know that.

Jungkook can be in a bar with another girl's lipstick on his chin if wants to be. He can stay out all night, and he can stay in beds that aren't his. It's his prerogative.

But you are annoyed.

It's irrational, and pathetic, and you shouldn't be.

You barely know him. Not really.

After you'd shown him your favourite tree at the Design Plaza a few weeks ago, he'd insisted on taking you across town to Garosugil, a street in Gangnam lined with beautiful tall trees. He questioned why you only had one favourite tree, when you could have had an entire row of them instead.

At the time, you'd enjoyed the way his eyes looked beneath the lights of the designer stores that neither of you could afford. You didn't question what he had meant.

It seems like you found your answer.

"I'm not the city," he eventually says.

And he's right.

He's not the city.

Fuck it, no, he's not the city, but his eyes sparkle like Itaewon on Friday nights, and his hands are strong like the World Cup Bridge. He's not the city, but you find it so easy to get lost in him without a map, and sometimes wearing his leather jacket makes you feel like you're eating comfort food at your favourite breakfast bar over in Myeong-dong. He's not the city.

He's not the goddamn city.

But it feels a little like you'd accidentally anchored your navigation pin in him regardless.

All you do is smile, and tell him that he's right.

"Look," he begins, and you can smell the spiced rum on his breath.

"It's okay," you interrupt. Who are you to make him feel guilty for his promiscuous encounters?

He doesn't know what you do in the dark. Not really. If he did, he probably wouldn't have kissed you last week.

"No, I-" he cuts himself off like he always does when he doesn't wanna fuck up his words. The alcohol is doing him absolutely zero favours. "I dunno, sugar."

Your smile is sad, and he hates himself. You lean forward, press a kiss into his rosy cheek and whisper, "That'll be 20,000, Jeon."

And because he's drunk, and he wants to make things better, he reaches for his wallet. You were about to walk away regardless, but damn, if the boy doesn't know how to hit you where it hurts.

"Really, Kook?"

It's like he doesn't know you at all; doesn't remember how you banter with him, how you flirt with him. Or maybe you were just stupid for thinking that you'd been flirting with him in the first place. Maybe he just speaks to everyone how he speaks to you. Must have spoken to whoever was wearing that lipstick in the same way.

He doesn't answer, not verbally, but his brows pinch together and his lips develop a frowning pout.

When he stumbles home that evening, he asks himself the same question: really, Kook?

In the morning, he wakes alone, with no recollection of how he got home.

He doesn't remember the girl from the bar, or the fact that Jimin threw up in a fish tank, or that they're now barred from three different establishments for encouraging people to snort fish food (which Jungkook had stolen while Jimin was emptying his stomach). Regretfully, he doesn't even remember your arrival at the first bar. Doesn't remember how, for once, you'd dressed to impress just him.

His lack of recollection means fuck all though, 'cause despite his headache, the thing weighing down most heavily on him is guilt. He feels a sense of duty when it comes to you; duty that he hasn't performed lately. Were you getting home safe? Getting harrassed by scummy fuckers on the Daerim path of destruction?

Out of habit, he checks his phone, ignores the messages from unknown numbers and goes straight to your message thread to check the damage. He's surprised to find that he didn't drunk text you, but even more surprised to find that you'd messaged him. It's a video, just a few seconds, but it's enough to provoke some of his memories back.

He watches your thumb as it glides across his bottom lip. Watches it again. Notices the lipstick. Notices the thumb ring he never realised you wore before, and the fact that your nails are black now instead of their usual pink. There's something erotic about it; the way you touch him. The way you filmed yourself touching him. He'll probably get in trouble for it, but there's no way he isn't adding that to your project.

You consider ignoring his call when your phone flashes with his caller I.D.

It's only just gone seven, and you're still in bed, still try to make heads or tails of your life.

But you're weak, and so you slide your thumb across the little green icon.

"Hey."

"Uh, hey."

"You good?"

"So hungover, I think I might die," Jungkook jokes, voice hoarse. You wonder if he always sounds like this in the morning. "Just wanted to check in with you though. Barely seen you all week, and then I end up with a weird-ass video in our message thread that I don't remember."

Ah. You cringe.

"Ran into you at the bar," you shrug, not that he can see you. "Didn't realise you were friends with Sohyun."

"Hmm?"

"Sohyun... the girl who's birthday it was?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Nah, no, not really friends with her. Jimin forced me along."

You don't know all that much about Jimin, but from your limited interactions with him, it doesn't surprise you. Not in the slightest.

"Good night?"

Your question sounds forced and awkward, and he doesn't quite understand why.

"No idea," he admits honestly. "Remember fuck all."

He sounds as if he wants to keep talking but doesn't know what to say.

You don't know what to say either.

It's a mess. You liked it better when he hated you.

"Were you at the bar for long?" He asks, genuinely curious. "You're normally busy on Thursdays?"

"Just a drink. Had a last-minute change of plans."

"Oh?"

"Yeah..."

You know he wants you to elaborate. He wants more without having to explicitly ask for it.

Which is apt. Seems like it's a common occurrence with Jungkook.

"So what did you call for?" you change the topic, not wanting to dwell. The aversion doesn't go unnoticed by him, but it does go unquestioned.

"I-" there he goes again, cutting himself off prematurely. Coward. "Are you free? Now?"

Oh.

Not a coward. Just cautious.

"Now? I mean, yeah, I guess."

Jungkook takes a second, and then he bites down on the grenade pin.

"Can you come over?"

THE WAY YOU keep Jungkook hanging on tenterhooks is deliberate.

You're unsure of him, of his motivations, and what he does in the dark. And so, while you want to let your guard down, you can't. It's probably something to do with your parents - the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally - making their love entirely conditional and withdrawing it so suddenly.

It's the kind of shit you would have spoken about with your therapist, but you can't afford her anymore.

Can't afford much of anything, anymore. So much of the money you've earnt recently is tied up in credit card debt or rent.

Foundation was the first luxury that you'd compromised, and you're still yet to buy any more. Cheap stuff always makes you break out, and thankfully your parents did give you decent genetics, at least, so your skin was pretty clear.

It's the lack of make up that suggests to Jungkook you're opening up; not hiding from him anymore.

But it's also what tells him something is incredibly wrong, when you show up at his door half an hour later with a graze beneath your eye. Little flecks of reddened skin creep up your cheekbone, and Jungkook thinks it almost looks like carpet burn.

He hadn't noticed it last night, but it was dark, and he was drunk.

He lets you in, takes your jacket, offers you a drink. Everything that he knows he should do. Asks how you are, keeps a safe distance.

You don't know why you're here. Why you didn't say you were busy.

Except you do.

It's cause you miss him whenever you're away from him.

"I like these," you smile as you look at the artwork he has up in his room. The studio space is small, cramped, like all semi-basements are, but it's distinctly 'his'. A lot different to yours. Everything you own is still in boxes, not yet unpacked.

You've refused to come to terms with that being your life now.

"Thanks," he nods, watching you as you explore the box of a room he calls home. "They're from a guy down by the coach station. Has a little stall."

"You'll have to show me," you muse, turning to smile at him. It's saccharine, but the graze on your face is just so bitter. He hates it. Hates that he doesn't know how you got it. "Think I'd like some for my place."

"I have a feeling they'd look a little out of place in a princess tower, sugar."

Your shoulders shake as you laugh quietly, not correcting him. He doesn't need to know that you're a basement dweller, too.

"How's the editing coming along?" You steer the question away from your living situation.

"Nearly there," he grins, brimming with quiet excitement. Something about the way your camerawork looks with his editing technique layered on top just really works. He's always been confident with his final projects, and this one scares him a little bit, but in a good way. It's his best yet. Maybe he did need you after all.

"Can I see?"

"Not yet."

"Kook," you say, and - oh god - you're pouting. Jungkook suddenly begins to feel nervous.

It's that scary feeling again. A fear of the good stuff. Trepidation.

"What?" he grins, walking a little closer to you, letting his hand stroke against your back as he sits down on his bed. His fingers catch yours. It's fleeting, but enough.

You both feel it.

"Such a tease," you say, talking about the project, but there's innuendo in your words, too.

"Some girls like it," he flirts back.

"The girl at the bar last night seemed to like it."

Jungkook rolls his eyes, boyish and charming. It's annoying, you think, how impossible it is to be mad at him. It's not because you're weak, or because you can't resist his charms, but because he has a way of playing things off as if they're no big deal.

The girl at the bar? A nobody, his shrug suggests. She doesn't matter.

And it's so easy to believe, because you're the one in his apartment. You're the one he wanted here, the one that he missed. Or at least, the one that he was thinking of when he decided that he could do with some company.

It might be nothing, just something to pass the time, but it makes you feel wanted. Desired. Needed.

So you accept his hand when he reaches out towards you, pulling you closer, positioning you between his spread legs. You're standing, his eyes level with your chest, unashamed as he looks at your body.

"You look warm," he husks.

Just like he always uses your body temperature as excuse to give you his jacket, he's using it as an excuse now, too. The desired effect is obvious.

His AC switchboard is on the wall behind his bed. You'd clocked it when you were walking around, observing his possessions. Yanmar, the branding reads, the plastic outer frame beige. Once, it would have been crisp white. Age has dulled it. The monochrome monitor has a clock symbol in the corner, an indicator that Jungkook has his AC set on a timer. It suggests a sense of permanence. This is his home.

You haven't set your timer yet. You just flick it on when you get hot. It isn't your home.

He watches you as you move, curious. He's smirking, because he just cant help himself.

And because he knows that you like it whenever he does. Gets you a little bit flustered.

One of your knees hooks over his lap, and then the other follows suit.

He'd have said you were straddling him. You'd have argued that you were simply reaching over to the AC.

And you do exactly that, flicking the switch, watching as it lights up. "There. Much better."

Touche, he thinks. Smiles. Grips your thighs, as if he's scared you'll stand up again. Scared to lose you.

In all honesty, he had been hoping you'd take your shirt off, but he isn't going to complain with you in his lap, instead.

Doesn't matter if you mix the eggs with the milk first, or the flour. You still bake a cake at the end of it all.

Jungkook looks at you in such a way that you find yourself thinking maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so horrible to let someone in. His eyes are honest, void of ulterior motives. He's doing this because he wants to. Because he wants you.

Wants that feeling back. The one where his lips are cushioned between yours, his tongue licking into your mouth.

Jungkook wants what he wants. Jungkook gets what he wants.

And, fuck, if it isn't bare minimum - but you know this, and you don't care. Bare minimum tastes pretty fucking good when you're licking it from his lips.

His hands roam, and you let them. He's rough with his movements, but the fleshy pads of his fingertips are soft, like silk against your skin. It's almost like he's afraid, filled with the knowledge that he can bruise, if he really wants to.

But he doesn't want to. He wants to ask about the graze that's sitting pretty where blush should be. Jungkook doesn't wanna hurt. He wants to heal.

"I catch you looking, you know," you tell him before he gets a chance, wanting to see how he responds. "Every now and again..." He hikes you forward in his lap. Places you dead centre over his cock. You can feel it. He can feel you. "...I catch you looking at me." He presses a kiss against the base of your neck, obsessed with the way it vibrates when you speak. "Why are you always looking at me?"

The fact that you're sat in his lap, grinding your hips against a solid bulge, should be indication enough.

Jungkook isn't going to spell it out for you. The eroticism of suggesting he's a fucking voyeur makes him want to laugh - but the way your nipples are tenting the shirt you're wearing distracts him.

His teeth graze your throat, hands creeping round to your tummy. His fingers are long, practically the length of the expanse between your hips and the underneath of your plump tits. Just a little further and he'd be holding them, cupping them, caressing. Just a little further.

"I look at you-" His hands continue their exploration as he leans back, watching the movement beneath your shirt. It somehow feels forbidden - like he can touch, but not look. After all, your question had sounded quite a lot like a telling off. "-because you like me looking at you."

He's fucking with you, trying to get a rise.

"Do I?"

The way that you whimper as he brushes against your nipples has him pulsing his hips. Your eyes close, head tilting back ever so slightly. You like this. The way he does it.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, lips wet against your neck. His fingers knead into the flesh of your tits, nipples hard in his palm as he relieves his stresses. "Bet you think about it all day, don't you? Think about the way I look at you when no-one else does."

Yes.

"All day?" you smirk between dulcet moans. "You're lucky if I pay you any attention at all."

"I think you're lying," he declares rather boldly, hands all over you. "I think it plays on your mind. I bet you fall asleep thinking about it, don't you?"

Yes.

"Ddaeng."

"I bet you get yourself off thinking about it."

Maybe you do.

Maybe you've whispered his name in the dead of night, imagining how it would feel to have his body weight on top of yours. Maybe you get intrusive thoughts of that kiss every single time you try to draw close. Maybe Jungkook has made you cum without ever laying a single finger on you.

But even if he has, you won't tell him.

And you don't need to, because his phone buzzing on the bedside table behind you cuts the conversation dry. Jungkook glances towards it automatically, then back up to you. His frustration is evident, jaw tense.

"I gotta get this," he mumbles, encouraging you off of his lap. You don't resist, accepting the last five minutes for what they were: a momentary lapse in judgement. He sighs as he stands, adjusting his trousers, swiping his phone and putting it to his ear. He strolls just far enough away that you won't hear what or who is on the other line. "Hobi. Speak to me."

Hobi, you muse. A friend? A colleague? Another girl?

You swallow back the nauseating feeling in your throat, pretending as if the prospect of Jungkook with someone else doesn't chip away at your self-worth a little bit. It wasn't like you thought you had anything special between the pair of you.

But he was right. You did like him looking at you.

More than you had realised until the prospect of him looking at someone else arose.

From the corner of the room, you could hear Jungkook trying to interrupt the person he was talking to. The first syllable would escape, and then he'd hush again, never quite managing to get the words out in full.

"Ho-" His nostrils look quite cute when they flare, lips pursed, a pair of unique dimples becoming evident. They're different to the usual ones you notice. Full of surprises was Jeon Jungkook.

"Hobi, can I-"

He runs his hand through his hair, already dishevelled from your hands.

"Hobi will you let me fucking talk!"

Attaboy.

The pause that follows Jungkook's outburst would suggest that Hobi had said 'no' - and then a few more choice words. If Jungkook rolled his eyes back any further, they'd surely get stuck.

"Look, I'm a bit tied up right now- no! No, not that. Who? No. I don't know a Taehyung, and even if I did- Huh? Ain't got nothin' to do with Holangi. Don't know a single one of 'em."

You try to decipher the conversation, but fail.

"You're a real fuckin' cockblock, yanno?"

You blush.

"Fuck it, fine. But you owe me. I'm not saying yes next time."

He glances over to you, catching your raised brow. Next time?

A smile catches on his lips. You thought this would be a one time thing?

He's barely hit second base. If there's one thing you're yet to find out about Jungkook, it's that he loves to win. He won't be satisfied until he's got a home run.

Any other girl, and he'd have probably been running laps for fun by this point, but you... yeah, you didn't bowl him easy hitters, that was for sure.

Jungkook moves with confidence, like he always does, as he strides over to the sofa, the bulge in his pants considerably softened but still present. "Take a picture," he grins. "It'll last longer."

You roll your eyes, but it doesn't stop you from asking if that's an offer. He laughs - that soft, gentle thrum of his vocal chords that sounds so heavenly in your ears - and tells you to behave.

"I just gotta help a friend out," he says as he reaches over you to grab his rucksack. It's heavier now than it ever is at school, the jingle of crushed tin foil rustling as it briefly catches on your knee. He pretends not to notice the curiosity in your eyes. Pretty eyes, though. He quite likes them, especially when he's towering above you and can see the whites just above your lashline. Yeah, he likes them alot. "I'll only be an hour or so. You can stay here, if you like?"

The way he phrases it is so casual that it's almost like you're old friends.

That, or Jungkook's just used to having women he doesn't know very well stay at his place.

You're unaware of the mental gymnastics he's putting himself through. If he could kick himself without looking like a twat, then he definitely would.

Shrugging, you give him a polite smile. "I don't wanna overstay my welcome."

"Nah, you're fine. I can give you a lift back to yours when I'm home? I'll be an hour. Two, tops."

Finally you agree, watching as he leaves like a lovesick puppy, listening out for the familiar rattle of his exhaust pipe. There's a cough and splutter of petrol spitting onto the sidewalk as his motor roars into action, and then he's gone.

You don't hang around for much longer.

You tell yourself that you will. That it would be nice. That you and Jungkook might not be so ill-suited after all.

But as the clock ticks by on the wall, you find yourself getting antsy. You find yourself asking stupid questions. Who exactly is Hobi? What was in Jungkook's bag? Why is he always down in Daerim? Is that where he's gone now?

The thoughts grow, adapt, intrude. Before you know it, you're considering what you'd find if you opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet.

Realistically, you know it would probably be a wank sock and a tub of vaseline - it doesn't matter though. Your mind is wondering. You need to scratch the itch.

Just a little peek. He'll never know.

Oh, how you loathe your brain.

What's the worst you could find? A revolver? His ex-girlfriends panties? Love letters? A crack pipe?

Somehow, you'd rather find a pipe than panties.

It's not that you want Jungkook to be a crack addict. It's just the more that you think about it, the more you come to realise that you really, really don't like the idea of someone else feeling how warm his torso is, or how his upper teeth always nip slightly when he starts kissing you, until the pressure of his pecks plump his lips. You've only experienced it a handful of times, and it's stupid to get carried away, but he just makes it so easy.

He didn't ask you to stay, you tell yourself. He asked you if you wanted to.

Moments of instability like this are exactly why girls like you don't spend time with boys like him. It's stupid. Futile. A game for fools.

You leave his apartment as you found it, with not even a note to say thank you. He's had a squeeze on your tits. You deem that thank you enough. If anything, he should be thanking you.

When he returns, just half an hour after your departure, he can still smell your perfume. He tosses his keys down, calls out your name, and is met with silence. It takes him a moment or so to realise that he's alone.

There's a sinking feeling in his chest that he doesn't recognise. Doesn't like. Hates, in fact.

But fine. Fuck it. He didn't want you there anyway. He'd just been doing a good deed. Being kind because - if your face was any indication - obviously someone else had been particularly unkind to you.

Jungkook thinks he knows who, now.

Daerim nights have always been sketchy, but the days are no better.

He's just the lowest rung on a long ladder of criminals who turn a profit when the sun goes down in Seoul.

Hobi had asked him to drop the stash in his rucksack off at a club, some gang-run joint that Jungkook doesn't know much about, so that he could get them back to his boss.

That had been the plan, at least.

He slings his bag down, now empty, and sinks into the sofa, not bothering to get a rag to clean himself up. No point. The dried blood will just wash off in his shower. It's not the first time this has happened. He doubts it will be the last.

Jungkook's nose is currently bleeding, dripping down his chin and hitting the ceramic tiles of his apartment with small slaps. A bruise is forming above his left eye socket, and his knuckles are red.

A punch to the face means very little to Jungkook.

He's young, but he's strong. Fast, too. It could have been a lot worse if he wasn't.

He pushes the back of his hand against his nose, sniffing, before unlocking his phone, and dialing a number he knows now by heart.

The dial tone bleeds out, just like his nose.

And so he hangs up, and calls the only person he knows he can rely on.

"Wassup, kid?"

Jungkook doesn't mean to sob, but he cant help it. He knows Yoongi has finals coming up. He doesn't need his bullshit on his plate, too.

"I got jumped Yoongs."

Fuck.

"You alright? Sound pretty bad? Where?"

"Daerim-"

"The fuck you doing there at this time of day?"

"Hobi wanted me to drop off my stash."

"Kook..." Yoongi speaks slowly, coming to a horrific realisation. A few punches had never bothered Jungkook before. Something bigger was at play. "The stash...?"

Jungkook can hear it in Yoongi's voice: fear.

"Gone."

Yoongi sighs down the line. "Hobi know yet?"

"No."

"Alright, get outta your flat," Yoongi begins, not wasting time. Now is not the time for emotions, and it's clear that Jungkook isn't capable of that just yet. "I need you to go somewhere safe, somewhere you can lie-low for a little bit alright? Let me sort it-"

"Yoong-"

"Let me sort it. I got you into this mess. Don't sweat it."

"Ple-"

"Kook. Seriously. Trust me with this."

Yoongi doesn't let him debate it any further - and it's just as well he doesn't, because as soon as he hangs up the phone, another call comes through. Jungkook wants to answer it. Really, he does.

Jungkook's just very aware of the fact that the guy who jumped him had almost been waiting for him. Right by the entrance of the apartment block which he always picked you up from.

In between blows, he'd warned Jungkook to 'stay the fuck away from the girl'.

The girl who's now returning his call.

"Hey," you say animatedly, having not expected him to call. You thought the pair of you would resume your usual awkward routine of pretending like nothing ever happened. "Sorry, I was in the shower. You good? Sorry I left, I just did-"

"I need a favour," he doesn't bother with formalities.

You want to banter with him, to flirt, but the tone of his voice warns you not to. So instead you tell him that you'll do whatever he needs.

"Can I come over?"

Fuck. Anything except that.

"Please."

YOU DON'T EXPECT to say yes. You don't expect to care more about him than you do about protecting your own dignity. You don't expect Jungkook to traipse down the stairs that lead to your slovenly open door with a glum look on his bloodsoaked face, as you stand there waiting for him.

But he does.

He makes no comment, no remark about the building. Just wraps his arms around your head, cradling you against his chest as you stand in your doorway. You can hear his heartbeat, thud, thud, thud against his ribs.

Go somewhere safe, Yoongi had told him. It was a no brainer.

"I'm sorry," he says, eventually pulling himself away from you. "I didn't know who else to ask."

You tell him it's fine, and you mean it. Keeping up pretences doesn't really matter so much anymore. Perhaps honesty was overdue from the both of you.

"The fuck happened to you?" You ask, tenderly reaching up to stroke away some of the dried blood from his lip. He winces, hisses, body tense, but he lets you continue. "Sorry."

"Could ask you the same, sugar," he speaks kindly, not wanting you to think he's being critical as he nods to the entryway behind you.

You grit your teeth together and let your hand rest on his shoulder. "King kicked the princess out of the castle."

And, suddenly, it doesn't seem embarrassing anymore. In fact, it seems perfectly apt that Jungkook knows. He doesn't pry, don't push for further clarification. Just nods. Accepts your reality.

"Castles are overrated, anyway," he presses a kiss to your head, and gently guides you through the threshold. The corridor is short, opening up to an open plan studio. The layout varies from Jungkook's, but it's similar in size. Small.

"Ignore the wallpaper," you say of the awkwardly granny-ish floral print. It's beige, so not totally offensive, but dear god, you think it looks like vomit.

"No," he grins. "It's... wow. Your landlord really knows how to make a statement, don't they?"

You perch on your bed and cringe. "A statement... a crime against interior design. Whatever you wanna call it."

Jungkook continues to pace around your room with a curious smile. He's partially deflecting from the fact he knows you're probably dying to ask about his face, and why he was so desperate to be with you, but he's also interested in the life you neglected to share with him.

Brown cardboard boxes are piled high in the corners, your possessions not yet unboxed.

This place is just temporary.

You've got three and a half million won sat on your desk. A couple more weeks, just a few, and you'll have enough for a deposit on a decent flat. Then you can get a regular job, something stable, and you won't have to worry. You could work through the summer and then figure out what to do next. Just as long as you keep on moving upwards, you'll be happy.

"So," you begin gingerly, as you head to the kitchenette beside your bed, wetting a cloth beneath your tap. "You gonna tell me what happened to your face?"

He takes your previous position, inviting himself to sit on the end of your bed, anticipating your return. There's light coming in from the thin windows by your ceiling, hitting directly onto your back. He thinks it's apt. Thinks you're the kind of girl who deserves a spotlight. Thinks that Mother Nature agrees.

Jungkook shrugs, in that lazy, boyish way he so often does, as you walk towards him. He spreads his legs, encouraging you between them, letting his hands graze your thighs. You pretend not to notice as you press the damp cloth to his cheek. Tiny crows legs appear at the edges of his eyes, face wincing from the contact. It's painful.

But being alone would be more painful. He chose to be here. To be with you.

And so he tells you what happened, with as much honesty he can muster. There are some things better left unsaid, his occupation being one of them. You listen attentively, dabbing at his wounds, a frown etched into the lines of your face.

"Stay away from the girl, huh?" you muse, avoiding his eyes as you study his face. His nose is still bleeding, but every time you tell him to tilt his head towards the ceiling, it ends up back in its original position. He can't see you as well with his head tilted back. Doesn't like it. Doesn't wanna do it. "Could be any girl."

Jungkook's dimple forms in his cheek. "No. No, it couldn't."

His fingers that have been grazing at your thighs squeeze tenderly, letting you know he means it. More than he thinks you know. More than he knows he should.

There's a chance that any words spoken between the pair of you could be misconstrued. He doesn't know what his feelings for you are, and you don't really understand yours for him - but you understand your body, and the electric current running beneath your lips, dying for a connection. A little spark.

So you do the only thing that makes sense: you kiss him.

And he kisses you back. Slowly, tenderly, deliberately. His lips melt into yours, hand pulling your legs closer. He encourages you onto his lap, as if he needs to be insufferably close to you. Once you're positioned how he wants, just like you were earlier, he grips your waist, keeping you stationed there.

Jungkook knows he should stop.

He knows he should have paid attention to the pair of fists that warned him off you as his skull hit the pavement earlier that morning, knows he shouldn't let himself get so wrapped up in such a red flag - but he just can't help himself. It's like you're laced in the narcotics he deals, and slowly but surely, you've gotten him addicted.

He's craving. Dying for a hit. Just a little taste of your tongue on his, the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Red flags, red stop signs, pretty red lips all plump from the kisses he's smothering them in. Red blood, too. His nose is still a little damaged, and the way he's painting your cheek in crimson should repulse you.

Should repulse you.

Like fuck it does, though. You can smell the copper twinge through his plasma, and suddenly it's as if the Cullen's had the right idea all along.

When he pulls back, only for a moment, hands clutching at the side of your face to assess the look in your eyes, he notices it too. Hard not to. You blush all the fucking time, so much so that he knew the shade by heart, and the rouge on your cheek is far too vibrant, too scarlet. It's his fucking blood on you.

It should scare him, he knows. But the way you're looking at him, eyes all wide and glassy, lips swollen and waiting for more, has him unable to think straight. It has him obsessed, the way you don't care. The way he's covered you in blood and you still seem to want more.

But there's a softness to the way in which you're looking at him, mild confusion, as if you've got the same strange warmth running through your veins as he does. It's not a feeling he recognises, pulsing through his bloodstream with every beat of his heart.

Perhaps it's nothing. Jungkook tells himself that it is. Just adrenaline, probably.

You look at his lips, all crimson and blushed, and realise you much prefer the shade of his blood to the plum lipstick that had tainted them the night before. You're delicate as you wipe your thumb along his pouted bottom lip, just like you did in the bar. Except this time, the jealousy that had blossomed in your diaphragm is nowhere to be found. There's still a pinch beneath your ribs, but this time it's in your heart, and it's far more aching. This time, you feel his hurt.

Jungkook reaches down to where you left the damp cloth on your bed. It's wet and heavy in his hand, a little warm, too. He brings it to your face and dabs silently, cleaning you of the mess he's made. Fixing you. Restoring you to your former glory.

Its futile, 'cause his nose is still fucking bleeding, and you don't plan on leaving it more than a moment before you kiss him again. You simply don't care. Want him for all that he is, blood, sweat and tears.

But still, he insists on ridding you of his stain. Doesn't want to tarnish you. He's soft with the way he presses the cloth against you, mirroring how tenderly you were with him earlier. He's learning from you, adapting to you. Wants to be like you. Wants to be 'better'.

You watch as his eyes scan your face, brows twisted like they always do when he's about to say something but stops himself. The vertical groove just above his cupid's bow is red, blood tacky as it dries. If he kisses you now, he'll leave a stamp; a mark that says 'you're mine.'

It's too much. Far too much. You aren't his, and he knows this. He never wanted you to be his, in fact, for the longest time, he had wanted to be anything but yours.

But now he sits beneath you, crestfallen, heart in his throat, blocking him from speaking.

This was never part of the plan. He was never supposed to end up here. He was supposed to escape from the trenches, to get on the path of straight and narrow. Thrive. Succeed.

And it's not your fault, he knows this, but there's a little part of him that wonders what could have happened if he hadn't seen you that night in Daerim, hadn't seen the way your eyes look beneath night market lights, hadn't heard your laugh as he looked at his favourite view of the city.

You whisper his name, your palm resting flat on his chest, and his brows soften.

It doesn't matter what could have happened, anymore.

All that matters is what is happening.

The shortness of his breath, the flutter of his lashes against your cheek, the swelling between his legs. You can feel it, feel him, and he knows it. The way he's pulsing his hips upwards is testament to that.

It's a comfortable position, you sat on his lap on the end of your bed, not one that either of you wishes to break from. Not even as he begins to breathe against your lips, unable to properly control his reactions thanks to the friction beneath his briefs.

"Want you," he mumbles, pressing his lips into yours, the air in his lungs giving itself up to you. "Want you so bad."

You shake your head, brows pinched just a little. "I'm bad news for you."

And maybe that's it. Maybe he just wants you because he knows he shouldn't - but fuck it, if he can't let himself indulge in simple pleasures, then why bother getting himself beaten to a pulp over you?

"I'm bad news for myself, sugar," he husks against your lips, tickling them as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Deeper, deeper. Closer, closer. He wants it.

Wants it all.

Wants you naked.

Wants to know what it feels like to have you gasp in his ear as his hands roam beneath your panties.

Wants to know if you'd still look at him like you're stargazing even when he's railing you.

Wants it. Wants you. Just wants.

And what Jungkook wants, Jungkook gets.

He slips his hand up your shirt and pushes it upwards, before letting it crumple to the floor. You know that you should be more bashful, a little bit ashamed, but it's impossible when he's looking at you like this.

He has a visual now that he didn't have earlier. The glow of your skin beneath his bruised knuckles looks almost sinful, like he's plucking forbidden fruit from its tree. He'll pay the price for this, and he knows it, but he just can't resist.

Jungkook has always been a boob guy, always loved the way he could get girls moaning with just a little pinch, but never had he had a pair quite like yours. So full, so round, he's not sure his hands are big enough, and that doubt makes him throb. Soft and pillowy, he groans as he watches his fingers sink into them, utterly enthralled. His hips adjust, pushing upwards, pressing himself into you. He wants this. Wants it so bad.

You can feel the metal of his rings against your skin, and then you can feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth as they graze against the plush skin of your chest. He licks around your nipple, letting the air cool the wet trail, hardening you for him.

He's utterly obsessed.

His mouth pulls at the sensitive skin, suckles, sucks. His lashes are splayed on the tops of his cheeks, lips pouting around your nipple as he does so, small groans of pleasure vibrating against you. It will be a miracle if he can't already feel you seeping through your panties.

You whimper as his teeth graze your hardened nub, and his eyes flutter open. He doesn't detach himself, but instead, he keeps your gaze as he sucks. The pressure varies, and then it's hard. Really fucking hard. So hard you'll think he'll somehow give your nipple a hickey - but fuck, if you don't love the sensation.

"Christ," you gasp, before biting down into your bottom lip.

"Too hard?" He mumbles against you, peppering you in kisses and soft licks as if to apologise.

"No," you pant. "Was good. Was great. Just - fuck."

You laugh, soft and airy, and Jungkook smiles from the sound.

He likes this. Likes how you react to him.

And while he’s patient and gentle with you in a way that he isn't with other people, Jungkook has only ever known how to have sex in one way. It's ingrained into him, as if he was made to fuck like it; like he doesn't give a shit about the person he's screwing.

Jungkook doesn't do love, and you know this. He trades. Works in transactions. Settles debts. You don't really know this part, but you aren't stupid. You know he's never in Daerim for any good fucking reason.

You don't question it as his hands move south, slipping past your underwear. In fact, you're smug as he curses when he feels how wet you are, fingers slippery in your panties.

He pushes a finger into you, and closely follows it with a second. They curl ever so slightly, and it's at this point that you realise Jungkook is absolutely going to ruin you. Just a few pumps. Just to ease you up.

He's bored of waiting. Wants you now.

The pair of you move fluidly, minimal discussion needed, just occasional checks of 'you good?', or 'this okay?'. The answer is, always, without a doubt, 'yes'.

He gets you on your back, panties pulled off, legs not quite hanging off the edge of your bed, but nearly. He strips himself of his shirt first, and grins as he notices the way you whine.

"What?" he toys.

"Nothing," you flirt. "Just wish you'd hurry up. I'm a busy woman."

"Oh yeah?" The sound of his buckle coming undone is enough to make you fucking leak. "Busy doing what?"

You neglect to tell him. Not because you don't have a witty remark lined up, but because he's fucking naked now.

What a sight to behold he is. Body lean, honey skin flawless, muscles defined. You pretend like you're looking at his body, but your eyes are drawn to his cock. You'd expected length, but not the girth - and he has both in abundance. The tip of his cock is blushed and wet, with Jungkook just as aroused as you are.

Noticing your gaze, he rolls his eyes, and toys with your pussy again, lightly running his fingers up and down your slick entrance. When he pulls back, his fingers are still connected by thick clear fluid. His cock throbs.

"You're gonna get me so dirty," he hums, as he crawls onto the bed above you, before holding his fingers to your mouth. "Clean them."

Part of you wants to say no, but the other part of you can see his darkened gaze and the way his cock is twitching. You can't refuse.

His fingers are on the tip of your tongue, the tip of his cock nudging so close to your entrance that he may as well just do it. You raise your hips, encouraging, but he retracts a little just to tease.

The fingers that were in your mouth come to grip at the soft flesh of your cheeks, his thumb on the other side. "Don't you fucking dare."

There's tepid aggression to his movements, and it makes you feel vulnerable - but you like it. You like the way he's gripping your face, the ways he's looking at you with narrow eyes, just like he used to do across the lecture hall. You like being reminded of when you were nothing to one another, because it makes the satisfaction of feeling his stiff cock jump a little against your pussy as you moan so much more worth it.

He used to hate you, now he can't wait to bury his fat cock in you. Victory is yours, even if he's trying to act like he's the one holding all the cards.

You don't correct him, though. You let him think he has the upper hand. You'll play pillow princess just this once if it means you get to see him a little bit mean again.

"Dare what?" you pout, cheeks still squished between his fingers. He grips a little tighter, your chest rising as you gasp. He pulls your face towards his, sinking down into your lips, until he decided he's done with you.

He stands by the edge of your bed, and yanks your ankles towards him, pulling you close enough to the edge for him to fuck you like this.

The loss of his grip is unwelcome by you, a frown forming. He isn't looking at your face now, eyes down on his cock, which he's rubbing between your soaked pussy lips, but he can almost hear you brace yourself to whine. He smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, head knocking to the side slightly.

"Don't you dare try and set the pace," he finally husks, still not glancing up towards you. He's taking his time, making sure the head of his cock kisses every inch of your exposed mess. "Nearly got my nose fucking broken for this pussy-" he spits, hard and fast, right onto your clit, spreading it with his cock. "- so I'm gonna make sure I get what I'm owed."

He spreads your thighs back, his fingers gripping harshly just how you like it. Perhaps you should pretend to be embarrassed by the fact your cunt is leaking for him, begging for him, but the way he hisses at the sight, chest heaving, prevents it.

Jungkook's thought about this before, about how pretty and pristine you'd be, about the mess he'd hoped you'd make. Thought about it so many times. Fingers wrapped around his shaft in the middle of the night when no one can hear him chant your name as he spills over. Yeah, he's thought about it a lot.

His imagination has never done you justice. One look and he's obsessed. Wants to spend hours touching, caressing, licking you.

"Take it," you whisper. "What you're owed, Jungkook. Take it."

He looks up now, brows threaded together. You don't recognise the contemplation his face is laced in, but he doesn't give you the chance to question it, for you begin to feel that burn. The one your fingers can never give you. It's alien, and yet familiar, inherently natural but intrusive nonetheless.

"Shit," is all you can manage to say, eyes locked on his.

He wants to watch himself sink into you, watch as his fat cock forces your slick wetness out of your pussy, but he can't. Not when you're looking at him like that. Not when your chest is heaving and your eyes are watering beneath tense brows. Not when your mouth is hanging open and just begging to be fucked like your tight little pussy.

And then he starts feeling something a little strange. A little unfamiliar. A little bit like his heart has stalled to beat in time with the contractions of your chest. And though he's not in pain anymore, too busy feeling you, he's aware that it hurts. Aware that he can't fuck you like he wanted to, 'cause his chest needs to be against yours. Needs to feel the beating drum beneath your ribs.

He doesn't even realise that he's paused until you whine a meagre, "please."

"That's more like it," he hums, as he pushes into you, the base of his thick cock plugging the weeping mess that he's made. You know that as soon as he pulls out, you'll be whimpering, begging for the tip of his cock to kiss your walls once more. "See how nice things can be when you just behave yourself, huh?"

His hips push just a little deeper, and he knows that it hurts. Knows that the little gasp isn't entirely from pleasure. He's seen his cock. Doesn't take a genius to work out that it can do damage.

"You can take it," he tells you, and like a pathetic, whimpering mess, you fucking nod. He's still inside of you, still deeper than you thought possible, and then his hand is on your stomach. He grabs your hand and places it beneath his. "You feel that?" He retracts just a little, pushing back in just as deep. Beneath your hands, there's a bulge. External or internal, it doesn’t matter. It's him. He does it again. "You feel me taking what's mine?"

Whatever the fuck you moan is incoherent, but he doesn't give a shit, 'cause he's ploughing now. Bucking his hips into you like pneumatic fucking drill. Shit. He's done this before. Got it mastered to a fine art. Momenta worthy of a museum exhibition.

Your tits are pillowed on your chest, nice and round, wobbling as he takes command of your body. He slaps one of them, just to watch it ripple, before that firm grip of his is on it. "Perfect tits," he growls the compliment, not really meaning for it to come out. "Gonna put my cock between them later," he tells you. "Gonna cum all over them."

He doesn't tell you that he'll also clean them with his hungry tongue, before delivering his cum into your mouth. Figures he'll just let you find out. His brain is working at a mile a minute, trying to reign back thoughts of sharing his cum with you in such a filthy manner. God, he wants to do heinous things to you. With you. For you.

But for now, he needs to focus on his cock. It's rubbing inside of you, nuzzling. He knows he's weeping, and that his precum is getting mixed with your slick juices. Knows he won't last long if you keep whining like that. Mewling. Purring.

He stalls his hips, letting go of your tits as they jiggle back into position. Your cheeks are flushed, imprints of his fingers reddening your skin. Lips pouted and resting ajar, Jungkook thinks they've never looked more fuckable. More kissable. More whisper-sweet-nothings-against-able.

"You ever shut the fuck up?" he teases, but is quick to notice confusion flash in your eyes. He didn't mean it as an insult, but it's easy to read the hurt in your perplexed features, and the way you begin to try and push your legs together. It's futile. His cock is keeping you open.

But you feel embarrassed, as if your natural reactions to him are a turn-off. It's silly, because he's quite literally inside of you, fat and solid, using you to milk himself. Of course, he's not turned off, but you're hyper-aware of how vulnerable you're feeling right now. It had been fun to pretend like you were in control, but as soon as he slipped inside of you, all sense of power had evaporated.

He doesn't realise this though. Doesn't realise that his cock is nudging so deep into you that it's practically knocking against your heart. Knock, knock, knock. Who's there? Your mind taunts, but you daren't answer.

"Hey," he coos, one of his large palms stroking on the inside of your thighs. That uncomfortable, obscure feeling is back again. The one that tells him he needs to be closer to you. This time, he doesn't ignore it. His hips pulse, just the once. A reminder he's still very much into this. Into you.

His hands grip your waist, softly this time, as he manoeuvres himself onto the bed with you, keeping himself snug. Your head is by the pillows, Jungkook's knees on either side of your ass, his chest flat against yours as one of his hands cradles your jaw. He presses a chaste, airy kiss against your lips, and whispers, "I love the way you sound." He kisses you again, hips rocking. You're trying not to, but you whine. "Fuck, sugar. You're my favourite fucking sound."

Your legs hook over his back, and he groans now. The angle change lets him delve deeper, your walls massaging him so well. Jungkook thinks he might have died and gone to heaven. He's slipping in and out of you with minimal force, skin slapping together. He makes sure to let his moans roll off his tongue and into your mouth. You eat them up and give them back. The pair of you aren't kissing anymore, just gasping and humming into one another's mouths. He's stuttering.

There's a pause as he adjusts his grip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs. He likes it, the way you seem to melt around him in all capacities. His lips nudge against yours as his steady hips begin to rock into yours again.

You groan as he pushes down on your legs, pushing you as far apart as your bones allow. It's typical of him, seeing how far he can take things. Push them to the limit. Always gets him in trouble. There's a click, as air escapes from the socket where your leg meets your pelvis.

"You good?" He checks and you respond with a kiss. Hands tangled in his hair, you hope it conveys the fact you've never felt better. He laughs a little, soft and serene, into your mouth, the weight of his body keeping you trapped beneath him.

You're morbid in your thoughts, and consider how nice it would be for Jungkook to suffocate you like this; steal you of the air you breathe with his tiny giggles of satisfaction. So, so nice, you think.

And so you tell him. You tell him that you want his hand on your throat. He takes a second to respond - not because he doesn't want to, but more so because he can't believe you actually asked.

He doesn't normally fuck the girls he cares about like this. Then again, he never really cares about the girls he fucks.

"God," you moan as he pushes one of your legs over his shoulder. His body is clammy against yours, skin hot and damp, chest lean but built. He's working hard; not just for his release. For yours too. Rams into you, stuffing your cunt with his cock, dipping his head to lather your clasped throat in wet kisses.

"That's it, sugar," he growls as his teeth graze your neck. "Need to hear how good you feel. Need to hear what my cock does to you. You owe me."

You want to laugh. You're about to laugh. But then his head dips down to your chest, and he latches onto one of your pebbled nipples, sucking so hard that all you can do is tremble. He knows you like this. Knows it makes your pussy all creamy and slippery for him - and like clockwork, he's proven right. The sounds are lewd. He loves it.

"On your back," you husk, punctuating your instruction with a whimper as he suckles even harder. He shakes his head, eyes closed, mouth vibrating and full of your tit. Not a chance, he tries to say, but it just sounds likes he's forgotten how to speak. Too busy. Too close to spilling himself into you. Doesn't wanna get distracted.

So focused, he doesn't realise you're pushing him over until you're on top. He frowns as he detaches from your nipple with a pop, but his hands are running all over your body regardless. Obviously doesn't care that much. Course he doesn't. That ache in his chest has settled.

Until he starts thinking about it, and oh god, it's back and it's fucking unbearable.

"C'mere," he pulls you flush against him, as your hips begin to work against him. His hands cradle your face so he can kiss you as deeply as he likes, tongue slipping into your mouth, as his cock slips up and down your pussy. This, he thinks, is it. This is what fucking should feel like.

"Shit," he whispers. "Shit."

The friction of his surprisingly neat hair that rests at the base of his cock is nice. Real fuckin' nice. You're not even fucking him anymore, just grinding against it. Using it, using him, to get yourself off.

You think you're being slick, like he won't notice - but he does. Of course, he does. He's obsessed with your body.

"God, yeah, baby," his back arches, pressing his chest against yours, eyes closed. "Use me like that. Use me," he bites into your shoulder gently. "Fucking use me."

He means it. Doesn't give a shit about himself anymore. Just wants to feel you tremble as he holds you close. Wants to press kisses against your lips as your moans become undignified. He needs to be the reason you cum; needs to be responsible for your oxytocin rush.

You sit up a little, and Jungkook holds back a pout from the separation - but how can he complain when you're sat like that, his cock buried inside of you, hair a mess and with eyes like his favourite constellation? He's hypnotised as your boobs begin to bounce, pussy working up his shaft like the true Daerim woman of the night you are. He's forgotten about all of that, now. Can't think about anything except for how to not fucking cum.

He can't and he won't. Not until you do. But you're bouncing, and it's wet, and he can hear it, and it feels so fuckin' good. His toes are curling, torso tensing, eyes half-shut, pretty little pout hanging open. He's fucking whining. "Yeah like that," he encourages. "Gonna milk me so well, baby. Gonna... ah. Fuck. Gonna-"

Jungkook can't fucking speak. He wants to. Wants to tell you how fucking beautiful you look, how he wants this endlessly, how he never wants to let you go. Needs to tell you how right this feels, how good you make him feel, how he doesn't understand his feelings but fuck, just that he is feeling. Feeling so much.

You're not sure at which point he started calling you baby, but you're actually convinced that the name alone could tip you over the edge.

The pace of your hips is slowly, savouring. He doesn't quite get it. You were so close. Why stop?

The stillness of your movements makes way for something new. He feels a throb around his fat cock, which is begging for release. Notices the way your chest is shaking like you've got hiccups, tiny whines of pleasure making themselves known. Your pussy was always warm, but it's hot now, contracting around him.

And then he gets it.

"Oh, shit," he mewls, his hips slowly pumping upwards. "Yeah, that's it, baby. Let yourself cum. All over my dick," he encourages, hedonistic and self-serving. "That's it. Cream for me."

His slow movements as he fucks up into you amplify the sensation, the tip of his cock nudging languidly against your tight walls. Your entire body shudders, the feeling rippling from your chest right down to your toes. You rasp out moans, the sensation all too powerful, a creamy mess pooling at the base of his shaft. There's a jerk as your muscles spasm, your orgasm well and truly delivered. He pulls you down and into his chest, his strong arms wrapped around your back.

Your body rests on his, spent and sensitive, and he can tell you can't hold out for much longer. He pushes back the hair that's sticking to your clammy face, and presses kisses into your temple.

"So big," you hum, voice hazy, eyes shut.

"Just a little more, baby," he promises. " You're doing so well. Just a little..."

You've considered how Jungkook would orgasm on more than one occasion - and you're pleasantly surprised to find that your imagination was wrong. There's no grand declaration, nor large grunt. He's not aggressive, either, like you'd half-hoped he would be.

Instead, Jungkook kisses you as his hips begin to stall. His brows are creased, moans muffled against your lips. His torso shudders, abdomen as tight as his balls. "Baby," he drowsily mewls, and then it's happening. His cock pumps into you, unloading thick creamy spurts with every stroke of your pussy. The first one is so desperate that you're almost positive you can feel it paint your insides. You moan along with him, utterly obsessed with this, him, whatever the fuck just happened.

He doesn't withdraw immediately. Just lays there and kisses your skin, absolutely spent.

You don't move a muscle. You don't want it to be over. Don't wanna lose this. Lose him.

When you tilt your head to look at him, he's smiling. Eyes closed, cheeks appled. Serene. In a state of fucked-out bliss.

You tell him that he's pretty, and he lets out an airy laugh, covering his face with one of his hands. You move his hand and watch him fondly, enthralled with the grin that he's struggling to fight.

He turns to look at you, and the smile he's been boasting amplifies. "God, you're gorgeous."

It's not a new observation; just one he's never voiced before. One that he was able to resist saying. But you're naked now, chest pillowed against his, eyes glowing and nose blushed.

You hum, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I'm glad you chose to come here."

Just like that, there's a knot in Jungkook's stomach that seems to anchor that feeling he keeps having.

"Yeah," he nods. "Me too."

IT'S THREE IN the afternoon by the time you wake from your post-fuck snooze. Jungkook's never had one of those before. Hated being sticky after sex with anyone else. Always had to shower - but with you, he wants to stick to you like glue.

"Should have filmed that," he hums, the tips of his fingers stroking up your arms. You aren't sure if he's joking or not. "Would have given us a unique take on the project. Probably wouldn't have gotten us very high grades, mind you, but art is subjective."

"Some would argue that the critique of art is objective," you muse back, still blissfully cum-drunk from the events prior to your nap. Jungkook's nose has stopped bleeding, and the pair of you have almost forgotten the reason he showed up in the first place. "Documentary maker by night, porn star by day," you flirt. "Although it's cute that you think you fuck like a porn star."

"I felt you shaking," he says, knowing there's no possible way that you didn't enjoy it. His nose feels a little cold after all the trauma of the morning, so he buries it into your hair. "Can't fake that."

"That's what I'm saying," you simper, pressing a kiss against his bare torso, just below the meeting of his collarbones. And then another, simply for good measure. "Porn stars never actually look like they're making the woman feel any good." You trail down his chest, tongue licking gently at the darker skin around his nipple. "You... yeah you don't fuck like a porn star." And then you suck a little. He hisses, in the best possible way.

"Don't," he says. "Not ready to go again."

You laugh.

Jungkook thinks he's reached Nirvana. Almost certain, in fact. Never had a girl do that to him before. He loves to give it, but hasn't ever thought to receive it. Wonders what other things you'll do to him that he's never had done before. He can feel his cock fucking twitching again, achy and sore, definitely not recovered yet from how hard he went earlier - but god, he wants it. Wants to bury himself inside you again. Belong to you.

His hands paw at you, one gripping on your chest, the other on your ass, pulling you closer. Your leg hooks over him, and he can feel how wet you still are on the side of his thigh. His balls fucking tighten. He can feel it happening, blood rushing to his crotch.

Yet despite it all, he just kisses you. Softly. Tenderly. Merely his lips languid between yours. Withdraws slowly. Keeps his eyes closed. Bliss.

"The fuck have you done to me, sugar?" he whispers, dark eyes opening to look into yours. His speech is husky, like he trying to steal the answers of a pop-quiz from you. You can't help him. You don't have a clue what the answer is. You're just as stuck as he is. "Got me feeling all fuzzy 'n' shit."

"Just a sugar rush," you smile. "It'll pass."

You're both acutely aware that it won't, but that will be a problem for another day.

"Tell you what," Jungkook muses, though his thoughts are shallow. He's not digging deep. Just talking for the sake of it. "I might not fuck like a porn star, but you don't fuck like a hooker."

He pulls your arm up so that he can study the crease of your elbow. You let him move your body like you're a barbie doll. You'll be his toy, you think, if he wants. No bother.

His fingers press at the thin skin that covers your veins, inspecting.

"Not a scratch," he assesses. "So you're not an addict either."

You laugh, slightly amused. "No? Maybe I just don't inject."

Jungkook gives you a stern look. Hopes you're joking. Tells you that you better fucking be joking. The sweetness of your laughter tells him that you are.

"So?" you press. "I'm not a prostitute and I'm not an addict. It's your lucky day. What of it?"

Jungkook tilts his head down so that his nose is nestled into the crown of your head again. Comforting, he thinks. Smells like laundry. You must have washed your sheets recently.

His next statement takes you off guard.

"Only ever see three kinds of women down in Daerim."

And you know.

You know he knows.

You can feel it in the way he protectively presses his lips into your skull, as if he's Prince Charming trying to rid his Sleeping Beauty of the nightmare she's been living. Wake up.

But Prince Charming rides a white horse, not a petrol-spitting, air-cooled, steel-framed shadow that rips through the city at night.

There are no nightmares, either. You're already wide awake. There's no saving you.

He sighs against your head. Pauses. Resists, and then confronts.

"I know what you do in the dark, sugar."

You don't say anything for a moment, and then you're pulling away from him, reaching for your shirt. He doesn't like this. Misses your warmth, but doesn't stop you. Instead, he follows, sitting on the edge of your bed, the corner of your comforter lazily protecting his modesty. His muscles are relaxed now, a little crease in his stomach from the way that he's slouching, hands in his lap. Those Bambi eyes of his are peaking through his hair, cheeks red and grazed from the morning encounter he'd had in Daerim.

He watches as you pull your shirt over your head, hair just as messy as his, and a graze on your cheek to match. He was pretty certain before that it had been carpet burn, but now that he's seen it up close, softly rubbed his thumb against it during pretty kisses, he's sure of it.

You avert his gaze. Feel shameful. Hate that he knows. You never cared before. It was just a fun little secret, the fact that he didn't know you were no angel.

But you want him to think that you're one, now.

For a moment, you were sure that he had.

Instead, now, it feels like you're falling from grace.

He reaches for your hand, but you pull it back. "Please don't."

And so he doesn't. Just sits for a little while instead. "Do you want me to get dressed?"

You really don't.

But your tongue is lodged in your mouth and it won't budge. You turn away, internally furious with yourself. It's been a while since you've gotten like this; so dreadfully panicked that you can't talk. It's a once in a blue moon kind of thing, the early onset of a panic attack, but you're hoping it won't reach the stage of no return. Praying.

"Babe?"

He sounds worried now, and it's making it worse. Feels like you've just reached the top of Bukhan Mountain without taking a second to catch your breath.

Has your chest always been this tight? Or has someone just been wrapping rubber bands around your torso without you noticing?

It isn't possible, and you know this, but it feels like it and - oh God - you can hear him shuffling, the buckle of his belt clanging. He's leaving, he's leaving, he's leaving, your ribs cackle as they close down on your lungs.

There's a light hum behind you, like a wasp is coming to send you into a state of anaphylactic shock and then it stops. His jeans are tossed to the floor once more.

"Yoongi?" Jungkook speaks quietly behind you into the receiver of his phone. "Wassu- Yeah, yeah, I'm safe. I'm good."

I'm safe.

I'm good.

"Where are- Yoongi stop. Stop it. I'm being deadly fucking serious-"

You don't realise it, but your chest begins to mellow as you listen in to his conversation.

"It's my mess!" He shouts now. "I'll fucking fix it. I don't give a fuck what Hobi says. Where you at? The Zoo? I'll be there- Yes, I will. Don't do anything fucking stupid."

And then he hangs up, chucking his phone into your bed with more aggression than he'd ever wanted to show in your presence. You don't see it, back still turned, but you hear it, the way his phone rebounds against the springs of your mattress.

"Shit," he hisses, and when you turn to face him, you find that his head is in his hands, elbows on his knees.

Crouching by him, your chest expands. You don't give a shit about yourself anymore. Your palms rest just behind his elbows, eyes anchored below his, looking up.

"He's got his fucking final in an hour," is all Jungkook says. "He's gonna miss his fucking final."

He lifts his head, tender lips pouted, eyes bloodshot from the pressure he's been placing on his palms. Looks right at you. Decides he'll never trust another pair of eyes more.

"I know what you do in the dark, sugar," he relays. "But I do worse. So much fucking worse. And I've just gone and fucked it all up."

And while he blames it all on himself, you know it's your fault.

He didn't stay away from the girl. He tempted fate, tugged on the red string, and accidentally snapped it.

Forlorn, he slumps, tongue wetting his bottom lip as he bites down on it. It's only to stop it from trembling. Clouds lurk in his eyes, trying to block his vulnerabilities from you, but it doesn't take a genius to work out that he's scared.

"Take it," you say, lips in a flat line, eyes stern. You nod towards the pile of cash on your desk, and his eyes follow. "Take it. Pay your debts. I can earn it again. I don't have a deadline. You do."

He shakes his head.

"I'm not taking the money you've earned."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not," he protests and you've got it in your right mind to slap his pretty face silly. "Gonna be totally honest," he adds, "Don't really want your sugar baby money. Kinda resent it a little. Resent the fucker who gave it to you."

Jungkook hates him.

Doesn't know him.

Loathes him.

"So then give him the middle finger and take it," you plead. "He got you fucked up into this mess, he got you jumped, he got your stash stolen. Take his money and get yourself and Yoongi out of it. You don't have time to be fucking arguing with me."

He wants to fight back. You stop him.

"We can argue later," you promise.

And that ever-present effervescent feeling is back in his chest.

"Sugar," he speaks quietly. "Don't do this."

"Kook," you respond, voice much firmer than his. "You gotta do this. Yoongi shouldn't be fixing your mistakes and you know it. We can work it out on an I.O.U. basis. It's okay."

"I.O.U. suggests I'm gonna keep seeing you for a while," Jungkook mumbles. He isn't feeling as confident in himself as he had done earlier.

You stand, offering your hand to him so that you can pull him up with you. Neither of you acknowledge the fact that he's stark bollock naked. It's really not the time. Nothing you haven't seen before, after all.

"Well, yeah," you shrug with a straight face, but there's a glint in your eye. "I'd hope so. Pretty sure you said you were fuck my tits later? Gotta hold up your end of the bargain, sugar."

And despite it all, he laughs, toying with your hands before slipping his finger between yours. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" You squeeze his hands. "You're technically my sugar baby now."

"That's not how it works."

God, he knows he shouldn't be fucking about, wasting time flirting, but he just can't help himself.

"No?" You question, equally distracted.

"No," he says. "If you're paying me, and I'm fucking you, then that makes me a hooker."

He's not wrong.

"Oh, that's kinda hot," you smile, pulling gently on his hands to encourage him to lean down. He does as he's told, and kisses you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You're so fucked up," he whispers against you, knowing that it's exactly why he enjoys you so much.

You don't let the moment linger, though, tossing him his clothes and going to grab the money while he dresses himself. You stack it together, all nice and neat, using the desk to straighten the edges. The wedge is thick in your hands. Yellow 50's are laughing at you. Stupid girl thought we'd fix her problems, they chatter silently to one another.

"Three and half million won," you hold it out to Jungkook. He hesitates, so you force his grip around it and let go. It's his problem, now. Not yours. You smile so warmly that Jungkook can't help but let that feeling in his chest simmer. Your hair is still messy, mascara still smudged. He wants to kiss your cheeks.

Jungkook hasn't disclosed what exactly was in his bag.

But in the same way he knows there are only three types of women in Daerim, you know there are equally only three types of men.

There's only one demographic that he belongs to. Yoongi, too.

You don't say it explicitly, not like he does.

"Holangi are nasty fuckers," you acknowledge. "I know they raise the stakes just for the fun of it. Whatever got stolen, the street value doesn't matter. Take it all. You'll need it."

Take what I owe you.

When he kisses you goodbye, it's just like the first time; all breathy and needy, lips parted and pouting. Again and again, he presses down into your lips. His brows furrow, hands on your cheeks, chest pressed against yours.

The crimson paint that had stained you from his very first kiss returns. You're painted in red for the second time that morning, but this time only you can see it. Only you can feel it.

That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it.

But it's funny now, because you know that he does mean it.

When he finally leaves, his nose is blushed, his cupids bow too. Eyes glassy. Smile forlorn.

Disappointingly, as you close the door of your apartment when he's no longer in your line of sight, you remember exactly how Jungkook had kissed you for the first time:

Like it was going to be the last.

And it consumes you, because the kiss you just shared felt exactly the same.

Your chest is uncomfortable again, but it's not rubber bands this time.

It's that stupid red string that Jungkook had tugged too tightly on.

The one that he'd snapped right in half.

WATTPAD // AO3 // KO-FI // CARRD

#jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts fanfic #jungkook imagines #jungkook scenario #jungkook fanfic #jungkook oneshot

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sweetvoidstuff · 2 months ago

Text

Just a Normal Night: Seoul Edition

Jungkook x Reader I Modern AU I Chance Encounter I Fluff I Romance

Summary: You visited Seoul to spend time with Jungkook in person—finally closing the distance between you again. In his presence, everything felt fuller, brighter, more real. Even if others might overlook you. It wasn’t just a trip; it was a reminder of what you both were building together.

Word Count: 15K

Masterlist

Just a Normal Night

Just a Normal Night: Missing You

A/N: Just a quick note on formatting: Bold text is used for dialogue spoken in Korean. Italic text represents internal thoughts or feelings. Normal text is used for dialogue spoken in English.

I hope this helps make things easier to follow while reading. Thanks so much for giving my story a chance!

PS: Really afraid to post this after all the love the first part got.

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You stood at the airport, fingers curled around the handle of your carry-on, eyes flicking occasionally to the flight information board above. The gate number had just been announced, and you were now officially waiting—your first international flight, and, unsurprisingly, your first time flying business class. The weight of that reality hadn’t quite settled yet.

Phone in hand, you opened your messages and quickly typed out a note to Jungkook: “Found my gate. Just waiting now 😊” As usual, it took a while for him to respond. That was something you’d grown used to. Being with Jungkook was like living in an echo—conversations happening slightly out of sync, affection delivered in delayed but meaningful beats.

It still felt surreal sometimes. The way you'd met him, how easily he had slipped into your life that first night—like he'd always been part of it. You'd welcomed him into your circle of friends without question, as if he was just some guy, not the Jeon Jungkook. That night together had been more than just impulsive—it had been oddly right. Real. And yet, somehow, the deeper emotional connection only started forming after the physical one.

The last few days of his vacation had been spent in the most ordinary ways—wandering your city, drinking coffee, watching dumb reality shows, laughing at inside jokes that formed way too fast. It had all been strangely easy. Strangely intimate.

One afternoon, you'd sat down with his lawyer and signed a non-disclosure agreement. That had been the one jarring moment. Formal. Cold. You remembered how Jungkook had kept glancing at you, like he was waiting for you to flinch or back out. You hadn’t. You’d just signed, asked for a pen that didn’t smudge, and moved on. If anything, it made him more affectionate afterward. Like he’d realized you were serious.

And then—he was gone. Just like that. Back to his world of stages and cameras, press schedules and airport chaos. You hadn’t put a label on anything. There had been no ‘are we something’ conversation, no dramatic goodbye. Just a kiss that lingered, and a promise to stay in touch.

You did. As often as time zones and chaos allowed, you texted, sent photos, shared voice notes. Sometimes hours passed between replies. Sometimes whole days. But the rhythm was steady. The thread stayed unbroken. Now, here you were. Sitting at an airport gate, boarding pass tucked inside your passport, heart a mess of nerves and excitement.

You were flying to Seoul.

To see him.

And even if nothing was official, even if the words hadn’t been said aloud—you couldn’t deny it anymore. This meant something.

You’d fought him on the visit at first. Not about going—God, no. You wanted to see him. Missed him. Dreamed of him. But the cost of an international flight was no joke, and your budget had limits. It would’ve taken you at least two more months to save up, even if you lived off instant noodles and cut every corner. You had told him so, somewhat shyly, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. Jungkook, in true Jungkook fashion, had looked at you through a video call and simply said, “Don’t be stupid. A plane ticket isn’t going to bankrupt me.”

You’d groaned at that, partly amused, partly exasperated—and it sparked a longer conversation, one you were glad you had. Because just like that, money had become the shadow in the room. Not between you emotionally—he’d never made you feel less—but between your lives. The very real difference in scale. Jungkook could buy anything. Fly anywhere. And while he never flaunted it, you didn’t want to start something that made you feel like a kept secret, or worse, a guest in his world.

You’d told him you didn’t want gifts. Didn’t want him throwing money around to impress you. You just wanted him. He’d listened. Really listened. And then explained that paying for your flight wasn’t about spoiling you—it was about making it easier to be with you, when his job made it nearly impossible with the upcoming album to travel freely where he wanted to be. “If it were up to me, I’d be flying to you,” he’d said quietly. “But it’s not. So please, let me do this.”

In the end, you’d agreed. But you’d made your stance clear. He could cover the flights—but you’d pack your own toiletries, bring your own snacks, and cover your fun expenses while you were there. You weren’t arriving with empty hands.

So now, here you were.

About to board a flight to Seoul. Staying for three weeks. It still didn’t feel entirely real. Another small argument you’d had: accommodations.

You’d offered to book a hotel—at your own expense, no frills needed. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be close to him. It was just... staying with him felt like a big step. Like something official. Something people in actual relationships did. But Jungkook hadn’t even let you finish the sentence.

“No.” One word. Flat. Final.

You blinked at him through the video call, and he softened when he saw your face. He wasn’t mad—just adamant. Steady in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“I want you home,” he’d said quietly. “I want to fall asleep next to you. Wake up next to you. I don’t want to waste time driving across the city every night to drop you off like you’re temporary.”

And then he added the real kicker, the one you hadn’t thought of: “And if I come to your hotel… if someone sees me there, sees you there—paparazzi could have a field day. I don't want you dragged into that. You don’t deserve that kind of attention.”

You understood, of course. It made sense. Practical, even. You knew what world he lived in—and what came with it. But it still felt weird. Like stepping into a role you hadn’t auditioned for. You weren’t his girlfriend—not officially. You hadn’t had that talk. You hadn’t labeled anything. Yet here you were, planning to sleep in his bed. In his space. With his driver picking you up. Like you belonged there.

The dissonance was strange. Sweet, but strange.

Still, he wanted this. And if you were being honest with yourself, so did you. So you’d caved, of course. Not because you didn’t have boundaries—but because that quiet, vulnerable side of him? The one that peeked through his fame and confidence? That version of Jungkook you couldn’t say no to.

So you were going to his home. A private driver was going to meet you at Incheon airport with a small placard bearing your name—another thing you didn’t really need, but Jungkook had insisted on, citing security and comfort. And once the workday was over, once he was done being the global superstar the world knew him as, you’d finally see him again.

Not on a screen. Not through messages. But in person.

So you packed for Seoul. Not like you were meeting your maybe-boyfriend. No—like you were about to walk into something quietly important. Something real.

And the thought of seeing him again—offstage, unfiltered—made your stomach knot with something dangerously close to excitement.

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The flight had been as comfortable as a long-haul business class flight could be—plush seats, a quiet cabin, even a decent meal you didn’t have to pay extra for. You’d done your best to relax, but anticipation buzzed beneath your skin, tugging at your nerves the closer the plane got to Seoul.

At the arrivals gate, your driver had held up a discreet sign with your name. He was polite, maybe a little stiff at first, trying hard to speak English as he helped with your luggage. But when you replied in Korean—halting but clear—his face visibly brightened in relief. The ride became lighter after that. Your Korean had improved quickly in the last few weeks, mostly out of necessity. Daily conversations with Jungkook had turned from playful chaos to something deeper, smoother. You still stumbled over grammar, and your spelling was a disaster, but you made it work. And he always answered patiently, even when you texted him three different ways to ask the same question.

The driver brought you straight to Jungkook’s apartment. It was late afternoon, the sky a watercolor mix of soft greys and warm golds, the city humming in the background. Jungkook wasn’t home yet, caught up with work, but the door code worked just like he said it would. The space inside was quiet and immaculately clean—modern, tasteful, and subtly masculine. Not cold, though. Not with the welcome you got.

Because the moment you stepped inside, you were greeted by a tall, sleek doberman trotting toward you, ears perked and tail wagging slow and steady. Bam. You crouched instinctively, hand held out, heart thudding a little—he was much bigger than you'd expected from old videos. But he sniffed your fingers, let out a soft huff, and nudged his head under your palm.

You melted immediately.

Bam followed you around the apartment like a quiet shadow while you explored only the spaces Jungkook had told you were fine to use. You didn’t go into his bedroom, unsure if that was too much. You felt like an intruder, a guest in something delicate, even though he had been the one to insist you stay here. You were still wrapping your head around it—this whole thing. You. Him. Here.

Jetlag hit like a freight train not long after. You curled up on the big living room couch, your travel bag still half unpacked in the corner. Bam, loyal and massive, hopped up beside you with a low grunt and carefully tucked himself against your side. His weight was comforting. His presence grounding.

You sent Jungkook a quick message:

You: i’m here. bam says hi. talk soon <3

You passed out before you saw his reply.

Later that evening, Jungkook stepped into his home quietly, the soft sound of the door the only warning. He didn’t call out. Just slipped off his shoes and padded in, shoulders loose with exhaustion—until he turned the corner and saw you.

You were curled up in the middle of his living room, tangled in a throw blanket, mouth parted slightly in sleep. One arm was draped around Bam, who was nestled against you like a guard and a traitor all in one. His eyes flicked open at the sound of his master entering, but he didn’t move—he just blinked lazily and stayed close to you. He couldn’t remember the last time Bam had taken to someone that quickly—or that completely.

Jungkook stood there a long moment, completely still, a soft ache blooming in his chest.

It wasn’t the sight of you in his home.

It was how right it looked.

You, barefoot and flushed from sleep, his dog choosing you without hesitation. You fitting into his space like you’d always belonged there.

He smiled slowly, heart warm and full, and whispered so quietly that neither of you heard it:

“Welcome home.”

He approached slowly, kneeling beside the couch and gently rubbing behind Bam’s ear. The dog grumbled, low and disgruntled, when Jungkook nudged him away, resisting for a moment before finally huffing and hopping down with reluctant steps. He gave Jungkook a betrayed look before slinking off to his usual spot in the corner, flopping down with a groan of effort.

You stirred faintly in your sleep, your hand reaching absently for the warmth that had just left your side. A soft whimper left your lips as your arm fell against empty cushions. Jungkook's heart ached.

But he didn’t let you stay cold for long. With practiced care, he maneuvered into the space Bam had just vacated, lifting the blanket slightly and slipping in beside you. You mumbled something in your sleep, brow furrowed briefly before it smoothed out again when his arm circled your waist. You exhaled slowly and relaxed into him, instinctively curling closer, your head tucking beneath his chin like it belonged there.

He wasn’t tired. Not really. Adrenaline still buzzed faintly in his veins from a long day, but lying there with you in his arms melted every ounce of tension in his body. The way you fit against him. The steady rise and fall of your breathing. It was all too easy to close his eyes and let himself fall.

Still, from past experience, Jungkook knew the jet lag would catch up to you fully in a few hours. You’d wake in the middle of the night, confused and out of place, maybe even a little anxious in the unfamiliar dark. He wanted to be there for that moment—to meet it with calmness and quiet company.

So he stayed, anchored to you. He would wake with you. He would walk you through the time zone shift and sleepy confusion and maybe heat up some tea. And then he’d hold you again, as long as you’d let him. For now, though, he simply breathed you in and let himself drift.

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You woke up groggy and disoriented, your mind struggling to place the moment. For a few seconds, it was like surfacing from a deep, unfamiliar dream—blinking into the darkness, unsure where you were, let alone what year it was. And then you felt it. A warm arm draped tightly around your waist. A solid chest beneath your cheek, rising and falling in a calm rhythm. Someone was holding you—and for a panicked breath, your heart jumped into your throat.

But the scent hit you a second later—warm cotton, clean skin, and something faintly musky and familiar. Jungkook. You exhaled in relief, sinking back down into him with a soft sigh, the tension draining from your muscles all at once. Oh, right. Seoul. His apartment. Your nap on the couch with Bam. You hadn’t expected to fall asleep for so long—or to wake up like this. With him.

A low, husky groan rumbled beneath your ear, followed by the gravel-soft voice you’d missed hearing in person.

“You awake? … Awake?”

His voice cut through the quiet of the apartment, rough with sleep, brushing against your skin like velvet. You hummed an answer, still not fully ready to rejoin the world. You could’ve stayed like this a little longer, maybe forever—but the haze of jet lag was clearing, and restlessness had started creeping in.

You shifted slightly, intending to sit up—but Jungkook’s arm tightened around you, the pressure a little too firm for someone half-asleep, his strength not yet tethered by full consciousness.

“Hey,” you whispered with a sleepy laugh. “That’s my… back you’re cracking.”

He grunted, barely lifting his head, and loosened his hold—just enough to still keep you against him. You didn’t really mind. After so many weeks apart, after only seeing him through flickering screens and filtered photos, being this close to him again felt surreal. Grounding. Like your whole body remembered something your mind was still catching up to.

After a long moment of quiet, just the two of you breathing each other in, Jungkook’s voice came again, still a little slurred. “Wanna eat? I could make something…” At the mere mention of food, your stomach gave an embarrassingly loud growl, betraying you completely. You laughed softly, hiding your face in his chest.

“I mean… yes,” you murmured, “but no. Go back to sleep. I’m not moving.”

But Jungkook was already sitting up, dragging you with him like a giant human blanket. His arms stayed wrapped around you as he shifted, and his head dipped to your neck, lips brushing against your skin as he buried his nose there and sighed.

“You smell different,” he mumbled against your collarbone.

“Is that a complaint?” you teased, still half-draped over him.

“No.” He shook his head lightly. “Just… missed it.”

You smiled, a little dazed, and tucked your arms around him tighter. You were both a little stiff, your backs mildly protesting from the awkward sleep on the couch, but honestly? There were worse ways to start a day than tangled up with him, sore but smiling, in the quiet cocoon of morning.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

You’d arrived on a Thursday, so you woke up Friday morning—jet lagged and disoriented, but wrapped in Jungkook’s sheets and warmth. The day had started slow and soft, exactly the way it should when you’d just flown halfway across the world. And honestly, waking up at an absurd hour because of jet lag had its perks, because you had woken up early, and that only gave you more time to start the day gently. The world was quiet. Still. Yours.

Jungkook stayed near you that morning, brewing coffee and making toast like it was a sacred ritual. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. The way he moved around you, careful and present, already said enough.

It was easy to fall into something like a routine. Too easy, maybe. Like you never left each other’s side.

He’d cleared as much of his schedule as possible before your arrival and only had to leave for dance practice that day. Then the weekend would be entirely yours. Even the week after, he’d made sure to carve out as much time with you as possible. There’d be a few appointments he couldn’t skip, but nowhere near as many as usual. He wanted to be around you. He’d made that very clear. Not that he needed to say it out loud. The way he hovered around you that morning, stealing lazy kisses like he had all the time in the world, said it better than words ever could.

He wanted you involved—you could feel it in the way he clung to each moment with you, unwilling to waste even a second—to show you his world the way you had shown him yours. One of those ways included tagging along to his dance practice, where Taehyung and Yoongi were set to join. He’d already talked to them about you—casually, naturally, like you were simply part of his life. He’d even gone the extra mile to make sure nothing major would be filmed that day, just in case you ended up on camera.

That part made your chest warm in a way you didn’t know how to name.

Yoongi and Taehyung had known about you for weeks now, ever since that night Jungkook had been on vacation, since the night he had wrote them about you. He hadn’t meant to fall for anyone really—especially not someone outside the industry. But you didn’t orbit him like so many others did. You’d walked straight into his life, and instead of pulling away, he’d let you stay.

They’d seen the shift in him. The quieter smiles, the full nights of sleep, the way he stopped mindlessly scrolling late at night because he was on the phone with you instead. He wasn’t seeing anyone else. He didn’t want to. Still, you and Jungkook weren’t officially together, not in any public or defined sense—but even that felt like a technicality.

They knew enough to know that whatever this was, it mattered.

That said, the dance practice didn’t start with any proper introductions.

Yoongi and Taehyung arrived barely on time—Yoongi blaming traffic, Taehyung blaming his iced coffee addiction—and both of them gave you brief but warm nods as they breezed into the studio. There wasn’t a second to spare. The choreographer was already running warm-ups, and Jungkook had been pulled aside for notes on the updated routine.

So no handshakes, no formalities. Just quick glances and quiet acknowledgments. You weren’t offended. You were just grateful Jungkook had brought you along.

The dance studio was enormous and dimly lit in that moody, creative sort of way, mirrors lining one wall, the faint scent of sweat and fabric softener clinging to the air. You’d taken a seat against the mirrored wall, laptop open, tapping away occasionally—but mostly you were watching him. Quietly. Intently. The way Jungkook moved—precise but fluid, powerful and impossibly graceful—it was like watching sound come to life. He'd worried you'd be bored watching him for hours. But you weren’t. Not even close.

You weren’t sure he’d ever believe how easily he captivated you just by being himself. What was harder to enjoy, however, was the female background dancer paired with him in the choreography. From a purely professional perspective, she was skilled. Confident. She executed the routine well. But you weren’t oblivious. Every touch that lingered just a second too long, every extra flick of her eyes toward Jungkook, every unnecessary smile—it all added up. She was trying.

And though Jungkook was polite—ever the professional—you could see the discomfort beginning to pinch at his expression in brief, subtle flickers. Still, the routine required proximity, some contact, a storyline. And no matter how much he dialed back, there was only so much he could do in front of a full room.

And you weren’t the only one noticing.

Taehyung had paused mid-stretch, one arm hooked behind his head, his eyes scanning across the studio before they landed on you. You sat quietly, unreadable, your fingers still moving on the keyboard even as your shoulders had gone rigid. You didn’t say anything, didn’t frown or scowl or even blink too long—but the tension clung to you like smoke. Your polite smile had dulled, just slightly, around the edges. And with each unnecessary brush of the dancer’s hand against Jungkook’s chest, it faded a little more.

Every time that dancer reached for Jungkook like she wasn’t acting, like she meant it—Taehyung saw the flicker in your expression. The stillness behind your eyes. Like you were trying not to flinch. Yoongi caught it too. He’d sat himself against the opposite wall, his back against the mirror, pretending to scroll through his phone—but he was watching both of you with quiet calculation. He didn’t need to say anything. Neither of them did.

Jungkook caught it too. He was watching you through the mirror when he thought no one would notice.

Between movements, he glanced in the mirror—and saw you sitting there, trying to focus on your work, trying not to let any emotion leak through. But he knew you. He’d memorized every micro-expression, every twitch of your fingers. And he hated the way your jaw had tensed the moment someone else’s hands had found their way to his skin for to long.

“Break,” he called, cutting off the music mid-count. “Can we take ten?”

The dancer—persistent as ever—stepped toward him, her voice light and playful. “Want to grab water together?”

Jungkook didn’t even blink. “No. I need the room for a second,” he said, gaze flicking to Yoongi and Taehyung. “You guys can stay. Just—everyone else out, please.”

His tone wasn’t unkind. Just final. The dancer blinked, clearly thrown, but didn’t push it. One by one, the others filed out, some tossing curious glances back, sensing the undercurrent but not quite placing it. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the quiet hum of the AC and the soft squeak of rubber soles in its wake. You looked up from your laptop as Jungkook approached, breath still heavy, sweat at his temples. He stopped a few feet in front of you, his jaw tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice low enough for only you, to hear. “I didn’t like that and...”

You tilted your head, offering a half-hearted shrug, trying to play it off with a weak smile. “I know it’s your job.”

“I know,” he echoed, already reading everything behind your eyes. “But it didn’t feel right. And she knew what she was doing.”

Taehyung, ever tactful when he wanted to be, stood and stretched with exaggerated effort. “Yoongi-hyung, I think I need coffee. Right, now. Like, desperately.”

Yoongi didn’t even look up from where he was kneeling to tie his shoes. “I thought you were cuttingback on coffee.”

“I lied.” Taehyung replied smoothly.

The two of them disappeared without another word, leaving you and Jungkook alone in the quiet, mirror-lined studio. The door clicked shut behind them, and Jungkook slowly sank down to kneel in front of you. He reached out but didn’t touch you yet, like he needed to explain something before he earned that right again.

“She’s a coworker. That’s it,” he said, eyes locked onto yours. “But it didn’t look like that, did it?” You didn’t answer right away. Your silence must’ve said enough, because Jungkook’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“I should’ve stepped back. I should’ve shut it down the second she tried.” His hands curled into loose fists in his lap. “You flew across the world to be here. And I just stood there and let her touch me like that in front of you.”

“She’s not a stranger to you,” you said, gently—not accusing, but not softening the truth, either.

“She is,” Jungkook said firmly. “I’ve danced with her maybe twice before. We don’t talk. I don’t want her. I just—” He sighed and sat back a little, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve been thinking… Maybe I should talk to the choreographer. Ask if we can change that section. Or switch the dancer.” Jungkook was rambling now. As if talking more to himself than you.

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

“I don’t want her touching me like that again,” he said, the words fast, almost rushed like he’d been holding them in. “Not just because of what it looked like—because I hated how it felt. She knew what she was doing.”

You nodded. “But you didn’t do anything wrong.”, you said softly, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t care,” Jungkook said, leaning closer. “I’ve been in relationships where jealousy ruined everything. Accusations, silence, punishment. It got ugly. Where we spent more time questioning each other than actually being together. I don’t want that with you.”

You exhaled slowly. “I told you I understood. I’m not jealous,”, and the way you said it made him look up. “I mean, okay. I felt something. I didn’t love watching her touch you, but I’m not angry at you. I just needed to know if you saw it, too.”

“I did,” Jungkook didn’t smile. He lowered himself to sit in front of you, cross-legged, damp hair falling into his eyes. His eyes searching your face. “And I believe you when you say you understand. But understanding doesn’t mean it didn’t sting. I saw your face. You shouldn’t have to pretend like you’re fine with it just to be supportive. I don’t want you to swallow things for my sake.”

There was a pause.

“I just—” He rubbed at the back of his neck, voice quieter. “I don’t want this to be something that chips away at us, slowly. Before we even get the chance to be real.”

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. “You think that could happen?”

“I think I’ve seen it happen,” he admitted. “And it scares me. I’ve never had something like this before. Something that feels… good and safe and like it could actually last. I’m scared of ruining it.”

You reached out, your hand brushing his where it rested between you. “Jungkook, you’re not ruining anything.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you. He nodded. “But I want you to really know it. I don’t just want to be good on stage and careful in private. I want to be someone you can trust not to hurt you, even when you’re not watching.”

You smiled, heart catching in your throat. “I trust you, Jungkook.”

He leaned forward at last, his forehead resting against yours, his hand warm as it wrapped around your fingers. He smiled, just barely, like it still didn’t feel real to hear you say that. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently to yours, his hand curling around your fingers like an anchor.

“I wish I could tell the world about you,” he murmured. “I hate hiding this. But I want to keep you close.”

You smiled, and the tension in your chest finally gave way. “Even when I barely talk and just type on my laptop?”

“Especially then,” he said, eyes glinting with warmth.

“Okay,” you murmured. Nodding. Believing.

The rest of the room faded after that. The tension began to drain from your shoulders. You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding and let him pull you into a hug. You let out a little sound of protest as he hugged you tightly, your cheek squished against his chest, which was still faintly damp from earlier practice. You wrinkled your nose and tried to push lightly against him.

“Ugh, you’re sweaty, Jungkook,” you grumbled. “Now you make me sweaty.”

He leaned back just enough to look down at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes and the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “Oh?” he said, chuckling low in his throat. “Are you daring me to make you sweaty?”

Your eyes widened a fraction, caught between amusement and something heavier. Your fingers stilled against his shirt. “Jungkook—”

He grinned, his voice dropping. “Because I would really like that challenge.”

You swatted at him, but your fingers didn’t stray far. Not really. Now, standing this close, with his warmth clinging to your skin and his breath brushing the edge of your jaw, it was hard to ignore how much you’d missed him. “I’m just saying,” Jungkook murmured, pressing his lips gently against neck, “I’ve been very respectful, today. I’ve been good.”

You gave him a slow, knowing smile. “You have.”

“But I don’t want to behave anymore,” he added, lips grazing your temple. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

Your stomach flipped, and your hands gripped lightly at the hem of his shirt as you leaned into him. Your voice was quiet, but certain. “I don’t.”

He hummed like he’d been waiting for that—like he already knew, but would wait for you—but needed to hear it anyway. His hands settled on your waist, grounding, careful, and his kiss was slow and deep, like he’d been holding onto it for far too long.

You lingered like that—just a moment longer—before a distant shuffle reminded you both where you were, and what was still ahead.

Because somehow, as practice started again after the break, even though the female dancer’s lingering glances didn’t stop, it was easier. Easier to sit through the rest of it knowing exactly where you stood with him. Easier to ignore the subtle looks she sent him during water breaks, when you knew—without even needing to check—that Jungkook’s gaze would always find yours, quietly checking in on you like he couldn't help it.

And then, eventually, practice wound down. The choreographers called it a day. Dancers peeled off in twos and threes, chatter echoing down the hall. The energy in the room began to cool, leaving behind the heavy press of silence and your quietly building nerves. You shut your laptop and packed your things slowly, fingertips tingling with leftover adrenaline—not just from practice, but from what came next.

Something Jungkook hadn’t pushed you toward.

But something he clearly wanted.

A proper introduction.

Taehyung and Yoongi lingered back as everyone else filed out, casually pretending they weren’t waiting for Jungkook’s signal. He gave it with a tilt of his head and a soft, “Hey, guys—come meet her.”

Your stomach flipped again, harder this time.

Even though you’d heard about them from Jungkook for weeks—had seen their faces in performances, in behind-the-scenes clips, in his photos—nothing really prepared you for what it was like to meet them for real. In person. In a quiet, echoing studio where they were no longer just global icons, but his friends.

Taehyung was taller in real life, wearing a fuzzy cardigan that somehow made him look both rich and soft. He smiled like he already knew all your secrets. Yoongi moved slower, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable but not unfriendly. And they were still international superstars, no matter how casually they approached.

You smiled nervously but held your ground. “Hi. I’m—uh—”

“We know,” Taehyung grinned, stepping forward first. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Yoongi nodded in agreement. “Took him long enough.”

You laughed quietly, feeling the warmth begin to settle in your chest. Jungkook stepped beside you, still in his sweat-damp shirt, looking slightly more nervous than you were.

“I’ve told them about you,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Like… a lot.”

There was a soft pause—one of those rare moments that wasn’t awkward, just gently charged. Everyone in the room knew Jungkook didn’t bring people around often. Definitely not women. Definitely not ones who made him rearrange his whole schedule and his whole mood.

Taehyung tilted his head a little, eyeing you with interest—but not the sharp, assessing kind you were worried about. Just the warm curiosity of someone who'd heard too much secondhand and was finally getting to fill in the blanks.

“So,” he began casually, hands in his pockets, “how do you like Seoul so far?”

You smiled, grateful for the low-pressure question. “Honestly? I haven’t seen that much of it yet. But what I have, I’ve liked a lot.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “Wait, seriously? You haven’t shown her anything yet?”

You gave an innocent shrug just as Taehyung groaned, dramatically scandalized. “Jungkookie! What are you even doing?”

Jungkook held up both hands. “She’s staying a while, okay? I was gonna show her around—just not yet. We’ve been resting first!”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “To be fair, I did need to recover from the flight.”

“Still,” Yoongi muttered, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “You bring someone all the way here and don’t even take her to Han River. Rookie mistake.”

“Not even Hongdae?” Taehyung added, hand to his chest like he was offended on Seoul’s behalf.

“I will!” Jungkook said, exasperated and laughing now. “We have time. You all act like I’m messing this up already,” Jungkook grumbled, running a hand through his hair, but his smile gave away that he was enjoying the teasing. “Can I live?”

“Barely,” Taehyung shot back, grinning.

You chuckled softly, watching the exchange with a growing sense of ease. “It’s okay, really. He showed me his home so far , so we’ve been kind of a homebody since I got here.”

“Homebody with him?” Taehyung asked, teasing. “That’s dangerous.”

You laughed softly. “He’s alright. A little dramatic sometimes.”

Jungkook scoffed. “Me? Dramatic?”

“You said Bam was a traitor because he cuddled with me.” You raised a brow at him.

“He is my puppy,” he defended, then added quieter, “You already like him more…”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself.

Yoongi made a disgusted face. “Okay, can we not flirt in 4K right now?”

Taehyung grinned wide, clearly enjoying himself. But before the teasing could get too far, Yoongi shifted the topic with an easy tone. “You two wanna come by later? Me, Hobi, and Jimin are grabbing food. Just something casual. You could tag along.”

Jungkook shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. “Can’t tonight. We’ve got plans.” Your blush returned like a reflex, but you didn’t say anything, just adjusted the strap of your bag with sudden interest.

“Ohhh,” Taehyung said, dragging the word out, his smile going fox-like. “You just don’t want us around her too much. Worried we’ll steal her.”

“You wouldn’t,” Jungkook grumbled.

“I was planning to steal her,” Yoongi added dryly. “You are an idiot for not making a move earlier anyway.”

“That’s what we all said,” Taehyung agreed immediately. Nodding your way. “When you came back from that trip going on and on about her? All of us were like, ‘You didn’t make her your girlfriend?’ We were about ready to write you ourselves.”

“Hey!” Jungkook sounded scandalized, face burning bright red now. “She just got here!”

“You’ve been talking about her for weeks,” Yoongi deadpanned.

“Yeah, and the NDA? That was girlfriend energy,” Taehyung said, nodding toward you. “That was ride or die behavior.”

You blinked, then giggled face starting to get red as well. “I just didn’t want to cause trouble.”

Yoongi looked at Jungkook. “And this are the reactions why we all decided you are an idiot for not locking it down then and there.”

Jungkook groaned into his hands while you smiled, cheeks warm. “Okay, okay! I get it,” he said, muffled. Taehyung was practically bouncing now. “So? Did you ask her properly now, or do I have to?”

“I was going to—later!” Jungkook exclaimed, still flustered. Then, muttering as he glanced sideways at you: “I had a whole thing planned…”

You leaned in slightly, voice soft with a teasing edge. “Was it before or after sweating all over me at dance practice?”

He made an exaggerated sound of protest. “You liked that.”

You gave him a look. “Did I?”

“You did,” he said with a grin, already wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “And if you didn’t, I’ll make you like it.”

“Ugh,” Yoongi groaned, grabbing his bag. “I’m out. Text us if you two get married or something.”

“Wait, are we invited?” Taehyung asked you with a grin as he followed Yoongi.

“Depends,” you called after him, smirking. “On how much you bully him between now and then.”

“I can stop bullying him immediately. Cold turkey. Not a single jab from here on out.” Taehyung spun dramatically on his heel, hand to his chest like you’d just wounded him. You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Then you’re definitely not invited.”

A beat of silence. Then—Taehyung burst into laughter, shoulders shaking as he gave Jungkook a look of exaggerated sympathy. “Man, she’s worse than us.”

“She’s better than us,” Yoongi said, already halfway out the door. “You better keep her, Jungkook. Or we will.”

Jungkook just stood there for a second, lips parting in a soft smile that made his whole face light up. His eyes flicked to you and then back to his friends, something tender settling deep in his chest. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

And as the door swung closed behind Yoongi and Taehyung’s teasing voices, Jungkook didn’t even seem to notice they were gone. His hand brushed down your back, grounding and light, his grin lingering even as he sighed like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“You know,” he murmured, “they’ve never liked anyone this fast.”

You looked up at him, lips twitching. “Even if it’s mostly just to make fun of you?”

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “They like you because of that.” Then he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, voice soft and filled with warmth.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

By the time you two finally made it home, it was well past dinner time. Dance practice had—as usual—run later than expected. The sky was already dark, your limbs heavy from sitting through hours of choreography and quiet nerves. Jungkook unlocked the door with one hand, the other holding three stacked takeout containers, while you shuffled in behind him, kicking off your shoes and already sighing at the familiar comfort of his apartment.

“I still think you should’ve let me carry something,” you said as you reached to take two of the boxes from him.

“And let you mess up my perfect balance?” Jungkook grinned, nudging the door shut with his heel. “I had a system.”

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow as you both moved toward the kitchen. “Your system involved leaning all the containers against your face. I’m not convinced.”

“I looked cool.”

“You looked like a walking bibimbap ad.”

Jungkook let out a boyish chuckle, placing the food down on the counter. “Still cool.”

As you helped him unpack the containers, the smell of spicy rice cakes and grilled meat filled the air. You reached for the plates as he started opening the lids, already falling into a rhythm you hadn’t even realized had formed between you. He’d set the table, and you’d plate the food. He’d pull out drinks, and you’d grab chopsticks. Like you’d done it a hundred times before.

You started telling him about what you did during his practice. “Oh—Pascal and Flora say hi,” you added with a grin, referring to your two best friends from home. “They’ve been trying to find cheap flights for next time, but Flora refuses to fly economy again after last time. Apparently his spine still hasn’t forgiven him.”

Jungkook chuckled, setting two glasses of sparkling water down. “He sounds like Namjoon.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but then paused, chopsticks in hand, his eyes landing on you as you shifted around his kitchen like it was your own. And just like that, the moment slowed. He blinked, watching you with quiet wonder. The sound of you humming under your breath, the way you straightened the napkins even though no one would notice, the ease with which you belonged here—it all struck him harder than he expected.

Domestic. That was the word for it.

And for someone who lived most of his life on stages, in airports, and under blinding lights, the realization that something so quiet could feel this… right? It hit like a punch to the chest.

You looked over at him, catching his expression. “What? Did I use the wrong word again?”

His eyes flicked back to yours, startled from his thoughts, and he quickly shook his head. “No—no, you didn’t. Actually, your Korean’s gotten really good. Really fast.”

You beamed, proud. “I had a good teacher.”

His face lit up as he opened his mouth. “Me—”

“Eumi,” you interrupted innocently. “You know, the one I started learning with?” Jungkook let out an exaggerated groan and immediately crossed the space between you, dramatically draping himself over your back as you laughed.

“You’re so mean to me,” he mumbled into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, his lips dangerously close. “Here I was, waiting for my praise. And you give the credit to your friend?”

You snorted. “She deserves it. She got me through verb conjugation hell.”

Jungkook groaned again, this time lower, like the betrayal physically pained him. “I knew I should’ve snatched you the moment I met you.” You rolled your eyes fondly, tilting your head just slightly into the warmth of him as you reached for the last of the banchan. “Why didn’t you? Pascal and Flora think you were a coward.”

“I was a coward,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to your shoulder. “Everyone knew it. Even the hyungs gave me shit the moment I came back from that trip.”

You laughed. “Really?”

“You should’ve seen the group chat. I told them I met someoneand a little bit about you, and instantly it was—‘Why didn’t you make her your girlfriend already?’ ‘What’s wrong with you?’ ‘Do you need me to write the text for you, Jungkook?’” He groaned softly, mimicking Yoongi’s unimpressed tone. “Namjoon even offered to draw me a diagram on how to confess.”

You grinned, clearly delighted by the image. “Poor thing. Peer-pressured into love.”

Jungkook shot you a mock glare, but it was softened by the way his eyes sparkled. “You make it sound like I didn’t want to.”

“Well…” you let the word hang teasingly in the air, plucking a piece of pickled radish from the side dish tray. “Did you actually have a plan to ask me? Or were you just bullied into into the topic by Yoongi and Taehyung?”

You expected him to laugh, to deflect the way he usually did—but instead, he hesitated. His mouth opened like he had something to say, then closed again. A beat passed. He groaned softly and leaned forward, burying his head against the crook of your neck as he mumbled something you couldn’t quite catch, his breath warm on your skin.

You tilted your head to the side with a soft laugh, one hand coming up to steady the takeout container he was threatening to knock over. “What was that?”

He exhaled again, dramatically. “You’re mean.”

“You’re avoiding.” He didn’t argue. Instead, he lingered there for a few seconds more, arms tightening slightly around you before he drew back just enough to see your face. He wasn’t wearing any of his usual playful masks now. His eyes were wide, dark, sincere—and maybe a little shy. “I was just…” he began, then paused, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Comfortable. With you. Like—weirdly comfortable. From the start.”

Your heart stuttered a little. He wasn’t joking now. He shifted back just enough to glance at you, cheeks flushed pink, lips parted like he wasn’t sure how much more to give you without combusting. “It’s been a while since I felt that,” he admitted. “Close to someone like that. Like I could stop trying to be… whatever people want me to be.”

You blinked, taken aback by how quiet and honest his voice had become. He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flickering to the counter, then back to you. “I did have something planned,” he said. “Not yet—later. During your trip. Something better than this.” He gestured vaguely to the table with a sheepish half-smile. “I wanted to ask you properly. Like… lanterns or a rooftop or a song or something dumb like that. You know. All that rom-com bullshit people do when they like someone a lot.”

You laughed gently, chest tight in a good way.

Jungkook reached for your hand, threading your fingers together without looking down. “But yeah,” he said, voice soft and steady now. “If you’re willing to deal with the long distance, the time zones, the stupid hours, and… y’know. The cameras and sneaking around, and whatever else comes with dating me…”

He swallowed. “I’d love for you to be my girlfriend.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy—it was warm, tender, charged with the kind of feeling that sat low in your chest and made your throat ache with the effort of holding it in. You smiled, leaning forward just slightly, so your foreheads touched.

“I was already planning to say yes,” you murmured. “Even without lanterns.”

His expression broke open like sunrise—light and wonder and something a little awestruck. His fingers curled tighter around yours as if grounding himself in the fact that you were real, here, and choosing him. “I’m still gonna do the lantern thing,” he whispered, already imagining it. “You deserve cheesy. You deserve better than takeout and my messy kitchen.”

“You’re the cheesy one,” you said.

“Yeah, well…” He leaned back and moved toward the table as his phone started to vibrate on the counter. He glanced at his screen and let out a quiet, bemused huff.

“You okay?” you asked. He turned the phone so you could read the screen.

The group chat had been renamed:

💥 JK’S GIRL SQUAD (UNAPPROVED) 💥

Yoongi: if you don��t marry her, I will Hobi: JK still hiding her huh?? Taehyung: she’s fun!! bring her next time Namjoon: did you two eat?? hydration check??

You tried not to laugh, but a little snort slipped out anyway. “They’ve officially adopted me, haven’t they?”

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You had eaten—eventually. After ignoring his group chat for long enough to quiet the buzzing guilt (and teasing), Jungkook finally gave in to your suggestion of a quiet walk with Bam. The night air had been cool and refreshing, the stars just barely visible between the city haze. Bam trotted happily beside you, his tail wagging like a metronome as Jungkook kept pace on your other side, his hand brushing yours more often than not.

Now, back in his living room, everything felt still. Comfortable.

You shifted on the couch and let your neck tilt until a faint pop echoed in the quiet. “Ugh,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your shoulders to chase the tension away. The long flight was still weighing down your limbs, even after the food and fresh air.

From the kitchen, Jungkook reappeared with two glasses of something cold. He paused mid-step as he heard the creak of your neck, his lips already quirking. “Damn, was that you or the sofa dying?” he teased, eyebrows raised in mock horror.

You gave him a tired side-eye but didn’t bother with a comeback. Your body spoke for you—slouched posture, sleepy eyes, one leg tucked under the other as you reached down to pet Bam’s soft ears. The big dog had, without hesitation, claimed your lap the second you’d sat down, curling up with a low huff of contentment like he’d been waiting all evening for that exact moment.

Jungkook crossed the room with a quiet chuckle, handing you your glass. His fingers lingered on yours for a beat longer than necessary before he let go. He hesitated, watching how you leaned gently into Bam, your fingers absentmindedly stroking between his eyes while your own blinked slower and slower.

“You sure you don’t wanna sleep? Sleep?” he asked softly, crouching beside the couch with one hand on the armrest, the other resting lightly on his knee. His voice was gentle, like he didn’t want to startle you out of your calm, but there was a note of concern in it too. “You’ve been fighting the jet lag like a champ, but it’s still catching up to you.”

You met his eyes and smiled, slow and lopsided. “Yeah, I should sleep of the rest of this stupid jet lag,” you admitted. “But I’d rather spend a little more time with you.” Your voice came out softer than you intended, the honesty in it slipping through like warm light through sheer curtains. Jungkook blinked once. Then, without hesitation—without a single ounce of his usual playful stalling—he leaned in.

There was no dramatic pause, no question asked, no teasing remark. Just the quiet shuffle of his body drawing closer, the brush of his knee against the couch cushion, and then the warmth of his mouth on yours.

His kiss was gentle, slower than the ones from earlier. Less about thrill, more about holding you there with him. It tasted faintly of citrus from whatever he’d poured into your glasses and carried the same softness you saw in his eyes when he looked at you.

One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb sweeping lightly across your skin, like he was trying to memorize the texture of your tired smile. Bam let out a tiny groan of protest from being slightly jostled, but didn’t move.

When Jungkook finally pulled back, he was still close enough that his breath fanned across your lips. His eyes searched yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

Then, softly but firmly, he said, “No.”

You blinked, turning your head toward him. “No?”

His gaze was warm but unwavering. “You belong in bed.”

You raised a brow, ready to argue just for the sake of it—because this moment was so nice, because you didn’t want it to end—but you didn’t get the chance. Without stepping far or breaking his rhythm, Jungkook reached forward, placed both glasses neatly on the coffee table, then gently moved Bam’s head from your lap.

Bam grumbled like a toddler denied his favorite toy, but didn’t put up a fight. Maybe even he knew better. And then, before you could so much as blink, Jungkook grabbed you—swift and effortless—and tossed you right over his shoulder.

“Jungkook—!” you yelped, hands scrambling against the back of his hoodie. “Put me down! Down!”For a moment you even struggled to find the right word.

He laughed, the sound low and amused against your side as he started walking. “Nope,” he said again, like he actually enjoyed denying you.

“Jungkook!”

“I distinctly remember,” he added, shifting you slightly so he could tap the back of your thigh playfully, “someone telling me they didn’t want me to behave anymore. At least for a while.”

Your face flushed so fast it made you dizzy. “That was a different context!”

“Still counts,” he said smugly.

You buried your burning face against his back, gripping the fabric of his hoodie as he carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the strength in his arms, the way his hold on you never once faltered.

He kicked open the bedroom door with one socked foot and marched straight to the bed.

Then, without ceremony, he tossed you onto the mattress like a victorious knight claiming his reward. You bounced once, letting out a startled laugh—but it cut off abruptly as Jungkook climbed over you, caging you in with one hand braced beside your head, the other gently threading into your hair.

For a beat, he just looked at you. His expression was unreadable—dark lashes lowered, lips parted slightly, something intense glinting behind the softness in his eyes. His thumb brushed along your temple, his breathing just a little uneven now. Then he leaned in, and his mouth found yours again—this time deeper, hungrier.

The warmth of him pressed down just enough to let you feel the full weight of his presence, but never so much that it overwhelmed. His hand moved in your hair, firm and grounding, and you felt the heat bloom low in your stomach. Whatever exhaustion you’d been carrying, whatever jet lag was left clinging to your bones—it vanished, scorched clean by the kiss he gave you.

Jungkook’s lips moved against yours like he couldn’t bear to stop, like the space between kisses was too wide to stand. And then, barely audible, barely a breath: “I missed you,” he murmured, mouth brushing yours. “God, I missed you…”

The words melted into your skin, into the space between your parted lips as he kissed you again—soft, reverent, and then deeper, like he was chasing the feeling. “I missed touching you,” he confessed against your cheek. “Missed how you feel, how you sound…” His voice was low, rough around the edges, like it scraped up from somewhere deeper than his lungs. “Missed you so bad.”

God, you’d missed him too—so much it hurt. So much it had snuck up on you in quiet moments when you hadn’t realized how deeply he'd settled under your skin. Now, with him over you like this—warm and solid and entirely focused on you—it was unbearable and euphoric all at once.

One of your hands slid up into his hair, threading through the dark strands, holding him close. The other drifted lower, finding where the hem of his hoodie had ridden up just slightly—leaving a sliver of warm skin along his side exposed. Your fingertips brushed against him, just barely, and Jungkook inhaled sharply, his body tensing like a pulled string.

His breath hitched. His kiss faltered for the briefest second. Then he exhaled shakily and moved lower.

His mouth trailed down from your lips to the corner of your jaw, then under your ear—slow, purposeful, almost teasing. You felt every word he wasn’t saying etched in those kisses.

You tilted your head back instinctively, giving him space, your fingers curling tighter in his hair. And when his lips met the sensitive skin of your neck, your back arched ever so slightly, a quiet sound catching in your throat.

Jungkook groaned, softly, like the sound of you alone did something to him. His hand slid down the side of your body, over your waist, anchoring you in place while his mouth kept moving—down, down, until—

He hit the neckline of your shirt. He paused. You felt him sigh, a deep and frustrated thing against your skin. His fingers flexed at your side like he was trying to decide whether to keep going or not. Then he lifted his head, gaze a little wild, lips kiss-bitten and pink.

“Too many layers,” he said hoarsely, and there was a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes burned with something else entirely.

Jungkook’s hands skimmed along your sides, warm and steady as his fingers found the hem of your shirt again. He looked down at you—really looked—and you could see it in his eyes: the hunger, yes, but also restraint. That careful, trembling line between reverence and desire.

He tugged lightly at the fabric between you, voice low and breath warm against your throat. “Can I get rid of this?” he asked, fingertips slipping just under the edge of your shirt, grazing bare skin. Your breath hitched. You met his eyes, reading the question for what it was—not just about the shirt, but everything else.

“If,” he added softly, “you are … up for this?”

A breathless laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You tilted your head back into the pillow, the flush in your cheeks rising with the tension curled tight between your hips. “Yeah,” you nodded, voice airy. “I’m up for this.”

Jungkook’s eyes darkened at your answer, his grip tightening just slightly on your waist.

“But,” you added, lifting a brow as you brushed your fingers lightly over the curve of his hip, “if you were planning to keep me up all night riding you… you might want to adjust expectations.”

That got him. He let out a low, startled laugh—part amused, part aroused—his head dipping forward as if he needed a second to recover from the visual that clearly slammed into him. “Damn,” he murmured against your collarbone, his smile curling wicked. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

You laughed again, softer now, but your heart was pounding. Jungkook leaned back just enough to look at you again. His eyes gleamed with mischief, heat, and something more tender tucked underneath.

“Not tonight,” he said with a quiet promise, shaking his head, though his voice dropped an octave. “Tonight’s not about that.” Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he helped you sit up just enough to ease the shirt over your head. His fingers brushed your sides, your arms, the curve of your shoulder blades as he pulled the fabric away—almost like he was unwrapping something delicate.

He tossed the shirt somewhere off to the side, not caring where it landed. Then his hands settled on your waist again, thumbs sweeping slowly across your skin. His gaze dropped for a moment—taking you in, reverent and slow—before returning to your face. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost like he was telling himself, not you.

And then he was leaning in again, mouth finding yours. His kiss devoured and gave in equal measure, his body pressing just a little more fully to yours as if something inside him had finally snapped loose. Just like that, the warmth between you turned into something else.

Jungkook’s mouth found yours again, this time with more heat—no hesitation, no teasing. His kiss deepened, growing messier as his body pressed more fully against yours. One of his hands cupped your breast, his touch slow and deliberate, while the other caged you in. You felt the shift in his weight, the slow grind of his hips as he settled between your thighs.

You gasped softly into his mouth at the contact—he was already hard, the press of him insistent even through the layers of clothing still between you. Your hips tilted upward instinctively, seeking more of that delicious friction. He groaned, low and broken, into your kiss. The sound thrilled you, igniting something hot and desperate in your core.

He rolled his hips again, slower this time, just to feel you respond. Your thighs squeezed around him in reflex, your nails digging slightly into his back through the fabric of his hoodie. He smiled into the kiss at your reaction, then broke away just enough to look down at you—his lips kiss-swollen, his chest rising and falling faster now. As his thumb brushed over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing a soft gasp from you as he explored the sensitive peak.

His tongue and lip nervously fiddle with his lip ring, his gaze flickering down your body and then back to your face like he couldn’t believe this was real. “Just so you can adjust your expectations as well,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek, “we haven’t seen each other in a while…” You raised an eyebrow, breathless but grinning. “I’m aware.”

He swallowed, his blush darkening as his fingers tapped against the edge of your jaw. “So I might not… y’know—last long.” His voice cracked a little, and you could see just how flustered he was by the confession. But you were already shaking your head, your smile impossibly fond.

“It’s fine. No judging,” you said softly, tracing his spine with your fingertips. “And if it comes to that…” You let your voice drop as you added with a playful smirk, “I’ve got two perfectly good hands, and can just jerk myself off to an frustrated idol, no?”

Jungkook choked on a breath—his laugh a shocked, aroused rasp as he buried his face into your neck, groaning dramatically. “God, please tell me you mean me now.”

Your only answer was a breathy hum, your legs wrapping around his waist as you tilted your hips again, sending another jolt of sensation through both of you. He growled softly, biting back another moan, then started trailing kisses down the line of your throat. His hands slid from your waist to your chest, cupping your breasts through the lace of your bra, thumbs brushing experimentally over the peaks until you gasped again, arching up into his touch.

He murmured something that sounded like a curse under his breath, his mouth following the curve of your chest until he reached the valley between your breasts. He kissed you there, slow and reverent, before flicking his tongue just under the edge of your bra, lips brushing heatedly over every inch of newly exposed skin. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he tugged gently at the band of your pants.

“Off,” he whispered hoarsely, not quite begging, but close.

You nodded, helping him as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. The fabric slid down your hips, dragged by eager hands that trembled just slightly. He watched, eyes locked to every inch of newly revealed skin like it was something sacred—something he’d been starving for. When your underwear followed, his breath caught audibly.

His palms smoothed down the outside of your thighs, his lips not far behind, leaving a hot trail of kisses and slow exhales as he worshipped every inch of you. You threaded your fingers into his hair, your chest rising and falling faster now, overwhelmed by the intensity of his focus. When he looked up, lips red and parted, eyes heavy-lidded with want, he whispered like it was a confession, “You’re gonna kill me.”

You let out a soft breathless laugh, dazed but still playful. “Don’t die on me, Jeon.” His mouth curled into a crooked grin at your answer, but before he dove back in, you tugged at the hem of his hoodie. “Your turn.”

He bit his lip, then sat back on his heels, straddling your thighs as he grabbed the hoodie and yanked it off in one smooth pull. His hair was a little mussed from the motion, his chest rising as the fabric left his skin. The soft lighting of the room carved gentle shadows down his torso, every line of his body familiar and still somehow dizzying to take in again.

Your hands rose instinctively, skimming over the muscle of his stomach, your fingers grazing the spot you'd touched earlier under the hoodie. His abs twitched beneath your touch, his breath hitching. “I missed you,” you murmured, almost without thinking.

His gaze softened instantly, but there was a fire just beneath the surface. “Not as much as I missed you, this,” he replied, voice low and dark, before leaning down to kiss you again—slower now, but deeper, heat building steadily between you.

You fumbled for the waistband of his pants next, tugging at it in silent invitation. Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He stood long enough to kick them off, tossing them somewhere to the floor, and joined you again in the nest of tangled sheets and fevered breathing—now skin to skin, heat to heat. You sighed as his body settled against yours, your thighs parting to welcome him fully between them. The weight of him, the warmth, the familiar press of muscle and tension—it filled something raw and hollow that had been aching in his absence.

Jungkook groaned as your bodies aligned again, harder now, no clothes left between you. His hand found your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked at you with something deeper than lust. “You still good?” he asked, voice tight with restraint. You reached up to tug him down into a kiss that left no room for doubt.

“Better than good,” you whispered against his lips. “Now shut up and touch me.”

He laughed, breathless—and this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t playful. His touch was everywhere—your hips, your waist, your thighs—warm hands leaving behind trails of heat that pulsed beneath your skin. And his body, all taut muscle and warm skin pressed flush against yours, was like a weight you welcomed—anchoring you, teasing you, torturing you. You tried to shift beneath him, to move your hips up into his, desperate for more friction, for more of him—but Jungkook was faster. His palm pressed against your hip, firm and commanding, pinning you to the mattress.

"Not yet," he murmured into your ear, voice so low it shivered down your spine. Then his hips rolled, deliberately slow, the thick, hot length of him dragging across your core in maddening precision. You gasped, your legs trembling with the aftershocks of every pass, every denied relief.

The friction was overwhelming. You could feel him clearly—hard and leaking, slick between your bodies—and it made your whole body clench with need. Your thighs quivered involuntarily around his hips. Your mouth parted in a breathless moan, your head tipping back against the pillow. And then… he stopped. You whimpered at the sudden loss of contact, hips lifting unconsciously toward him. Jungkook laughed softly at your frustration, his breath warm against your neck.

"You're so greedy," he teased, lips brushing your jaw as he sat back just slightly. Then his hand was between your thighs, fingers sliding through the mess he’d made of you. And when two sank into you, easily, fully, you both groaned—Jungkook from the raw sensation of feeling you clench around him, and you from the maddening fullness and pace he set without hesitation.

You arched, gasping again, hands flying up to clutch at his biceps.

"God…" he groaned, jaw tightening as his fingers slid deep, his eyes flicking down between your bodies. "You're so wet. You're…"

His words fell off into a ragged exhale as his fingers began to move, slow at first, then pressing into you with a rhythm that was devastating in its precision. He watched you—watched the way your lips parted, your brows knit, your hands clawed lightly against his arms as you tried to keep yourself grounded. But your body had other ideas—your walls fluttering around him, thighs twitching, the growing pressure in your belly unbearable.

Jungkook was transfixed. "Look at you," he murmured, brushing his nose against your temple. "Fucking beautiful."

You tried—you really did—to keep your eyes on him, to meet the heat in his gaze, but they rolled back without your permission, and a broken moan spilled from your throat. He loved it. He drank it in. Your legs trembled under the intensity, hips twitching, hands grasping at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything to ground you.

Jungkook’s other hand slid up your thigh, thumb brushing slow, hypnotic circles just above your knee as he held your leg steady over his hip. He was watching you again, hyper-focused, studying your body’s every reaction like it was the only thing that mattered.

“Right there,” he whispered when your walls began to flutter, when the tension in your thighs started to coil too tight to hold. “So pretty like this. All of you—falling apart for me.”

His voice alone could’ve undone you. And then—right as the edge got close, just a breath away—you moved. Your leg jerked—your foot gently pushing at his chest, a quiet, trembling push. Not rough, not panicked. Just enough. Your hand covered his, holding him in place. Your breathing was uneven, your lips parted, eyes hazy as you stared up at him, halting the movement of his fingers inside you.

"W–wait," you managed, your voice hoarse and trembling. You weren’t trying to stop him completely—you just needed to breathe. To speak. To ask.

Jungkook froze, his fingers stilled immediately, but stayed inside though his thumb was still ghosting soft, slow circles along your inner thigh—his other hand anchoring your ankle gently against his chest.

“Everything okay?” he asked softly. There was no panic in his voice, no alarm. Just attentiveness. He was watching you closely—reading you like a book he already knew by heart. But still, he needed your answer.

Your eyes were glassy, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. You stared at him—He looked... devastating. Wild hair falling over his forehead, lips kiss-bitten and red, his body flushed with restraint, so close to release. His cock lay heavy against his thigh and dripping between you, flushed pink and glistening with slick, twitching against his stomach like it hurt to be untouched. You felt dizzy just looking at him.

You reached for him, fingers skimming over his hip, voice low and wrecked.

“I’m okay. I just… I need you. Not just your hands.”

Jungkook's eyes darkened instantly, chest visibly rising with a shaky breath as your words sank in. He leaned in and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His expression shifted—desire tightening into something feral, something reverent.

“…Say that again,” he said, almost breathless, leaning closer like he couldn’t believe his ears.

“I need more than your fingers,” your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes holding his. “Now.”

His groan vibrated through his chest, deep and guttural. “You want me now?” he asked, voice low and wrecked.

You nodded, a small, breathless smile curving your lips. “Need you. I want to come around you, not just your fingers.” He groaned again, the sound breaking in his throat, and pressed a long kiss to your lips—soft, but buzzing with restraint that was wearing thin by the second.

“Okay,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

The condom was on faster than you could blink—Jungkook had moved with practiced ease, but even in those brief seconds without his touch, the absence felt unbearable. You whined quietly, sitting up just enough to press messy kisses to the line of his jaw, his throat, anywhere you could reach. Your hands wandered his chest as he fumbled slightly, your lips pulling a soft groan from him when they found that spot just beneath his ear.

“Could go faster if you didn’t keep distracting me,” he muttered, faux-annoyed, but the heat in his voice betrayed how much he liked it—how much he needed it. Then, finally, he was over you again, hands framing your hips, his gaze dragging down your body like he couldn’t believe you were real. Your leg curled around his waist instinctively, but he took your thigh in one hand and lifted it higher, draping it over his forearm to open you further, make more space for him. Your other leg slipped between his, foot pressed gently to his calf, guiding him into the perfect angle.

And then—God.

He pushed in, slow and steady, inch by careful inch. The stretch, the heat, the way he filled you—it knocked the breath out of your lungs. Your hands gripped his shoulders like a lifeline, fingernails biting into his skin as a broken sound escaped your throat.

“Shit,” Jungkook choked out, voice shaking as he stilled inside you. “You’re—fuck, you’re so tight.” You trembled in his arms, body twitching from the sheer intensity of being filled again. Of him. It had been too long—too long without him, without this—and your body remembered every second of it in the way it clung to him now.

Jungkook ducked his head, hiding the overwhelmed look in his eyes by pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck. You felt the tremor in his arms, the tight control in his slow breathing, the restraint pulsing through every inch of him.

And then—your voice, breathy and already cracking:

“Jun… Jungkook… please—please move. Or I… I might—”

He looked up, eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the light. You were trembling beneath him, flushed and nearly undone, and still barely able to form words. The sight made him feral. Something in him broke—in the best, most reverent way. He hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t known if he could live up to the memory of you. But this?

You were already so close to unraveling beneath him. Around him. And it was making him lose every shred of composure he had. He leaned down, kissed you like he was starved for it, and then started to move—slowly, carefully at first, hips rolling into you with a rhythm that immediately pulled a soft, high cry from your throat.

“You feel,” he gasped, breath caught, “so—fucking—perfect.”

Your hands scrambled across his back, pulling him closer, grounding yourself as the world spun from the way he moved in you—like he was savoring you, like every thrust was an offering. His pace started to shift as you clung to him, breaths shared, skin sliding against skin. It was frantic and tender, desperate and unhurried all at once, like both of you were trying to make up for every second lost between the last time and now.

And Jungkook couldn’t stop kissing you—your mouth, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. Like he needed to taste you everywhere, remind himself this was real. “Gonna come soon,” he breathed, voice raw. “If you keep looking at me like that—I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold back.”

You smiled through the haze, pulling him closer until your foreheads touched, until every movement of his body was yours and every breath you took belonged to him.

And you whispered, “Then don’t.”

Your smart little comment had barely left your lips before Jungkook dipped his head and caught your breast in his mouth, lips warm and soft as he sucked gently, tongue circling your nipple before he gave it a teasing nip that made you jolt under him with a strangled gasp that started your downfall.

“Smart mouth,” he murmured against your skin, grinning as your body twitched from the overstimulation and want. “You just love driving me crazy, don’t you?”

But then he pushed forward again, his hips grinding down just so—right over that spot where you were already trembling. The thick, perfect slide of him hit home deep, the ridge of his pelvis pressing tight against your clit in a way that knocked the air clean out of your lungs. You shattered, voice breaking apart into a gasped cry, hands clawing at his back as your entire body locked up and then trembled violently around him.

“Jungkook—!” Your walls fluttered and clenched hard, dragging him down with you. He barely managed a few more erratic thrusts before he groaned—low and raw—burying his face in your neck as his hips jerked. The heat of his release filled the condom as his entire body tightened over yours.

“Fuck,” he gasped, voice shivering as he came, still rolling his hips just enough to ride out the end. “You—God, unreal.” You were both breathing like you’d run miles, chests rising and falling in tandem. His forehead dropped against yours for a long moment, sweat clinging to his hairline, breath hot against your cheek.

He stayed inside you a little longer, reluctant to leave the warmth and the aftershocks still fluttering through your body. His lips pressed lazy, tender kisses to your neck and collarbone, his weight comforting above you without being too much. Eventually, he slowly eased you down with him, shifting so you were both lying on your sides, your leg still draped over his hip.

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning now that the high was fading—embarrassment blooming quietly in your chest. “I… came so fast…” you muttered, barely audible. “I—shit, sorry.”

Jungkook blinked, and then his smile split wide, bright and boyish and disbelieving. “Are you kidding?” he said, his voice rough but teasing. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I thought I’d lose it just from hearing you.” And just like that, he twitched inside you.

You let out a soft sound—half gasp, half groan—that made him chuckle.

“Sorry,” he whispered, not sounding sorry at all as he placed a kiss just below your ear. He finally pulled out of you with care, murmuring something soft when you twitched at the loss, and disposed of the condom before turning back toward you.

But before he could lie down again, you were already pushing yourself up gingerly on shaky limbs, breath still shallow. He blinked at you, brows lifted, concern and curiosity mingling on his face. “You okay?” You nodded, brushing your hair out of your face. “Bathroom,” you said simply, voice still wrecked around the edges. His lips quirked into a crooked smile, eyes fond. “Ah.” You wobbled slightly as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed—but Jungkook was already sitting up behind you, hands at your waist, helping you up with exaggerated care.

“Anything for my girlfriend,” he said playfully, kissing your shoulder as he steadied you.

You groaned. “God, you’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Nope.” He grinned and gave you a soft smack on the hip. You pushed yourself upright, but before you could take more than a few steps, Jungkook’s hand wrapped gently around your wrist. “I’ll come with you,” he said, standing up beside you in one smooth, quiet motion.

You gave him a tired glance, amused. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally walking like a newborn deer. I feel obligated.”

You huffed a laugh, letting him tug you toward the bathroom with fingers laced through yours. He kept close as you both stepped into the low-lit space, the faint hum of the fan filling the silence. You reached for the faucet and splashed water on your face as he stood behind you, watching with a small, soft smile, the glow from the mirror lighting his features gently.

Your reflection caught his—a mess of tousled dark hair, flushed cheeks, a lip still slightly swollen from your kisses. His hoodie and pants were gone, his inked arm on display, his chest bare and scattered with faint red marks you’d left in the heat of it.

You handed him the washcloth you’d wet, and he accepted it easily, dragging it across his chest and neck with a low, content sigh before tossing it into the hamper. The two of you brushed your teeth side by side in companionable silence, hips bumping every now and then, like even now, your bodies couldn’t help but seek each other out.

When you finished and leaned against the sink, Jungkook reached over and gently tucked your hair behind your ear, studying your face like it was something precious. “What?” you asked, voice quieter now. He shook his head with a lazy smile. “Nothing. You’re just really damn pretty.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming again. “I look wrecked.”

“Exactly.” His voice dropped, teasing and rough. “My kind of wrecked.”

You groaned, pushing lightly at his chest, but he only grinned wider, catching your wrist and kissing your palm before guiding you back toward the bedroom. When you reached the bed, you both climbed under the covers at the same time, your bodies drawn together instantly like magnets. Jungkook settled on his back and opened an arm without question. You tucked yourself against his side, one leg thrown over his hip, your head finding the crook of his shoulder.

His skin was warm—soothing—and he smelled faintly of shampoo and the clean linens. His hand smoothed slow circles into your lower back while the other combed lightly through your hair, grounding you with every touch. You stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the quiet glow of the night, breaths syncing, heartbeats slowing.

“Hey,” he murmured eventually, voice soft. You hummed, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“I really missed this,” he said, fingers still tracing invisible lines on your skin. “Missed you.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “More than I realized. It’s stupid how good it feels... just to hold you.”

That made your chest ache in the best way. You kissed his collarbone, lazy and lingering, and felt him hum in response. “I missed you too,” you whispered. “Even when I pretended I didn’t.” Jungkook’s hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, keeping you close.

“I’m not pretending anymore,” he said quietly.

You nestled tighter against him, and he pulled the blanket up higher, another kiss pressed to your forehead. The room had settled into silence, save for the sound of your breaths mixing, slow and even beneath the covers.

You were nestled into Jungkook’s side like you’d never left, like there had never been a gap of time or space between the two of you. His fingers continued their lazy path over your back, warm and familiar, like he was memorizing you all over again.

“You know…” he murmured after a moment, voice low and sleepy, vibrating softly through his chest beneath your cheek. “I’m flying you out more often now. Whether you want me to or not.” You let out a tired, amused breath, not even lifting your head. “So you’re just going to kidnap me now?”

“Exactly,” he said with a small grin. “I’ll drag you into my suitcase if I have to. Make this long-distance crap work.” You chuckled, eyes still closed, your legs tangling deeper into his under the sheets. “Fine. But only if you also make time to visit me. Not just airlifting me to you every time.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Deal. But I want to be where you are anyway, so that’s not exactly a compromise.”

“Mmh…” you shifted closer, like that was even possible, pressing your nose against the base of his throat, letting the warmth of his body soothe every frayed nerve. “We could do workcations, too. Pick a city, hole up somewhere nice. You shoot your stuff, I take meetings, and we eat too many pastries in between.”

Jungkook laughed softly at that, the sound a deep, muffled rumble in his chest. “You’re dangerous with ideas like that.”

“I’m serious,” you mumbled. “I’m not letting you disappear into some blackhole schedule again. If I have to sit in your studio in pajama pants just to see you, I will.”

“You can sit on my lap in pajama pants,” he offered, smirking against your hair.

You groaned into his neck, voice muffled. “God, you’re impossible.”

But your arms didn’t loosen around him. You were already curled into his side like you’d come here to stay, like this was your rightful place. And Jungkook—he didn’t move an inch to suggest otherwise. If anything, his grip around you only tightened, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you like he was locking the moment into place.

“I like this,” he whispered after a beat, voice quieter now. “You here. Like this.”

Your fingers brushed across his ribs, drawing idle lines. “You planning to trap me like this for a while?”

He hummed, not even pretending to sound guilty. “That’s exactly what I’m planning. But tomorrow we need to visit the Han River first.”

And the way he cradled you after, his chin resting on top of your head, his breath warm in your hair, told you he meant every word.

Masterlist

Tags: A/N I was stupid and not specific with the Tags at my Tag post for this. So as to not Tag anyone that doesnt want to be Tagged I changed the post and tagged only the people that interacted after the change. I am sorry! If you wanted to be tagged :/ If you want to be tagged for Missing you, just write it in the comments or dm me. Sorry!

@dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @notyourfriendooo

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

#jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook bts #bts #jeon jungguk #jeon jungkook #jungkook x you #just a normal night #jungkook fanfic #bts imagine #bts stories #bts imagines #bts jk #bts au

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