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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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jeon jungkook - off the record (part one)

part one ; breaking news and breaking points

warnings ; none!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; okay. hi. hello. me again! this authors note is going to be delirious because it is quite literally 2am as i edit this and i am shot. regardless — welcome to off the record! this is my baby. my child. my toddler who can’t walk or speak yet but the concept is there

let’s get one thing straight: i am NOT a politician. i do not work in politics, i do not enjoy american politics and i most certainly am no expert. i almost failed government in high school. i’m not sure of the accuracy of White House journalism but i do know one thing. i tried my very best!! so gold star for ang <3

anyway! welcome to the disaster. this is a rom-com, emphasis on the com because these two idiots are so deep in denial. we’re talking enemies-to-lovers, but in the “we’ve been rivals since college and now sit two rows apart at white house briefings” kind of way. grab some tea. snuggle your cat. scream into a pillow. idk, whatever works for you

playlist here

series masterlist here

The thing about White House press briefings is, if you don’t speak fast, Jungkook Jeon will.

And then you’ll have to watch his stupid little smirk on the screens in the newsroom all night while your editor asks why you didn’t ask the damn question.

You raise your hand, nearly leap out of your seat to deliver the inquiry you scribbled messily in the margins of your notepad. It’s something about a new federal rollout; dry on paper, but a minefield of public and private backdoor deals if you phrase it right. The question is halfway out of your mouth before—

“Secretary Thompson,” comes a voice from three rows back, “can you clarify whether the administration still plans to partner with private sector organizations despite last quarter’s concerns?”

Goddamnit.

You slump in your chair. Of course he gets there first.

It’s a clean question. Sharp. Subtle accusation wrapped in neutral intonation. The kind of question that makes cabinet members pause and choose their words very carefully, which Secretary Thompson now does, leaning forward and clearing her throat, visibly recalibrating.

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s sitting back in his chair like he owns the damn room. The entire Metro ride spent rehearsing that question, complete with dramatic pauses practiced between stops, has been hijacked by someone who waited until your mouth formed the first syllable before swooping in.

You turn slowly, against your better judgement. The muscles on your face achieve that special brand of neutrality that actually translates to: I'm mentally signing you up for a lifetime subscription to minor inconveniences. May your phone forever hover at 1% battery and may your socks perpetually slip down inside your shoes.

Three rows behind sits the human embodiment of your nightmares, looking like he just won a gold medal in the sport of Question Sniping, expression carrying a level of smugness you want to smack right off his face. And like, yeah, it’s fine that he beat you to the punch but you’re oddly impressed by how effortlessly he did it.

He’s sporting a black suit with no tie. Because heaven forbid he follow even the most basic protocols of professionalism. Elbow slung across the chair next to him like this is a casual Monday coffee run and not a federal media gauntlet. He’s already relaxing in his seat like he didn’t just outflank you in broad daylight.

He grins at you from across the pressroom, a perfect display of professionally whitened teeth that makes you contemplate the legality of throwing your pen across the room.

Disgusting.

You whip your head back to the front before you commit a felony in front of a sitting cabinet member. Immediately, you’re pulling your phone out of your back pocket, opening up iMessage.

Okay, count to ten. One, two, three…

Mentally, you’re trying to imagine your therapist's voice saying something about "workplace appropriate responses to colleagues” (although your therapist has never met Jeon Jungkook and is therefore woefully unprepared to provide relevant advice in this situation.)

Physically, your jaw tightens with the force of some unspoken comeback.

He always does this.

And the worst part isn't just that his strategy works consistently, or that Secretary Thompson is now giving a rehearsed answer that will yield exactly one (1) usable quote for his article; it's that microscopic part of you that recognizes the brilliance of his approach.

You learned this the hard way four years ago, during your very first White House press briefing fresh out of Columbia University, notepad filled with questions you’d rewritten five different times, trying not to sweat through your blouse because Jeon Jungkook was five seats away.

You hadn’t seen him since graduation. Not since he walked off that stage behind you; second in your class, already being courted by every network with a pulse. You’d hoped that being hired at competing outlets might mean distance. Space to build your career without having to look over your shoulder every time you submitted a story.

No such luck.

He was already there when you entered the briefing room for the first time. Already seated, sporting that annoying smile when he spotted you in the doorway.

You still remember the way his voice cut through the room like it belonged there. Just the right amount of bite to make the congressman answering the question squirm. It wasn’t even a bad question, but it was sharp enough to make everyone sit up, and that was the point when playing with American politics.

One doesn’t need to be liked. They need to be remembered.

You’d raised your hand right after. You were so determined not to let him win the room that you misread the energy entirely. And when the mic came to you, you fumbled. It wasn’t with the content — you’d done your research, you always did — but with the delivery. You were trying so hard to seem composed, to prove you deserved to be there, that your voice went flat. You didn’t breathe between sentences or really pace the question.

And the congressman, an older man with a short temper and a penchant for being rattled, cut you off mid-sentence. He waved a hand like you were a mosquito buzzing too close to his ear.

“Get to the point please,” He’d said, clearly annoyed.

You had, but the damage was done.

And Jungkook? He didn't even need to smirk — a restraint that somehow made his victory all the more infuriating. He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, lips pressed in a neutral line. But you knew him well enough to spot the amusement hiding in his eyes. He didn't look directly at you because that would've been too obvious, too much like admitting that this little press room dance of yours is his favorite form of foreplay, which is precisely the kind of vulnerability neither of you would ever confess to even under the influence of truth serum.

Either way, Jungkook never needs to gloat out loud. He just waits for you to see that he saw.

That’s how it started. The silent, deadly, professional tug-of-war that is probably so entertaining for onlookers that the White House should start selling tickets.

Four years later and nothing’s changed — except now you’ve learned how to play the game too. How to keep your voice calm, how to pace your brain, how to smile like a threat. You studied your opponents playbook until the pages wore thin.

So you sit there, pen poised, chin high, and let Secretary Thompson drone on for another minute while the reporters around you settle. Jungkook is probably lounging in the back like the cocky bastard he is, no doubt smiling like a motherfucker.

When the next lull in her sentence comes, you speak.

“Madam Secretary, given the administration’s recent walkback on infrastructure spending and the pivot toward incentivizing private sector, can you clarify what measures are in place for companies receiving federal subsidies, especially those with prior violations?”

The room stills like a sitcom freeze frame, where some narrator would quip "it was at this moment they knew..." as your question hangs in the air.

Thompson blinks twice. And then, to everyone’s surprise including your own, she smiles; it’s a genuine reaction, not the wide campaign-trail grin but the subtle acknowledgment that screams, finally, a real question from someone who did their homework instead of skimming the briefing notes.

She answers in detail. All lengthy and thoughtful and some political jargon you’re jotting in your notepad like a madman. Meanwhile your chest burns with the sweet, silent glow of victory, something your overachieving soul has been chasing since you color-coded your first set of flash cards in elementary school.

You know it’s there before you see it — Jungkook’s gaze.

There will be no swiveling of your neck to face him because turning would mean acknowledging, and acknowledging would mean giving away a fraction of this perfect moment; you don't need visual confirmation when you can practically feel him watching, probably chewing the inside of his cheek with that nervous habit he thinks nobody notices, calculating how he missed this angle while the room leans forward collectively, listening harder now than they were during his question.

God, it is tempting, though.

Just one glance. One raised brow. Maybe even a middle finger held discreetly under your notepad.

But you’re better than that.

…Mostly.

Still, the corner of your mouth twitches microscopically.

Game on, Jeon. Let’s see who wins this round.

The next thirty minutes go by just like this:

You raise your hand to try and get another question in, he mirrors you half a second later.

You jot down a quote, he glances up like he’s writing the same one faster.

You whisper something to the correspondent next to you, and he makes a point to become the world’s friendliest man.

By the time the briefing wraps, your notepad is full, your recorder has thirty solid minutes of good material, and your blood pressure is only slightly elevated — which you’re going to count as a win. Secretary Thompson gives her usual nod, the press secretary calls it and the room begins to scatter in that chaotic shuffle unique to people who have five minutes to rewrite a headline before someone else beats them to it.

You pack up, shoving pens and postits and a mildly passive-aggressive question list into your leather tote. It’s not like you’re in a rush. You’ve got what you need. Jenna — your editor, manager, queen of never being impressed — will actually be pleased for once. Last week she told you your questions were “good, not great” which you’ve translated to mean “where’s the political bloodshed?” But today, you’ve got enough edge to headline the next two cycles.

You’re halfway to the exit, steps quick against the marble floor, when you hear it—

Shoes.

Nice ones. Expensive, but already too broken-in to be new.

And they’re moving quickly like the fire alarm just went off.

Your eyes don’t have to spare a look. Your spine already knows who it is.

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, and keep walking. If you ignore him long enough, he might combust from the lack of attention.

“Smooth question.”

You blink up at the hallway ahead of you. What was that counting trick you were doing earlier? Oh, right.. four, five, six....

A sigh heaves from the depths of your lungs. Quite loudly it echoes off the walls.

“Jungkook.” you begin, not slowing your pace, “If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask the intern to print it out and shred it for recycling.”

He laughs at that amusedly.

“Come on,” he retorts, falling into step beside you now, “You stole my topic and framed it better. That was… mildly impressive.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s got his press badge tucked half into his blazer pocket like it’s too cool to wear properly, and the top button of his shirt is now undone.

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “Mildly impressive? Should I frame that statement and hang it next to my degree? My… valedictorian degree, perhaps?”

He leans in, a little too close for comfort. “Don’t worry. Mine’s right behind yours.”

You bite back a smile that threatens to show face. “And don’t you forget it.”

“You know, you’re lucky I didn’t ask a second question just to steal the narrative out from under you,” Jungkook sticks his hands in his pockets, pulling out a packet of gum.

Your eyes roll back into your frontal lobe, “Oh, I’m counting on it. Watching you try to top yourself is half the fun.”

Your feet betray you before you have a chance to stop them, and they stop walking, finally turn to face him. “Are you like this with everyone? I’m starting to get a little flattered.”

He looks at you for a second longer than you like. No smirk this time, just that stillness he gets when he’s thinking. Or, worse… he’s about to be really, really honest.

He shrugs, pops the gum in his mouth, smile creeping back into place like it never left. “Nah,” he’s already walking backwards toward the exit. “You’re the only one who bites back.”

His body disappears into the hallway crowd as if he knows exactly when to exit a scene, melting into the Washington ecosystem of power suits, security earpieces, and polished shoes on marble.

Jeon Jungkook is an insufferable bastard — one of the best-of-breed kind of bastards, possibly the best one you’ve ever had the pleasure (or displeasure, depending on the angle) of going to school with. Decidedly not bad on the eyes, which is unfortunate. Counterproductive, really. Because it’s hard to maintain a healthy level of hatred toward someone when their jawline could headline a fashion campaign and their smirks come pre-loaded with cinematic timing.

And yet, somehow, you manage.

Ever since freshman year when he walked into your public policy seminar and had the audacity to sit in the front row — the seat you always took, the one closest to the professor, the one with the best lighting for scribbling down notes. He didn’t even glance at you when he took it.

You clashed immediately. Over literally everything. Theories and tone and comma placement. Who should’ve been chosen to moderate the midterm debate and who had more credible citations in their annotated bibliography. You can’t even remember the first real argument anymore; all you know is it escalated quickly, something about a poorly formatted slide deck and a long-winded tangent on federalism that he thought was charming and you thought were grounds for expulsion.

To your luck, that turned into this.

Into years of mutual loathing, thinly veiled behind professional respect that makes your coworkers say things like “you two should interview a senator together!” while you fantasize about pushing him down a flight of stairs and then writing his obituary out of spite.

You can’t describe your relationship with Jungkook without sounding emotionally unstable. It’s not just because he got that one A+ in International Relations. It’s not some awkward sexual tension. It’s whatever exists in that middle ground between admiration and provocation.

Listen, you recognize his intelligence. He definitely recognizes your ambition. He’s just always been naturally, effortlessly good. Jungkook doesn’t have to rehearse or over-prepare or go through mental flowcharts in the mirror before a press event.

And the only thing worse than someone who always competes with you is someone who doesn’t have to.

That’s what always gets you. You’ve spent your entire career building scaffolding around every step forward and you are nothing if not methodical. And then he waltzes in with gel in his hair and throws out a line you write down immediately to send to Jenna.

You push the briefing room door open with your hip and walk in, tote clutched tightly.

Emma doesn’t look up. Her fingers are flying over her laptop, nails clacking against keys in short bursts of aggression. Brows furrowed, glasses slipping slightly down her nose, and her tongue is poking between her teeth the way it always does.

“Any luck?” you ask, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl that you’re 98% sure was only restocked because Emma guilt-tripped the White House kitchen staff with that one story she wrote about USDA budget cuts and “the symbolic death of the American apple.”

She grunts in response, closing her laptop quickly and swiveling to face you in her chair.

You bite into the apple, placing your heavy bag down on the floor beside your desk, which is conveniently always placed next to hers.

“How was Jungkook today?” She asks casually as if it’s not one of the most emotionally loaded questions a person can be asked. It’s a routine part of your dynamic at this point. Morning coffee, afternoon sarcasm, and one post-briefing debrief where Emma asks you how Jungkook was, and you pretend he wasn’t Jungkook.

“Obnoxious,” you shrug instantly. “Duh.”

Emma snorts while you continue on, rotating your apple to take another bite. “He was wearing this stupid smile today. I lowkey feel like he was more smug than normal.“

Emma hums knowingly. “That’s your favorite one.”

You ignore that. Just Emma being Emma.

“And of course,” you exhale, “he asked my question.”

That gets her attention.

She scoots her chair toward you slowly, like she’s gearing up for the best tea of her life. “Wait. The question? The one about partnering with private sector organizations?”

“The very one,” You sigh dramatically.

Emma gasps, places a hand over her chest. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, but he did,” you say, taking another bite of your apple, chewing long enough to build suspense. “Fell for it and beat me to it by two seconds.“

She clutches her heart like she’s just witnessed a murder. “War criminal. Both you and him.”

“It’s fine,” you snicker to yourself. “Took the bait like always. Already texted it to Jenna.“

So… there’s this minor (major) thing you do that if anyone finds out, you’re absolutely getting the boot off the Hill. You leave notes around the newsrooms with concepts that you plan to ask at the press briefings and your initials on the paper, and when Jungkook inevitably picks one up and asks them, you send the answer to Jenna. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Emma groans and throws her head back, dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders. “God, how do you come up with this? It’s diabolical.”

“I know.”

“You’re evil.”

“I know.”

She looks at you, tilts her neck, considers. “One of these days I’m gonna get it out of you… why you hate him so much. I swear to god, if the White House ever releases security cam footage, it’s over for you.”

You scoff, leaning against your desk. “Because he’s annoying.. and arrogant and—”

There’s a pause while your narrow your eyes like you’re compiling a legal case. “He’s allergic to shirts that fit.”

Emma just blinks at you.

“It’s not complicated,” You wave her off.

“Mmm,” she says unconvinced, already spinning back toward her laptop. “Sure. Not complicated. That’s exactly what people say before saying something really complicated.”

You flip her off.

She blows you a kiss, raising her watered-down iced latte as a toast, “I wish you a very get well soon.”

It’s nice having Emma. Someone who gets it. She was the only one who didn’t blink when you got hired straight out of school, the only one who didn’t second guess it when you worked your way into every White House event rotation. She never asks why you work late or why your standards are too high.

Emma’s seen you at your most terrifying and your most tired and knows they’re usually the same thing.

You finish your apple, toss the core into the bin, and stretch your neck. You’ve got a headline to punch up, an editor to impress, and a man to destroy.

Before you even have a chance to settle into your uncomfortable chair, Jenna, woman of the hour, bursts into the room like she’s just outrun a breaking news alert.

She’s breathless, auburn hair slightly windblown like she sprinted down the hall, which she probably did — Jenna’s never walked a day in her life. She’s powered exclusively by the adrenaline of publishing scoops before Politico can even spellcheck theirs.

“There you are!” she gasps, practically skidding to a stop beside your desk. Almost like you’ve been playing hide-and-seek instead of sitting where you’re supposed to be.

Emma startles, half-spilling her iced latte.

You don’t even look up from computer that you just rebooted on to life. “Hello to you too, Jenna. Everything okay?”

“Better than okay.” She’s already tossing her phone onto the nearest desk, face alight with manic glee that usually only happens when your publication beats everyone else to the punch. “We published first. That question you texted me. I’m already having it run the evening slot with a featured quote box and a goddamn infographic. Do you know how rare infographics are on pieces like this?”

Emma perks up immediately. “Infographics?”

“Motion animated ones. And it’s outperforming by like 400%. Who fed him that question? I know that was you. Don’t lie to me, you little minx.” Jenna’s eyes are sparkling, hazel flecks in her eyes popping out more than normal.

You blink at her, expression calm, the exact opposite of the excitement living beneath your ribs. “Hm. Was it me?”

“Was it?” Jenna nearly falls over the desk. “You literally texted it to me two seconds after he opened his mouth so I have my suspicions. I watched the tapes back.”

You shrug, sipping from your water bottle. “What can I say? Quick fingers. Predictable men.”

Jenna stares at you. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Well, I have noticed… if I leave a well-worded, question lying within reach, he’ll take it. Should I be reporting him?” Your degree was in Political Science, but right now, it’s sounding a lot more like Lying.

Emma coughs on her coffee. “Oh my god.”

“He delivers it perfectly. He never even changes the phrasing!! Almost like he wants me to know he found it,” You mimic a toddler who got pushed on the playground, all false petulance.

Jenna groans, facepalming. “Jesus, that’s terrifying. Worse than finding out you’re doing it on purpose.”

Emma gapes and plays along with it, your trusty sidekick. “He’s using you like a human press puppet.”

You smile. “Whatever. I got the best answer out of Secretary Thompson today anyway.”

You’re not wrong. Not entirely. In fact, you’re opening up Google Docs as you speak to start typing before any person beats you to the punch.

“Well,” Jenna begins, “Great job today.”

Mission accomplished.

Despite everything, you’re pretty pleased with yourself. Emma’s shoulders sag a little with those three words, though you hardly notice.

You sit back in your chair, fingers hovering over your keyboard.

Another question, another quote, another game won.

It’s not cheating. It’s journalism, baby.

Later that night, the building hums like it’s finally exhaled after holding its breath all day, kind of peaceful in the way only Capitol Hill can be when it’s past five and most of the egos have gone home. The usual bustle has evaporated into a familiar sound of click-clacking keyboards and the hum of vending machines that will forever only take singles.

You’re probably the only person left. Well. You and Jenna. But Jenna doesn’t really count — you swear to god she pays rent here.

She exists in this windowless purgatory like it’s her personal loft. Her desk is still lit, hair up in a claw clip. There’s a cold coffee sweating beside her keyboard and an unopened granola bar that’s been sitting there since at least noon. Her coat is slung over the back of her chair in a way that implies she might leave. News flash: she won’t.

Meanwhile you’re cross-referencing quote attributions for the day’s coverage when it hits.

Ping.

You barely register it at first. Just another email in the never-ending trickle of nonsense from Washington’s most noisy inbox.

But the subject line awakens something in you, jolts you back onto earth after being a zombie for the past three hours.

From: [email protected]

Subject: URGENT — CONFIRMED LEAK: Rep. Monroe / Rep. Delgado

Your heart skips and then sprints to catch up. You open the email, trepidation bleeding into your every movement like it might bite. Skimming it at first glance, you see a bunch of buzz words: late night, caught, office, intern.

And then you're up out of your chair like you spotted free coffee in the break room before anyone else, your demeanor shattered by what's glowing on your screen.

“Jenna.”

No answer comes from your editor, who's apparently developed selective hearing after years of people bringing her stories that are "definitely going to change everything."

“Jenna!”

Her chair swivels, eyes already squinting. “What.” she says, less a question and more a verbal eyeroll.

You motion her over. She groans, wheels her chair two feet, and reads over your shoulder.

She doesn’t speak for a full five seconds, a silence so profound you’re starting to think you misinterpreted the email.

“Holy shit.”

Your head bobs up and down once. “Yeah.”

Both of you stand. Stare at the screen like the text might dissolve if you blink. The email is brief but pretty brutal. Something about a late-night vote hold, a closed-door committee session, and Monroe being seen leaving Delgado’s office at 1:43 a.m. by a very chatty intern with no understanding of political discretion. It’s like the equivalent of catching Romeo leaving Juliet’s balcony.

“Please tell me we’re already writing this,” Jenna breathes, pulling her phone out and typing. “Tell me we’re not about to get scooped.”

You’re already closing your laptop. “We’re not. I just got this a minute ago.”

“Crap, okay,” she undoes her claw clip, runs a hand through her tangled locks. “You think NBC and Fox got word too?”

“Probably,” You tuck your laptop into your bag. “But… we can figure out what the other teams are saying. If you’re game for it.”

There’s a knowing look you two share, an unspoken understanding that comes from years of working in close quarters.

Just like that, with only a few words shared, you’re both gone — shoulders brushing in the hallway, shoes scuffing in sync as you pass the security desk and head toward the press rooms. Tiny, overcrowded hives filled with correspondents from neighboring organizations who all know something but never enough, all refreshing Twitter, all waiting for the official statement that will inevitably say nothing and everything at once.

You pass two staffers whispering near the elevator, some dude pretending not to be texting frantically in the corner, and a communications intern standing so still you’re not sure if he’s waiting for an answer or just buffering.

Walk faster, you repeat to yourself. No shot you’re losing this battle.

This is it. Every correspondent’s wet dream. The moment when instinct meets information. When knowing the right people and knowing how to read them becomes everything.

Fortunately, you’re good at this. Like, really good at this.

Jenna tugs on your arm as you turn a corner.

“Remember what I said in March?” she mutters. “I told you, these senators get more scandalous by the second.”

“Well, yeah, but that was about the comms director’s divorce and a broken espresso machine,” You remind her.

“Still counts.”

A grin is suppressed from your face. Technically, it is true. In this building, nothing stays quiet for long. Rumors and gossip spread quicker than a high school hallway.

Even though CNN is the top news source in the world — objectively, indisputably, and according to your network’s annual conference PowerPoint — your rivals over at Fox, NBC, and a handful of other outlets you don’t care to name are often your best sources.

Everyone loves to talk and you adore talkers.

The Hill is built on whispers, and your favorite kind of people are the ones who don’t know how to keep secrets in the same breath they use to ask for anonymity. There’s something about long hours and winding hallways that makes people careless with information. Or maybe it’s the sense of power, that euphoric high of having access to things you shouldn’t, stories that haven’t broken yet.

Right now, you’re chasing one of them.

You and Jenna waltz into the Fox press room like you own it (which you don’t, but that’s never stopped you before.)

It’s mostly empty, except for a few people quietly panicking over the situation in that journalist way where they sit very still while their eyes scream.

It’s a solemn few feet of space, lit by flickering fluorescents and decorated with the same kind of soul-crushing government chairs that squeak if you so much as fart. Someone left a takeout container open on one of the desks and you do your best not to inhale near it.

A quick glance of the room tells you all you need to know and then, to your dismay — you see him.

Jungkook.

Hunched over his laptop at the far end of the room like he’s doing important work but probably just rereading something you published earlier to find holes in it. His blazer from the briefing is gone, slung somewhere out of sight, white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, sleeves creased and casual and — God help you — revealing the tattoos on his right arm.

You’ve only seen it a handful of times. Most people on the Hill haven’t seen it at all. It’s not exactly Capitol dress code.

But he’s Jeon Jungkook so rules were always more like suggestions when it came to him.

Whatever. Not what you came here for. You focus on his colleague, Sana. She’s sharp as hell, desk always covered in four phones and three half-charged battery packs.

Most of the time, you like her. She’s blunt. She doesn’t pretend to like you more than she does, and she gives enough if you know how to ask.

“Sana,” You say, all business-like, sliding into her personal space like this is a casual catch-up and not an intel sweep. Jenna lingers behind you like a henchwoman.

Sana glances up and sighs. “What now?”

“Looking for background on Monroe and Delgado,” You busy yourself with your nail beds, pretending to be focused on the fact that your polish is chipping slightly.

“I know that’s not true,” she says, still typing. “You never ask for background. You ask for the stuff that makes our lawyers sweat.”

You smile, full canines on display. “Come on. You know I’d never get you sued. Fired, maybe.”

“Not funny.”

“A little funny.”

Sana rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”

You’re about to lean in with the next carefully worded ask when he speaks.

“You could just ask me, you know,” comes Jungkook’s voice from the corner of the room.

You don’t dare turn around.

Begrudgingly, you sigh, loud enough for him to hear. “Didn’t realize you were qualified to speak on matters you didn’t fabricate.”

Behind you, Jenna snorts.

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat.

“You wound me,” he fires back. You can smell the sarcasm in his voice. “Especially after I gifted you that question earlier.”

You spin your body slowly to glance at him. He’s already looking at you, fingers paused over his keyboard, head tilted, one brow raised like he’s genuinely curious how you’ll respond.

Sometimes he does this. Pretends you’re having a conversation when you’re in the middle of ignoring him. Like he’s the main character and you’re just the supporting plot that hasn’t fallen for his clown act yet.

“I’d say thank you,” you retort, “but I think you’re confusing mediocrity for generosity.”

His mouth twitches, doesn't quite reach his eyes but manages to rattle something in your chest like a perfectly aimed pebble against a window, making noise without breaking glass.

“Well,” he stretches slightly in his chair, ink on his arm catching the overhead light, “I guess we’re both useful to each other, aren’t we?”

Verbally, there’s no response you can come up with. Almost like you’re trying to capture a complex emotion with an emoji.

He refuses to look away from you. All you can muster up is meeting his gaze, forcing your eyes not to back down from his own deep brown ones.

Which is stupid and arrogant of him.

And deeply, profoundly annoying.

One day, you’ll create a PowerPoint presentation documenting all the reasons he should be knocked down several pegs.

But, also, he’s kind of—

No.

No, not going there.

You turn back to Sana, who’s watching the whole exchange with the vaguely interested expression of someone who’s seen this movie before.

“Anyway,” you say, tone firm, “back to the real work.”

Jungkook chuckles under his breath sadistically.

Sana raises a brow. She adjusts her posture, closes out of whatever she was doing, and gives you that look. Sneaky one, might you add.

Jenna settles into the empty seat next to Sana with a soft thunk, all amusement and quiet observation, as if she’s pulled up to a live podcast and knows better than to interrupt the good part.

You lean in just a little, palms firmly planted down on her desk.

“You’ve always had great instincts,” you begin sweetly, “Way better than that guy over at NBC who thinks ‘no comment’ is an acceptable answer. And honestly? You’re usually two steps ahead of everyone in this room, including me.”

Sana’s face falls flat. “Flattery’s not free.”

“I’m just stating facts,” you reply, twirling your hair around your finger. “But if you happened to know anything about where Monroe actually was during the vote delay, and with who, and if that info happened to fall into my lap by accident…”

She taps her desk once.

You pause for dramatic effect. Jenna says nothing.

You know it’s working. Cross your heart and hope to die, Sana’s resolve is softening enough to consider it. This is the rhythm you’ve lived and died by for the past four years: collect the whispers, push at the edges, find the person who wants to feel a little important, and let them talk.

You hear the chair scrape before the words follow.

“Okay, you’re scalping her,” Jungkook says flatly, rising from his area like he’s decided to intervene on moral grounds — which is rich, considering he spent last week casually rephrasing your own coverage on-air without blinking.

You don’t even bat an eyelash in his direction.

“Boohoo,” you briefly flip through your mental Rolodex of dismissive expressions, “call the ethics board, Jeon.”

You hear his footsteps. He’s walking over like someone about to cut the red wire, like this is a bomb he’s been called in to defuse.

“Seriously,” he now stands a few feet away, arms crossed, that infuriatingly amused expression plastered across his stupidly symmetrical face. “You’ve got her in a journalistic chokehold. It’s not even subtle.”

You peer over at him and flutter your lashes innocently. “You’d prefer subtle? That’s funny, coming from the guy who once baited a senator with free Red Bull to confirm a time stamp.”

“That was different.”

“That was illegal.”

“It was unofficial.”

You scoff. “Right. Just like your fact-checking process.”

Jenna leans her chin on her fist and sighs. “Hereeee we go.”

Sana barely spares a look up. “Can you two keep it down? Some of us are trying to break a government scandal before midnight.”

Your lips are formed tightly in a line. “I’m so sorry. He just follows me everywhere.”

“This is literally the Fox pressroom.” Jungkook spits out automatically.

“And yet somehow I’m more valuable here than you are.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

You turn fully now, squaring your shoulders like this is war and he just stepped onto your side of the trench. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne — something citrusy and woodsy that makes your thoughts inconveniently disorganized. Jaw set in that infuriating way it does when he thinks he’s being reasonable.

“You know,” he tilts his head slightly, “at some point, you’re gonna run out of tricks.”

“Jungkook, you still fall for all of them.”

Sana mutters something about noise levels.

There’s a smile on your face you do not mean. Jungkook’s watching you intently now, clearly waiting for the moment you lose your cool, which you won’t. You don’t lose your cool. That’s your thing. Your signature move. You’re composed, unbothered if you will.

If the others are tired of it? Too damn bad.

Both of you will continue to respectfully decline to flinch first.

“You’re exhausting,” he says, half-laughing, which would be charming if it weren’t directed at you.

“Good,” you snap, “I hope it costs you sleep.”

“I’ve started taking a higher dose of melatonin to account for that.”

Luckily, before you can retaliate with something that will absolutely haunt you in the shower later, Jenna cuts in, phone screen brightly illuminating her face. “Guys…?”

Neither of you turn. You’re in this weird standoff. First one to look away loses.

She’s louder this time. “Um. Guys?”

“What?” You and Jungkook say in unison, like children caught throwing hands in the sandbox.

She blinks at her iPhone once, then twice, and stands slowly, holding her phone out like it might spontaneously detonate.

“I just got the alert,” she swallows deeply. “CNN got invited to a press pool.”

The room stills. Nothing has technically changed, yet somehow everything feels different, like the universe just rearranged its furniture while no one was looking.

You snatch the phone from her hand without a second thought, scanning the email with speed, stomach already dropping because you know what this means.

Fox. NBC. CNN. Wall Street Journal. Pool assignment. Limited access. Confidential source briefings. Strict cooperation protocol.

Jungkook steps closer to read over your shoulder, and you can feel his body heat like a threat. You edge away out of pure spite.

Sana exhales, “Oh, that’s gonna be fun.”

“No,” you murmur, half to her and half to God, “it’s not.”

Jenna sits back down, hand outstretched waiting for her phone back, probably mentally forwarding the email to your entire team with ten exclamation points and the subject line ‘URGENT: PRESS POOL.’

But all your brain can focus on is the last line of the memo: PRESS POOL ASSIGNMENTS WILL BE FINALIZED BY MORNING.

You swallow, jaw setting in place. Currently, you’re trying not to imagine the absolute hell of being locked into a room with Jungkook and being expected to collaborate. Or even worse, share credit.

Press pools are the bane of your entire existence. It’s lazy reporting dressed up in exclusivity, a dog and pony show where no one’s allowed to ask real questions, just “coordinate coverage” and “represent their outlet professionally,” which basically means sit down, shut up, and don’t make your network look like a dick.

It also may have a tiny, minuscule detail to it that you deject everytime; it’s always you and Jungkook they send. The two best damn correspondents on the Hill, which everyone knows, even if they pretend they don’t. You’re the ones they trust to get the job done. To ask the things no one else will.

And that would be flattering — if it didn’t mean getting locked in a room with him, breathing the same recirculated air, trading quotes and knowing exactly which angle he’s going to try and spin. It’s not a compliment anymore. It’s a punishment dressed up in prestige.

Now — if you’ve read that email right (and you have, because you always do) — you’re going to have to share that twenty minute slot with the one man on Earth who treats interviews and policy like some sick game.

You lower the phone slowly, handing it back to Jenna in a daze.

Jenna looks at you, eyes gleaming. “If it makes you feel better, this is gonna be amazing for us.”

“Who’s us?”

You’re already praying for divine intervention. Or a natural disaster. Or a scheduling conflict. Or a press badge malfunction. Literally anything but this.

Really, there should be no surprise when Jenna is showcasing a small smile on her face, the words already forming on the tip of her lip-glossed tongue.

You beat her to it. “Let me guess. You’re going to ask me to go.”

She blinks, then nods sweetly, too sweetly for your liking.

“I mean,” she says, clasping her hands, “you’re the sharpest we’ve got. You’re strategic. Respected on both sides of the aisle—”

“C’mon, I’ve gone to every single one. Can you please send Emma?” You may as well get on your knees and beg at this point.

Jenna disregards that completely.

“I want you to own the scandal,” she corrects, beaming now. “Control the narrative. Just, you know… professionally.“

You roll your eyes so hard you see your own childhood trauma. Turning to Sana, you’re already half-defeated.

“Thanks for your help,” you sigh, giving her a nod. “And for not actively reporting me to HR during that conversation.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “It was close.”

You’re halfway out the door, already planning what stress snack you’re going to inhale before opening a shared Google Doc with 45 other correspondents when it happens.

“See you Thursday, then. Three o’clock.”

You freeze. Actually, scratch that. You malfunction.

Your body halts so fast you nearly swing into the doorframe. You swivel on your heel, well aware of how the universe personally loves to torment you.

Jeon Jungkook is smiling, cheek to cheek.

He’s leaned back in his own chair now, one leg crossed over the other like he’s settling into a fireside chat, phone lifted lazily in the air, Gmail open and illuminating.

You can only assume his own boss forwarded the press pool email to him. God isn’t exactly subtle when he wants you to suffer.

“They letting just anybody in now?” You muster up the insult.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t even have to ask. Must be fate.”

No part of you falters. You stare at him. “Or a curse. It’s also not even confirmed yet, dimwit.”

“I don’t make the rules,” He raises his hands in mock defeat, and somehow you know that’s a lie. You’re almost certain he knew this was coming and bribed someone.

Jenna pats you on the back as she walks past. “Think of it as a growth opportunity.”

You glance at her like she just told you to do trust falls into oncoming traffic. “I don’t want a growth opportunity. I want a restraining order.”

Jungkook hums solemnly. “You’ll miss me.”

“Like a migraine,” You quip.

You step into the hallway and exhale, followed by a brief intermission where you regret every life decision that led you here.

A few distant feet away, Jungkook calls out all bright and cheerful, like this is a fun little reunion instead of your personal hell, “Should I bring the talking points or are we winging it like last time?”

Not a fiber in your body stops. You just keep walking, steps fast, fury simmering beneath the surface like a pot that’s about to boil over.

Of course you’ll be stuck sharing air and quotes and probably a goddamn printer with him.

Like you said, press pools… bane of your entire existence.

masterlist + ask

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#jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts angst

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clubdionysus · 9 months ago

Text

[BAD DECISION #61] Jinxing It

warnings: (1) mention of toe socks, chess talk, showers, a lil bit of titty luvin, lots of kisses, oral (f&m), fingering, ass play (m), whimpery koo <3, a lil cum swapping, the starluvrs are v cute!!! lots of lil clues and hints about upcoming chapters!!

a/n: there's an authors note over on a03 so I'll you spare you my nonsense! but hi, welcome back!! sorry for the wait on this one <33 if you're only just discovering bd, hello---this is part of an on-going story and includes an established relationship, to be read in context with the rest of the story, it's not a oneshot ^^. for kofi subs, there'll be a BD 62 teaser in a few hours!

wc: 13.7K

bd total wc: 560k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

Life dissolves with Jeongguk. Days merge into one.

Like a tablet in water, or stardust into the atmosphere, time melts.

So does Jeongguk, though. He sinks into the bliss with you. Crumbles. Collapses. You’d go as far to say he turns into a supernova, like stars often do when they collapse.

He lets himself merge into a shared identity that he’s certain isn’t normal of such a fledgling relationship.

Two weeks from the auction, and days have rolled on by without much fuss. Deals have been finalised on winning bids, and Jeongguk’s had meetings with realtors, Yoongi by his side every step of the way. Everything has happened without much thought. Life has just been accepted; new plans and opportunities integrated into the trajectory you’re on. No meteors to throw you off course nor cosmic calamities to falter your future.

Your name is on the interview list for Shinwon’s position, and Jeongguk’s due to be accepting the keys for the building tomorrow. Everything is as it should be.

It’s terrifying, in a way.

You spent so long fearing the rug being swept from beneath your feet, but with Jeongguk’s help, carpets have been laid. They’re not budging.

And nor is he as he sits across from you, legs crossed, his chessboard keeping you apart. It’s a rarity to be on his bed not wrapped up in one another—but he’s almost as serious about chess as he is about you. Almost .

“You know what to do,” he grins, adamant that his crash course in the game was easy to follow. In reality, he’d moved a few pieces, said a few words, and promised with a smile that you’d be able to beat him.

His belief in you is sweet, but entirely misplaced. You’ve not made a single move without his gentle encouragement, most times resulting in you giving the match up on a silver platter.

The correct terminology evades you, and so do the rules. An app sits on your phone unused, a subscription running up a small fortune from a membership never used. It was set up back in the early days of knowing Jeongguk. You swore one day you’d be able to beat him—but life got busy, and quite frankly, chess is not your chosen way to unwind.

But spending time with Jeongguk is, and so you’ll take him in any capacity you can have him.

“Which one should I move?” You pout, utterly transfixed on the chess pieces. There’s a bewildered panic to your expression, brows furrowed over your glittery eyes, hand hovering to and fro over your side of the board.

You single in on the bishop. Look his way with hopeful, wide eyes. He shakes his head.

“Diagonals only,” he reminds you of how bishops move, at which point you realise it’s blocked in by pawns. Your hand moves to one of them, and he shrugs. “I mean… you can .”

“But should I?”

“You wanna capture the king,” he says, reaching across to dictate your movements. He secures your grip on the pawn, and gently pushes it up a single square to free the bishop’s pathway. “Shift this one up, just one space. Clear the diagonal if you want to move the bishop.”

You do as he says, putting the pawn back in its original position so that you can be the one to place it. Slowly, you repeat his instructions, pushing the pawn up the board while Jeongguk nods.

And then he grins in such a way that you just know you're about to curse him out.

He lifts his strategically placed knight. Knocks your freshly moved pawn. Claims the tile as his own.

“Rule number one,” He smirks, lip ring flipping in the corner of his pretty little mouth. “Never trust your opponent.”

“Dude, what the fuck,” you whine, looking at him with a faux sense of hurt and a very believable pout. “You’re my boyfriend . You’re supposed to help .”

“No moaning,” he dismisses your stropping, knowing he’s lost brownie points for his deception. He also knows he’ll earn your favour back soon enough, so whatever. “Now, what's your next move, baby? Go on.”

You study the board, and assess how different the opposing sides look.

This time, he’s going easy on you. Kind of. You’ve almost exclusively been guided by him for the last half an hour, over a string of short games, all of which have ended with your very quick and immediate defeat.

Jeongguk is too competitive for his own good. Jimin never wants to play against him, ‘cause he knows he’ll lose, too.

This is an indulgence for Jeongguk. He ought not to waste the opportunity—or worse yet, convince you never to play against him again.

He likes the idea of chess being an heirloom; the kind of skill he’ll teach his kids in the future. It’s integral to the very depths of his brain—how he works, and how his logical mind can jump and switch sometimes at the flick of a button—yet he rarely shares it with anyone else.

It’s only apt that you’d get an all-access pass.

Hovering over your now-free bishop, you narrow your eyes as you glance towards him.

He nods.

And so you move a pawn instead.

“I don’t trust you,” you tell him, because he told you not to. In a way, you are trusting him—just trusting that he’s a bullshitter.

What you don’t realise is that you’ve just moved the very pawn that’s been protecting your King, and preventing Jeongguk from getting an easy win.

“B,” he sighs, looking helplessly at the move you just made.

He couldn’t love you any more if he tried, but— fuck —he’ll never understand your brain.

“What?!”

He picks up his queen. Places it diagonally across from your exposed King. There’s nowhere for your King to go, other than in the direct line of his queen. He’s gone and fuckin’ done it again.

Check.

Mate .

Groaning, you realise what's happening and flop down onto your back. Your brain is fried. There's no way Jeongguk actually enjoys this.

"Not again," you whine, pretending to sob a little as you look up at Jeongguk's ceiling. It's without birds these days, but there are a few rogue strips of tape that remind you of your history within these four walls.

"B," Jeongguk laughs, clambering around the board to flop down with you. His arm rests over your tummy as his face aligns with yours. Might not have any birds above you, but the way you melt into his touch is just as deadly as it was the first time. You'll scorch a hole through his sheets with even the most innocent of encounters. His lips are a little pouty, smirk prevailing as he teases, "What did I tell you, huh? Protect your king."

"I tried!" You insist, your over-dramatic, distressed expression far too cute for him to care about playing anymore. He enjoys chess, but he enjoys you more.

"You left him wide open for me to take!"

"You could have gone easy on me!"

"I was!" He defends with a laugh, adamant that he could have taken you out in, like, two moves if he really wanted. "I swear you didn't listen to a single thing I told you—"

"I did! Listening to you is how you got that stupid pawn in the first place," you huff, putting your hand against the bottom of his throat to stop him from getting any closer. He doesn't deserve niceties in times like this.

He'd argue that the feeling of your sharp nails against his throat is incredibly nice.

He ignores your moaning. "I'll make you a deal."

"Go on."

"Strip chess."

"Pervert."

"For every move you make, I'll take an item of clothing off," he suggests with a glint in those starry eyes of his, ignoring your remark.

You assess the situation. Mentally make a checklist of his clothes. Sweats, a shirt, a (toe)sock on either foot, and underwear — that's only five moves, but then again, Jeongguk normally has your king trapped by that point.

"I think you're just trying to get me naked."

"I'm always trying to get you naked, B," he shrugs into his sheets, before tearing himself away and getting back into position on the opposite side of the board. "So are you gonna make it a challenge or not?"

"What happens if I take out one of your pieces?"

"If you do that," he hums, as if he's contemplating it. "I'll let you do that goddamn paper plane you wanna try out so bad."

Instantly, you sit up, like a puppy with a treat being teased in front of its snout. Your eyes are wide, smile incredulous.

It's been a while since Jeongguk made those paper planes in your bedroom. Only one has ever been done, and quite frankly, you think it might have been the catalyst to your friendship's demise, because how you could ever go back to 'just friends' afterwards was beyond you.

It's not like you didn't try to remain totally neutral about cock warming with him, but the way your heart swells whenever you do it now just goes to show how your bodies were made for one another. Like a turning of tides, or the cyclical rising and falling of the sun to make way for the moon, it's just as nature intended. He was made for you, and you him.

With a glint in your eye, you lean over to the chess board and swipe up one of his pawns at random. With a gasp, and a smile twitching at your lips, you exclaim, "Oh look! I won!"

"B," he laughs, but your expression remains entirely serious despite the light nature of it all.

"Lemme fuck your ass," You grin now, pleading ever so softly. "A deal is a deal."

"You didn't win."

"Says who?"

"Anyone who has ever played chess?"

"I've played, and I think I won. C'mon," you grin, positioning yourself on his lap. The chess piece is still in your hands as you lean down to nudge your nose up against his. "Face down, ass up for me, baby."

"You're in my way," he says.

"You could throw me across the room if you wanted to. I'm not stopping you."

"And I'm not throwing you across the room."

"Please," you pathetically beg.

"You really it want it, don't you?" He grins against your lips. "Huh?"

"Just wanna make you feel good."

"You always make me feel good," Jeongguk whispers, quietly deflecting the real reason why he hasn't let you do it yet.

Truth be told, Jeongguk is a little scared.

While yes, he's always been curious about pegging, he's never taken it that far before. Has never had the tools, shall we say, to explore by himself, and none of his exes or flings ever seemed too interested in it.

He wants it. Wants it with you. Just doesn't know how he'll react. Doesn't know what his body will do. Worries that things will take a turn for the worse and that you'll be so repulsed by him that you'll never want to have sex with him again, or that maybe he'll like it too much and that it'll be all he ever wants and it'd ruin just how good things are at the moment.

His thoughts distract him as your lips press feathery kisses against the thick column of his neck. Something about you, and how delicate you can be, just makes him melt into your touch. His hands come to clutch your hair, a pretty little smile forming on his lips.

"You don't have to do this," he quietly says, nails lightly scratching at your scalp. Your lips graze against his skin, before he gently pulls you back by the root of your hair. The sensation makes you want him even more than you already do. There's a love-drunk look of lust to your darling eyes, all glittery like they so often are as you look at him.

Reaching to cup his jaw, you marvel at how a man who looks like him can be as tender as he is. The world would give him permission to break hearts, if he wanted it, but he doesn't. All he seems to want is to adore, and be adored in return—and how lucky you are to be on the receiving end of it.

A slight guilt settles in your stomach. You know he'd give you the world if you asked for it, but he isn't giving you this.

"I'm only teasing," you tell him, which isn't strictly true. You do wanna do it, but your incessant begging is what you're joking about. It's not like you'll die if you can't fuck his ass (maybe). "I'll respectfully stay out of your ass unless requested otherwise."

He shakes his head. Laughs. Kisses you, 'cause he just can't help himself, then pulls you down into the sheets with him. "I give it a day until you're asking again."

Secretly, he wants you to ask again. It doesn't feel like pressure. Feels like validation; as if you want this even more than he does.

The thing is, you can't say no to a challenge. "Wanna bet?"

No.

But he can't resist either. "You're on."

Yoongi stands with his shoulders pressed to glass front door, keys looped on his fingers. The streets in this area are always quiet until the evening, minor hustle and bustle from delivery drivers dropping off stock to businesses down the alley disturbing the peace.

A small hotteok stall sits lopsided, supported by the building's exterior wall, red tarpaulin covering it from the weather and any inquisitive eyes. An elderly man runs it during the weekends, but for the rest of the week, it sits derelict. It's an eyesore, to say the least. Not the kind of thing that screams 'hot new restaurant' to anyone walking by.

It's as Yoongi's contemplating how to solve this problem, figuring the stallhand probably had an agreement with the previous owners, when Jeongguk comes into his line of vision. He tweaks a brow in Jeongguk's direction, almost as if to ask: what time do you call this?

Jeongguk's right on time. It's not a minute past twelve, which is exactly the time Yoongi told him to arrive.

Sale finalised, paperwork complete, Yoongi got given the keys this morning. It's a done deal. The building is his, and in turn, the restaurant is Jeongguk’s.

Despite his nonchalance, when Yoongi sees Jeongguk grin, he can't help but smile too.

"Shut up," Yoongi tells him. "We're serious businessmen. Don't get giggly with me."

"I'm not!" Jeongguk laughs, hands up in defence, until Yoongi puts his own hand out for Jeongguk to shake. Naturally, Jeongguk uses Yoongi's hand to pull him in for a hug instead. Patting his back, Jeongguk is almost fighting the urge to cry. He's waited so long for this. Worked so hard. Doesn't think any of it would be possible without Yoongi, but Yoongi would disagree.

"You better make the best fuckin' samgyeopsal this city has ever seen," Yoongi threatens with all the love in the world, breaking from the hug. Passing over the keys, he nods towards the doors. "Do us the honours."

Yoongi is fatherly in the way he never takes the glory for himself. Will be the kind of dad to build a lego castle and let his kid put the flag in place at the end of his labour.

Jeongguk doesn't mention it, but he's noticed the way Seoyeon has been the designated driver for the past few weeks; how she didn't drink at auction, and how Yoongi's been even more attentive than he usually is.

Could be nothing at all. Could just be a change in the weather.

But it could mean everything, and Jeongguk knows better than to intrude before being welcomed in on the news.

Pushing the key into the lock, Jeongguk is quietly enamoured with the fact the premises has a lock and key instead of the typical keypad locks that are usually in place. The metal grates against itself as he twists the lock open, and pushes the door open.

There's a separate side entrance for access to the upper floors.

The floors Jeongguk intends to be the restaurant already have a connecting staircase towards the back of the room, which will make it infinitely easier for staying out of Yoongi's hair whenever he's in the workshop.

In the light of day, the furniture from the previous owners now removed, it's so much easier for Jeongguk to envisage how everything will look; where the signage will hang, where the bar will go, and, most importantly, where the disco balls will hang.

"It's really happening," he exhales, as if he hadn't realised it at any earlier stage in the process.

Yoongi doesn't berate him. Instead, he takes a deep breath, too. Nods. "It's really happening."

Though he smiles, Jeongguk wishes he had a hand to hold as tightly as his lips press together. Wishes you were here. Knows you're busy with work, making up hours to account for the fact you'll have some time off at the end of the week for your interview at the Ryu.

Why you need an interview is beyond him. He thinks they're being ridiculous. Thinks that even entertaining the idea of hiring someone else is an insult. Got so wound up about it, ranting to Jimin while he was making dinner, that he burned his sauce a couple of nights ago. Is now on a talking while cooking ban. Jimin says Jeongguk can't be trusted to multitask. Jeongguk says Jimin is a little prick.

The day is lost to making plans; sketches drawn up on Jeongguk's ipad, discussions with Yoongi about how to go about getting liscences for the premises, and back and forth over what should be done with the top two floors.

The idea of Taehyung using the fourth floor as a studio is considered, but both of them know how much he adores his current place.

"Think he'd live there, if he could," Yoongi muses picking up a slice of napjak mandu with his chopsticks, dipping it into the tteokbokki sauce. They'd ordered from the place near his current workshop, and it makes him lament the idea of leaving it behind.

Perhaps he can keep them both. Use the smaller space as his own little sanctuary, and the third floor here as his public-facing premises. Might be a bit of a waste, but if he can afford the rent, then why not?

"Tell you what," Yoongi hums as he swallows down his food. "If you don't add something like this to the menu, I'm kicking you out."

"I'll put it on the secret menu," Jeongguk offers, knowing that it definitely won't be what he offers to punters. He makes a mean tteokbokki, but it doesn't fit the vision of what he wants for this place. "Well, what about Jimin? He could start up his own interior place, if he wants. He's got the money for it, and I know the office he's in at the moment has been stifling him. Lost out on, like, three big commissions in the last quarter because the boss went with some other prick's ideas. Jimin's wasted there."

Yoongi hums in agreement as he swallows down his food. "We could always get him to help out with the design of this place. I reckon he knows all the tricks for good energy."

Nodding, Jeongguk laughs. Picks up another rice cake and chows down on it as he adds, "Should have seen him when we moved into our current place. Man had a compass out to align a sofa with the right energy."

"Sounds about right," Yoongi grins, resting his chopsticks back down against the edge of the bowl. "Well, what about your missus, then? Would she want gallery space? Somewhere for curation?"

Jeongguk chokes on his rice cake, and it's not because of the spice.

"She's not my missus—" he corrects, but then decides he doesn't want to "—at least, not yet. And she's got a big interview with The Ryu this week. I'm not sure opening her own gallery is on her agenda, but I can put the feelers out—and like… I don't know. Wouldn't it be a bit much? We spend so much time together, already. She'd get sick of me if I was working two floors below."

"Would you get sick of her?"

"Don't be stupid. No."

"Exactly," Yoongi says as if it's obvious—which, in all fairness, he thinks it is. "The pair of you are in a perpetual honeymoon phase."

Jeongguk shakes his head, as if he isn't beaming. "Shut up. Just got a good thing going—and hey, you're hardly one to talk. How's Seoyeon?"

"Good, yeah," Yoongi nods, but doesn't divulge any further. As much as Jeongguk is dying to ask, he holds back. "She wants you all round for dinner soon, so expect an invite in the group chat."

"For any reason?" Jeongguk baits Yoongi, cause he just can't help himself.

Unlucky for him, Yoongi is as stoic as can be. "You know Seo. She loves any excuse for a dinner party. Has started making her own pasta and I think she wants tasters."

"B makes a mean pasta," Jeongguk says, because his thoughts so often wind back to you, and he just can't help himself. "I'm sure she'll be buzzing to try Seoyeons."

A sense of pride washes over Yoongi's features. "Gah, when did you grow up, Jeongguk? Practically married, aren't you?"

Dismissive in how he shakes his head, Jeongguk can't help but let a bashful smile grow on his face. The soft lights overhead glimmer down him, putting those stars Jeongguk adores so much right back in his eyes. He'll never get rid of you. Will eternally carry the evidence of how utterly smitten he is.

Should you ever leave him, Jeongguk thinks he'd simply die of a broken heart. Wouldn't know how to walk if it weren't in the direction of you. Would stumble and fall until he inevitably wound up back at your door like a wounded puppy.

So perahps Yoongi is right. Maybe it would make sense to offer you the space—but you've got your own agenda. Your own dreams. Jeongguk can't just entrap you in his.

The thing is, once your shift is up, and you're heading to the restaurant premises to see Jeongguk, you can't help but feel like this is a dream come true for you.

His ambition and drive have rubbed off on you; encouraged you up a career path you once thought was overgrown with thorns and rubble. Has shown you that all you need is a little bit of elbow grease and a pair of secateurs to go after what you want.

It's dark by the time you arrive. Lights from the other establishments flood the streets, but the blinds are closed on the restaurant for a little privacy. A handwritten 'under new management' sign is taped to the front door in Jeongguk's signature penstroke. A little smiley face accents it; a show of how he feels, you presume.

Pulling your phone from your back pocket, you dial through to him, 'cause you've no idea how to get in, nor if he's even actually there. The building is just on the way home from the art cafe, and you'd left Jeongguk's place that morning to a very smiley boyfriend instead of his usual 'don't go' pout, so you figure he's spent all day busy with exciting plans.

"Sorry, not interested," Jeongguk's voice purrs through the speaker, as if you're some kind of cold-calling saleswoman with nothing half-decent to offer him.

"What if I told you I'm outside the restaurant and that I'm naked under my clothes?"

"Aren't we all naked under our clothes?"

"Just open the door," you grin down the phone as he comes into view through the glass doors.

He's got the kind of look on his face that you'd expect: pouty lips with heavy-lidded eyes. Softening ever so slightly when he notices the bunch of wildflowers poking out from the tote bag you've got hooked over your shoulder, his eyes are incapable of ever hiding his true feelings.

Mild confusion ( did someone get you flowers?) dismissed with easy understanding—they're from the stall he always buys you flowers from, so he knows you got them yourself.

It's very conflicting to adore you and to also want to fuck you into next Tuesday, but it garners you a gaze nobody else is ever lucky enough to receive from him. You cherish it. Think about it near-constantly whenever he's not by your side.

"You're a terrible saleswoman," he scolds so softly it feels like praise.

"And yet here you are, answering the door for me," you shrug with a knowing smile, sure that'd he take whatever you sold him. Would buy sand, water, air from you. Would let you swindle him.

"And yet here I am."

Hanging up, you mouth 'open it' through the door, and he does as he's told—kind of.

Blocking the now half-open door, he childishly asks, "What's the password?"

"I love you?"

"Ew. Gross. Get a room. No."

"Fuck you.”

"Not the password either, but I'm more than willing."

"Ew. Gross," you imitate him, gagging a little for an extra immaturity. "Hmm… Byeol is the best?"

"Ddaeng."

"Jimin sucks?"

"Ddaeng… but I approve. Good guess."

"Gimme a hint."

"It's the name of the restaurant."

The confidence that comes with the restaurant being his now is nothing short of a miracle. He's so certain of everything these days, in a way he never was before—but why shouldn't he? He got the girl. Got the dream. There's nothing he can't do. Statistically, he's two for two. A winner by all counts. A gold medalist in his very own Olympics.

"You've never told me what you want to name it!" You protest with a whine, thinking he's being entirely unfair.

It's not like you haven't asked a million times over. He's just been keeping it underwraps. Was scared that speaking it into existence would jinx it. Would refuse with a coy grin, and assurance that he'd reveal it soon enough.

Truth be told, Jeongguk's gone back and forth over names. It's probably changed ten times since he's known you, but then you said something at the fundraising auction, and everything sort of clicked into place.

A name was coined and it wouldn't stop embossing itself into Jeongguk's dreams; the branding, the signage, everything. A new vision of what he wanted spawned like lava onto a mountainside. You sparked a volcano he didn't even realise existed, and it's solidified into molten rock.

"I'll cut you a deal," you offer, knowing that you'll never get it and he'll never ease. Shrugging your shoulder to gesture towards the bag, you begin your enticement. "I've got cold beer and hot burgers from that place you like down the road. They're all yours in you let me in—if not, I'm going home and Danbi will—"

"Say no more," Jeongguk pushes the door open and grabs your hand, pulling you into the vacant restaurant with him. The door clicks close behind you, and Jeongguk spins you around so that you're stood infront of him, facing the large room. Arms wrapping around your waist, Jeongguk rests his chin on your shoulder, gently pressing a kiss to your neck. "Welcome in."

It's a lot to take in all at once. The room stands empty, save for the camping chairs and table Yoongi and Jeongguk had coversed around earlier, Jeongguk's ipad resting on the table with a low battery warning on the dimly lit screen. There's paperwork scattered on the surface—old utilities letters that they were using to sort out the new bills—and a bag of trash tied up on the floor from their lunch.

"I don't smell burgers," Jeongguk mumbles against your neck.

"I was lying."

"You've no shame."

Turning your head, you let him raise his nose to yours, a feathery kiss greeting your lips.

Whenever your doe-eyed boy greets you like this, you always feel a bit like snow white; as if a dozen tiny creatures will flock to you and bestow their love upon you.

It'd be fruitless, mind you, for none of them could even come close to how deeply Jeongguk adores you. He'd sit in the corner, jealous and bratty as they fawned over you. Would hate not being the object of your affection. Would strop until your focus was back on him.

"I'll order some," you promise, but Jeongguk shakes his head.

"Won't be here much longer. We can pick some up on the way home."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, baby," he tenderly whispers, punctuating himself with a slightly firmer kiss, before pulling away from you. Walking into the middle of the room, he holds out his arms. Grins. "Welcome."

"It's a pleasure," you grin, freely stepping into the space now, looking around with awestruck eyes knowing that this is his . "Holy shit, Gguk."

"Yeah," he agrees with your sentiment. "Mad, innit?"

"Just a little."

When you think back to the Jeongguk you first met—the one who spent hours upon hours studying for his exams, all the while working at the bar of an admittedly shitty club—you can't help but feel overwhelmed with pride. He worked himself to the bone for his dreams.

The space is large enough for Jeongguk to go wild with it. There's no end to his possibilities. He's got an arsenal of weapons in his back pocket in the form of his friends—Yoongi can fit the place out, Jimin can help with the design work, Taehyung can make a central art piece, and Namjoon can get it featured in the paper. Of course, he won't take advantage of his access to them, but knowing how willing his friends always are to help out, it's kind of like a no-brainer. He's got all the tools needed for success.

"And right here," he points up, standing in the middle of a square marked out with tape on the floor. It's large and in the centre of the room—the intended space for a central bar and banchan preparation spot, flipping the conventions of traditional barbecue places on their heads. Wants the food to quite literally be at the heart of the restaurant. "Is where the disco balls will be."

For a second, you think you miss-hear him, but the way his smiles grows when confronted with your confusion only proves you heard perfectly fine.

Sitting on one of the camping chairs Yoongi and Jeongguk had set up earlier, you've been watching him talk you through his vision for the place. It sounds incredible—just like him, but in restaurant version.

"Is that not a health and safety hazard?" You giggle, desperate to get up and stand with him, but feeling the need to maintain distance. He's having his moment. He doesn't need a shared stage—and yet here he is, announcing that the very embodiment of you will be centre stage for the foreseeable.

Jeongguk shrugs. "Haven't thought that far ahead. There's gonna be disco balls here whether they like it or not, though."

Realistically, if the health and safety inspectors tell him no disco balls, there'll be no disco balls—but he won't be happy about it. Will be pouty. You both know he's just being facetious, and that he'll comply with whatever is asked of him.

"It's my restaurant, baby," he reminds you, holding out his hands, cause he wants you closer. Naturally, you do ass requested, and join him in his square. His arm slips around your waist, a kiss firmly being pressed to your forehead before your chin leans on his chest. Looking up at him, it's a wonder that you're able to have conversations that last more than a single back and forth. A miracle, even. "I can do what I want."

There's something so incredibly sexy about this cocksure arrogance. He's not the same guy you met back in the confines of Dionysus, and while you adored him back then, you adore him even more now.

"You're sexy when you talk business," you hum, as his hand dip a little further south to squeeze your ass. "Home?"

He nods, a pretty smile hanging off his lips. "Mine or yours?"

"Yours is closer," you tell him, pulling away, linking your fingers with his as you do so, dragging him with you. Hooking your bag up over your shoulder, you're reminded of the flowers. "Oh—these are for you, by the way."

Passing them over, you're not surprised by his confusion.

"For me?"

The bunch of wildflowers looked pretty big in your hands, but remarkably small in his. You have to make a considered effort to not groan.

"Mhmm," you nod with a sweet smile. "A congratulations."

Jeongguk's head pushes back a little into his neck, shoulders broadening as his smile forms. He quickly tilts his head to the side and then back again in the way he often does whenever his brain is processing something new.

"Never had flowers before."

"Nice, isn't it?" You grin, knowing that nothing beats fresh flowers when it comes to small pockets of expressed admiration.

With a bashful nod, Jeongguk feels like he should feel emasculated, but can't quite work out the way he actually does feel. All he knows is that he likes it. And that he wants to get home. And that he wants you in his bed. Naked, preferably.

His thoughts dart back and forth to the last time you were in his room. Gets him hot. Blushing.

Thankfully, you don't seem to notice—or if you do, you don't mention it. Why would you? It's cute.

"What time is your interview tomorrow?" Jeongguk asks as he makes sure the door is locked behind you both.

"One in the afternoon," you reply with a certain nonchalance, as if you're unphased, which Jeongguk knows is absolute bullshit. "Hobes said he'll work my shift if I buy him a month's supply of Sprite, so I've got, like, 48 cans arriving tomorrow."

He would have done it for free, but he's a tough bargainer and you're just an easy sell when it comes to making the people you care about happy.

"His blood will turn into sprite," Jeongguk laughs, linking his hand with yours once more as you head down the road to the nearest subway entrance. "How are you feeling about it? We can practise interview questions later, if you like."

Shaking your head, you smile. "It'll just make me nervous, and at the moment, I'm pretty calm about things. Thank you, though."

"Well, if you change your mind," Jeongguk reinforces the offer, before you redirect the conversation and get him babbling about the restaurant—projected timelines, contractors, suppliers. There's so much to do, and yet it doesn't feel overwhelming in the slightest. Not yet, at least.

With a pit stop at the burger place as promised, the journey home is effortless. Intrinsic by this point.

Shoes off by the door, Jimin is out for a company dinner, so it's just the pair of you.

"Has he spoken with you about Nabi, yet?" You ask as you grab some condiments from the kitchen, while Jeongguk fills a vase with water.

"God, no," Jeongguk laughs. "He used to tease me all the time about you, but now he can't even look me in the eyes 'cause he's worried I'll ask about it. Idiot."

"He used to tease you? About me?" You hum, a little smug at this little snippet of information.

"You know what he's like," Jeongguk reminds you, 'cause it's not like you've ever been spared from Jimin's teasing. "Doesn't know how to not be irritating. Character flaw. Think he was born that way."

Despite his annoying tendencies, Jimin is adored by pretty much everyone he meets. Jeongguk doesn't say such things to be mean, but rather because he views him like a sibling.

"If anyone knows how to handle him, it's Nabi," you muse, thinking back to Pohang. "He'd have driven me insane organising the Jilympics."

"Don't call it that," Jeongguk smiles at how ridiculous his best friend is. Delicately arranging the flowers, Jeongguk's sense of perfectionism comes out once more. "He's a little narcissist. He'll sense his ego being inflated from miles away, and then his head won't be able to fit through doors." Tweaking a yellow flower to move it more centrally, Jeongguk shakes his head. "And to think the first time you were in this apartment—"

"Shut up," you groan, not wanting to be reminded of it. "Everybody makes mistakes."

"Alright, Hannah Montana," Jeongguk teases you. "It's just kinda wild, isn't it? How everything has just worked itself out?"

"Don't," you say with a glint in your eye. "You'll jinx it."

Perhaps it's foolish—naive, even—but he doesn't think it's possible. Thinks that this is all set in stone. That your names have been etched on a cliffside somewhere, and that's where you'll remain forever more.

He forgets that cliffs erode. That the weather is unpredictable, and life even more so.

He's always been cautious. Reluctant of counting eggs.

But he’s hungry. Ravenous. The first at the dinner table, and the last to leave. Bites off more than he can chew. Chokes and splutters in the wake of it all, every single damn time.

It’s a flaw he’ll admit to having, but why can’t vices be virtues? Why can’t he be optimistic? Why shouldn’t he hope for the best? He spent so long living in a perpetual state of fear, and it never did him any good. Wasn’t until he started opening himself to the idea of things working out okay that they actually started heading in that direction.

“I’ll do no such thing,” he assures you, reaching for a pan to start with his second course. Again, he’s hungry in all aspects of the word. Hasn’t even had his burgers yet, but he’s a growing boy, or so he’d have you believe. Better to just get it cooked first, and save him the hassle of getting up again later. “You want some?”

He nods towards the empty saucepan, but doesn’t need to explain what he’s making. You know it’ll be instant bibimyeon.

“A little,” you nod, knowing that this relationship is gonna be terrible for your waistline. Opening up his fridge, you pull a can of soda from the fridge. Jeongguk doesn’t really ever buy soda, unlike you and your minor peach soda addiction, but take-out places always chuck a complimentary can of something in with your orders, so he’s got quite a stockpile now.

“You want a beer or something instead?” He asks, as he begins to prepare the instant noodles in the most embellished way he possibly can. Spices, sauces, you name it, he’s always adding something—and it’s always delicious.

Cracking the can open, you set it down and swipe the camera of your phone up to snap a picture of him; to document him in his element. “Nah, it’s okay. Want a clear head for tomorrow.”

Jeongguk smiles, hearing the synthetic shutter of your phone clicking. “Obsessed.”

“So?” You grin, immediately swiping across to open up Instagram and preserve the moment on your story. “You love it.”

Though he doesn’t reply, he does look in your direction with a smile that would only confirm your words.

Together, you fall into a casual rhythm, you perched up on a barstool while he cooks. Conversation darts from A to B, Y to Z. There’s no topic of conversation too obscure nor taboo for you to realm into the depths of, but there’s also something comforting about how you can just natter about the weather, how he should get his hair cut, what’s on at the cinema.

By the time he’s eaten and cleaned up the kitchen, you’re already in the shower. It’ll be an early night. You’ve both been working today, and both have important things to get done the next day.

There’s no objection from you as he taps on the door and asks to come in. You hadn’t locked it deliberately. Jimin’s out, and even if he’d have come home, he’d have heard the shower going—or Jeongguk would have told him. There’s no real worry there.

“Been looking forward to this all day,” Jeongguk admits as he grabs his shirt by the nape of his neck, pulling it over his head in that boyish way he so often does. Neither of you really care about being naked—it’s a daily occurrence at this point—but seeing him get undressed makes your heart feel all jelly-like and void of structure. The chambers melt, and so do you.

It’s not just attraction, but affection. Acknowledgement that he doesn’t mind being vulnerable with you. That the things humans do to renew themselves — eat, shower, sleep — are things he wants to do with you. He doesn’t want to be full if you’re hungry, sleep while you’re starved of rest, nor wash away the traces of you. Renewal without you just doesn’t make sense to him.

“Me too,” you quietly say as he joins you. The water pitter-patters down on you both, his hair wetting before laying flat against his forehead. When his deft hands push it away, it always falls back.

Instinctively, your arms wrap around his waist, his around your shoulders, the embrace akin to coming home.

“We should both just quit our jobs and do this forever,” Jeongguk muses, almost sleepy in how he mumbles his words against the top of your head.

“Someone’s gotta pay the water bill,” you smile against his bare chest.

“That’s why I live with Jimin,” Jeongguk replies, tone cheeky and warm.

The smile on your face sweetly settles into something a little more neutral as you outwardly consider your own living situation. “Lease is up soon, yanno. Mine and Dans.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, wet hair tangling over itself against his skin. He holds you just as tightly. “Haven’t started looking for new places, yet.”

“I’ve still got a few months left on mine,” Jeongguk says, pulling back to reposition the shower head. Just wants to hear you a little more clearly. “My bed is basically yours anyways.”

It doesn’t take a genius to work out what he’s insinuating—but it also doesn’t take a genius to know that it wouldn’t be the right thing for you both, yet.

Your eyes are soft as you shake your head. “I’ve a whole apartment's worth of stuff, Gguk. I can’t just move into your room. Need my own space.”

He frowns, reaching for the shampoo. “You can. And I’ll even move my statues.”

“You mean your action figures?”

“Oh my god,” he groans, and then you’re giggling, and any negative thoughts Jeongguk could have about you saying ‘no’ dissolve into nothingness, like water running down the drain. He passes you over the shampoo once he’s gotten himself some, and adds, “People pay good money for a collection like mine.”

“You mean you spent a fuck ton of money on them?”

“We’ve all got our weaknesses,” he protests. “You’ve got so many clothes. I don’t think I’ve ever been into your room when there hasn’t been an avalanche of clothes on the chair, wardrobe and dressers bursting at seams—”

“Exactly,” You laugh. “Now imagine all of that in your room.”

He takes a second. Visualises it as he lathers up the foamy shampoo in his hair and almost hisses. “Yeah. You’re right. I take it back. Get your own place.”

Rolling your eyes, you flick a little water in his direction, as if it makes a difference.

He grins, teeth on show, lip ring doing the thing that just makes you melt.

“See,” you grin right back. “I’m always right.”

The rest of your shower is littered with dumb conversations and stolen kisses between shampoo rinses. In fact, it’s how the rest of the evening continues. Some dumb action film plays on the tv, and then Jeongguk finds a dumb youtube quiz, and you giggle into the early hours over some other dumb shit. Dumb, dumb, dumb and oh so totally in love.

The apartment issue lingers in the back of Jeongguk’s mind, though, and questions dance on the tip of his tongue. He tries to brush them away, but the mint of his toothpaste isn’t enough to erase them. They taste sour, and he knows the only way to rid the sensation is to speak them into existence.

Gone midnight, the city is still alive. His curtains are open, because you’ve started to get used to the way he likes to sleep, and find it far easier to wake up early when the sun is giving you a warm welcome to the day. Funny, how things change. How willing he was to change his habits for you, and how seamlessly yours have changed to fit him. You’re better for knowing one another, or so it feels.

The light pollution gives his bedroom a soft glow, and with every change of advertisement on the billboards across the street, the hue changes. Like his own personal mood lamp, it’s become a staple of his home. It’s blue, now, and so is he when he considers the fact that you haven’t yet reached the stage of sharing a home.

Your arm is looped over his waist, ‘cause he’d decided that the role of the little spoon would be going to him. Fingers interlocked with yours, he has no interest in ever letting go.

“B?”

“Mhmm?”

“Is Dan definitely moving in with Tae?”

“Think so.”

Jeongguk doesn’t immediately reply, but you leave space open for him. A question like that didn’t come out of the blue. It’s something he’s been ruminating on, no doubt.

When he finally does speak, the weight of his soft, if not somewhat pouty, words crush down on your chest in a way that you can’t quite explain. Hell, in a way you don’t want to explain, because it would mean admitting that a man has such power over you (even if said man is Jeon Jeongguk).

“They’ve always been one step ahead of us,” he laments.

And then he leaves silence for you. Knows that you always have a response of some kind that will settle his woes. Feels guilty that you’re always cleaning up the messes of his loose lips, but would be a liar if he said he didn’t crave the sweet nothings you soothe him with.

“They’re on an entirely different path, baby,” you gently press a kiss into his shoulder. He’s so warm and powder-fresh from his shower that you can’t help but want to cling to him like a koala bear. Most importantly, though, you don’t want him to move away. Space to talk is fine, but physical space? God, no. “There's no use comparing.”

But Jeongguk is a glutton for punishment. Will continue making himself feel small for the sake of his perceived flaws.

“Loved you before Taehyung even knew who Danbi was,” Jeongguk pouts, ‘cause he’s in his head again, going round in circles when he really needn’t be. You know he does this, though. It doesn’t surprise nor concern you. If anything, it reassures you, because his willingness to share these thoughts just signposts how far you’ve both come. He used to stew and sour over things like this. Now, he shares his burdens “But they’re doing all these big milestones first. They were a couple, went on vacation, and now moving in together. All before us.”

“It’s not a competition,” you sweetly laugh. “Their relationship couldn’t be more different to ours. Plus I hardly consider a weekend in Jeju a big vacation—we can literally do that this weekend, if you want.”

You’re not sure why you’ve never been away together. Busan is always lovely, but it’s a short drive, and is somewhere Jeongguk still considers to be home. It’s not a holiday. Perhaps you should rectify that. It's better spoken about during the daylight hours, but always a little nicer to dream at night. Make silly, fantastical plans that you could always turn into reality, if you really wanted.

“Gguk,” you softly continue. “As much as I love them both, we’re literally so different from them. Our relationship was never gonna be like theirs.”

“You think?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, lips brushing against the bare skin of his shoulder. “Well, I mean, he lets her peg him for starters—”

Jeongguk turns so quickly it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall out of bed. Even in the darkness of his room at night, the open curtains mean his shock is easy to make out. “Does he actually?!”

Giggling, you roll onto your back, thoroughly enjoying his reaction. Truth is, you’ve no idea. Just said it to be a dick.

“Probably,” you say, admitting that you don’t know. You just knew it would cause a reaction. Ease the tension, somewhat. “He’s like, obsessed with her. Would let her do anything she wants.”

Sinking back down into the sheets with you, Jeongguk wraps his arm over your body now. Pulls you close. Presses a kiss to your neck, and says, “You lost the bet, y’know? Can’t even go 24 hours without thinking about fucking my ass, can you?”

It sounds like a complaint, but the way his lips seem unable to stop pressing wet kisses against your throat would prove otherwise. Your hand tangles in his hair, scratching his scalp in approval.

“Cute that you think I haven’t been thinking about it all day,” you tease, biting back the small murmur of a moan that’s just begging to escape from his touch.

You often have thoughts about him throughout the day, both pure and impure. It’s not like you mean to—it’s just that there’s something about Jeongguk that is impossible to forget. Like a class-A drug, you linger from high to high, using thoughts about him to sustain your comedown until you can see him again.

He is your boyfriend, though. Would be weirder if you weren’t a little obsessed.

“Liar,” he scolds. “I picked your clothes up after our shower. Your underwear were dry.”

“You were inspecting my underwear? Freak,” you tease, because quite honestly the idea of him studying your underwear in the hopes of finding arousal is kinda hot, even if a little perverted. “And maybe it’s because you don’t get me excited.”

Rolling his eyes, Jeongguk ignores your insult. Instead, his hand creeps down the mound of your pussy, pausing before he sinks his fingers between your thighs. “So you’ll be dry right now, then?”

“I’ll be just like the Gobi,” you assure him with that tone of defiance he's grown to adore. “Try me.”

You don’t know why you’re offering yourself up like this, ‘cause you know it’s only gonna end up one way.

“You’re such a fuckin’ liar,” he smirks—and then is proven correct as his fingers slide between your slick folds with ease. A gasp escapes from your lips as he casually brushes past your clit, paying it no attention whatsoever. “And even if you weren’t, there’s like, five bigger deserts than the Gobi. Sounds like it’s a pretty easy drought to rectify—but fuckin’ hell, B. My pretty girl and her filthy mouth. Full of lies, isn’t it? You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

“No,” you purr, hips languidly rolling to intensify the sensation he’s facilitating. After all, he’s right. There’s nothing dry about the situation between your legs. “Never told a lie in my life.”

His teeth nip at your neck as his body presses up against your side, the thick ridge of his cock letting you know that you most certainly get him excited.

“You’re so full of shit, B,” he quietly says, lips from a pretty little kiss against the edge of your jaw. “Told so many lies, haven’t you, hm? Like when you used to tell people we were just friends?”

The desperate sigh that escapes your mouth only fuels him on even more.

“You remember the first time I touched you like this, huh?” He husks against your ear. “Those pretty eyes of yours watching us in the mirror. You can see us now, can’t you?”

Nudging his head against yours, he encourages you to look in the direction of his mirror. You always sleep on the side of the bed closest to it, but you rarely pay it any attention these days. The pair of you are obscured—bed sheets and shadows hiding what he’s doing to you—but the eroticism is just as potent as it always was.

“Gguk,” you rasp, back arching when he strokes against your clit just right.

Restraint is something that you wish you had been gifted with, but alas—you are just a girl, and he is just the sexiest man you’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing a bed with. Of course you melt with every little thing he does.

“What is it, baby?” His index finger pushes into the seeping entrance of your cunt, just once, twice, to really get you moaning. “You like it when your boyfriend touches you?”

Something about Jeongguk referring to himself like that always gets you hot, but it’s partially because of the way he almost growls when he does it. You know it’s a turn-on for him. Know that his cock is throbbing. Know he loves calling himself yours.

Tugging on his arm, you encourage him to move on top of you. It’s late, and you should both be getting a good night's rest, but whatever. In half an hour, you’ll both be away with the fairies. If anything, this will help you fall asleep quicker.

“Thought you wanted an early night?” he husks against your lips, finishing his question with a kiss that lasts far longer than any words spoken. His firm lips part yours as your legs wrap around his hips as they grind up against yours.

“And I thought you said whoever speaks about fucking your ass next loses?” You smile against his lips, knowing that he definitely must have a twisted idea of what punishment is. “How is this losing?”

“We never set out terms,” he reminds you, unable to stop himself from kissing you between sentences. “But maybe it's not about losing. Maybe it’s about winning.”

“Okay?” You entertain his flirt, giggling between those kisses he just can’t seem to stop giving you. “So what are you winning?”

He pretends to give it thoughtful consideration. Squints his eyes and looks away as if contemplating one of life's great questions. Why are we here? What is the point of life? How do I want my girlfriend to make me cum tonight?

Jeongguk presses a kiss to your neck, nose nudging against your skin. He’s feline-like. Purry. Pathetic. Just how you like him.

“You haven’t sucked me off in a while,” he whispers, teeth nipping at your earlobe. Your hand laces in his hair, a soft moan humming from your lips. There’s a softness to the slow movements of your bodies. A comfort. A desperation. Unadulterated devotion. “So maybe that?”

You laugh at his shamelessness. Press a kiss to his temple, still scratching at his scalp. “I gave you a blowjob, like, two days ago, baby.”

“I know,” he whines like a wounded puppy, all docile and dejected. “It’s been so long I might die.”

“Hmm?” You hum in response, pushing on his waist ever so slightly until he gets the message to roll onto his back. He does as he's told, because he really is just a puppy dog beneath it all. Well-trained and desperate for a treat.

Following the movements of his body, you naturally ease into position on top of him. Legs straddled either side of his waist, you raise yourself up into a seated position, earning you a grunt of approval from Jeongguk.

The way his hands immediately reach up to play with your chest is curious, considering he still plays himself off as an ass guy. Strong with his movements, he grips the softness of your tits, his hips gently pulsing up against you.

“These might help prolong my life expectancy,” he says. “Best stress balls known to man.”

He seems quite content like this. Eyes closed, a smile hangs off his lips like he’s in a serene state of bliss. You cock your brow, unable to fight a smile, too.

“Did you just call my tits… balls?”

One of his eyes cracks open. “No?”

“You definitely did.”

“Didn’t.”

“Did—”

“Byeol,” he reprimands your diversion of the topic. “C’mon. Business, baby.”

“Is that all I am to you, huh?” You say, reaching for his wrist so that you can pull your hairband from it. He lets you do so and looks on with salacious curiosity as you begin to tie your hair up in a ponytail. “Just a transaction?”

“Mhmm,” he nods, his own hair tangling against his pillow as he does so. “A bird for a bird, remember?”

“Are we not past the point of the birds?”

“Well, yeah,” he says as if it’s totally obvious. “Thought we were gonna do a plane?”

Jeongguk’s reference back to the paper planes that he crafted in your bedroom makes your heart seize. You know what he means by that. Knows that it’s permission, in a way. That he wants what you want, even if he doesn’t outwardly say it.

“Are we?”

“Well we’re not gonna do anything if you keep up with the small talk,” he fondly teases you, pulling you back down so your chest is against his. One of his hands wraps itself in your ponytail and tugs ever so gently. A soft moan escapes your lips, much to his enjoyment. “I like your hair like this.”

In all honesty, he just likes being able to pull on it. Loves your hair no matter how it’s done.

“You’ll like it even more in a few minutes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw before you embark on your journey south.

It’s intrinsic, how you work his body. A routine so well learned it’s not even given a second thought anymore. You know how to make him tick. The way he groans when you press pretty kisses down his collarbones and the way his hips roll when you drag the pink of your tongue over his pebbled nipples.

His hand clutches in your hair, keeping you in that position, encouraging you to pay a little extra attention to his nipples for a change. It’s not often that he wants too much focus on his chest, but he’s so turned on that even the slightest touch is making him go feral.

“Shit,” he hisses when your teeth gently press down around his nipple before you suck it ever so gently. “You’re so fuckin’ good at that.”

He’s never cared for it before. In all honestly, he actively didn’t like it when previous partners did it. There’s something about you that subverts all his desires. You’ve changed him. Altered his understanding of his body. Opened him up to so much more than he’d ever considered before.

Still, you’ve got an agenda, and unfortunately for him, it doesn’t involve his chest. He lets you move down, one hand lazily hanging by your head, the other resting over his chest. His thumb strokes over his pebbled nipple, still wet from your tongue, the pleasure of your touch sending him into a state of ecstasy.

Your body shuffles down, and you both reposition yourselves. No longer are you straddling, but rather you’re between his legs. His thighs are dappled in kisses from you, before your palms rest flat to his inner thighs, spreading him just right.

Alternating between slow kisses and languid drags of your tongue, you teeter ever so close to his thick, solid cock, but never quite touch it. Every time you get close, he whines, cock twitching.

There’s a satisfaction to be found in the way his body responds to your touch. His desperation is painful. Visceral. All he wants is you.

And because you can’t bear to see him in pain (whether or not because he’s so turned on he might just die), you concede. Give him what he wants.

Hands on his thighs, you let a little spit pool on your tongue before slowly dragging the tip of your tongue up his shaft.

“Fucking hell,” he curses, writhing from the contact.

You smile, and the lightness of your breath against the wet streak of your tongue makes him shiver.

The tip of his cock is already leaky with precum, his eagerness to be inside you so pathetically obvious. You avoid it, instead opting to repeat your previous moves. Slowly, you lick up his fat length, tongue flat as can be. You want him to feel as much of you as he can. Want him whining— begging —for your pussy.

If the precum seeping from his tip is a sign of desperation, then heaven only knows what the fuckin’ mess between your legs is. Every stroke of your tongue against him only serves to make you want him just as badly as he wants you.

Your hand reaches to wrap around his shaft, gently stroking his foreskin. Your tongue flicks against the base of his tip, right where you know he’s the most sensitive.

It’s no surprise when his grip on your ponytail tightens.

But it is a surprise when he lets go.

“Hm?” You chirp, looking up, just to make sure he’s all good.

He is—he just isn’t looking at you to confirm it. Instead, his upper body twists ever so slightly as he reaches for his bedside drawer.

You know it’s got a host of indecent artifacts—his sex toys, condoms, polaroids of you that are for his eyes only—but don’t give it much thought. Figure maybe he’s after a condom to make himself last longer, until you feel him tapping at your shoulder with the side of a small plastic bottle.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not immediately, at least.

What he wants is something he can’t really bring himself to ask for. Hopes that you’ll work it out for yourself.

As you take the bottle from him, a small chirp echoes from your throat, as if you’re asking for clarification. Again, Jeongguk hopes you’ll work it out. That he won’t have to shamelessly tell you what he desperately wants, cock twitching and leaking precum on his stomach.

The way you pause as you study the bottle, trying to read the text in the dim light of Jeongguk’s room, only adds to his apprehension—until he hears a soft smile exhaling from your lips when you realise exactly what it is: lube .

Never usually required, thanks to the fact Jeongguk makes you resemble a waterfall from just a look in your direction, you know the lube isn’t for you. It’s for him.

And given the state of conversations around sex over the past week or so, you know what he’s asking for.

After all, he’s the one who wrote that damn airplane in the first place. Told you straight up that he liked ass play way back in the days of the sticky notes (some of which remain on his wall, yet to be conquered).

His drawer only really has his things in it, though. You’ve not got any of your toys at his place. This is a preliminary. A follow-up, almost, to the night spent in the Min’s garden, doing things that probably scared a few dozen nocturnal animals.

“Yeah?” You encourage, lips pressing to his upper thigh. His body adjusts ever so slightly, as if he’s shy. Your hand wraps around his shaft, slowly rolling his foreskin up and down his length in just the right way to get his hands gripping his sheets.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he rasps through the pleasure of having you touch him. “Just want you to do it.”

“Talk about what?” You tease, ‘cause there’s no way he’ll actually enjoy what he’s asking for if he keeps being this uptight about it all. Relaxation is key.

“B,” he groans, this time out of frustration—and so you know you need to be the one to take the lead.

It just doesn’t feel right to take the lead, knowing he’s a little bit tense. You’ve always been so clear and consistent with each other when it comes to consent, and while you know what he wants, you wanna hear him say it first.

So you leave the bottle of lube next to his thigh and clamber up his body. Legs straddling his waist, you’re pleased that his hands come to stroke your thighs without a second thought. Conversely, your hands softly hold his cheeks, bringing him in for half a dozen pretty little kisses.

“Words are important. I’m not gonna be crude about it,” you tell him, ‘cause it makes a change to the way you joke around with one another. “I just love you, and I want to make you feel good.”

Jeongguks nose nudges back up against yours, as if to plead for more kisses (of which you give him, willingly).

“I love you more,” he argues into your lips, earning a giggle from you that somehow melts all of his worries away.

“Chess is always an option,” you remind him, but he shakes his head.

“Just… Fucking hell,” he groans as if it’s some sort of laborious task he really can’t be bothered to see through, which couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s just embarrassed. It’s all rather cute. Or at least it is until he continues. “Just finger my ass.”

He bashfully half whimpers, half laughs, and then adds a pouty, “Please.”

A smile sinks into your lips, and the way he seems almost shy makes your tummy feel all funny. He’s disastrously cute like this.

“I’ll make you feel so good,” you promise, lips brushing against his ear.

He nods. Knows you will. Lets his hands stroke up and down your back, bringing them around to cup your boobs. Squeezes. Smiles. Can’t resist himself when he questions, “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” You nod, pulling back to sit upright just for his viewing pleasure. His hands are still holding your tits, gently caressing. He’ll never not love the sight of this. Of you. Of the way you respond to his touch.

“C’mere,” he grunts, pulling you back down, ‘cause he can’t let you go just yet. Your hands grip onto his bedframe as his lips eagerly latch onto one of your nipples. One of your hands drops to tangle in his smooth hair, a pretty little moan escaping your lips.

He takes it as a sign he’s doing something right. Switches up his sucking motion to flick his tongue against your hardened bud. Get you moaning all over again, the position of your legs spread over his waist, letting him know just how pleased you are to have him like this.

And while Jeongguk might have been asking you for favours, all he can think about is returning them.

Tapping on your ass, he’s a little breathless as he lets go of his latch on your nipple, and husks, “Up, baby. On my face. You before me.”

“Hm?” you languidly hum—not because you don’t know what he means, but because it goes against what he was asking for just minutes earlier.

Still, Jeongguk doesn’t care to explain his thought process (mainly because he doesn’t have one (he just likes having you in his mouth in any and all capacities)). Instead, he just continues tapping your ass until you get the message.

“You’re so impatient,” you lightly scold him while you do as he requests, but barely have time to position yourself before his arms are hooking over your legs, pulling your pussy to his mouth. “Oh fuck.”

He wastes no time suctioning his lips around your clit. He doesn’t care to be quiet about it. Eats you like it’s his last fuckin’ supper. Laps up against you.

It’s not just his tongue, though. It’s like he wants his whole fuckin’ face in your cunt. His nose rubs up against your clit, while his tongue greedily licks your entrance. There’s no such thing as perfect, but the way he’s proportioned is as close as it gets, you think. Your hips grind, a hand tangled in his hair, the way you both move entirely primal.

Hands squeezing at your ass, he encourages your movements. Wants you all over his face. Loves nothing more than being coated in you.

His tongue begins to focus now, though. He positions himself just right. Flicks against your clit at such a speed it’s hard to comprehend—and then he’s moaning. Vibrating against you. Delivering a sensation that could never be replicated.

“I’m close,” you rasp. Whine. Moan. “Don’t wanna cum. Not yet.”

And while he wants you to, Jeongguk knows why. Knows you wanna fuck him. Knows you wanna cum around his cock instead of on his face. Multiple orgasms have never been an issue, but it is late. You do need a somewhat early night.

He nods, easing up his tongue, slowly sucking on your clit. The movements of his head as he sucks only serve to make you feel like you might cum regardless, so you shakily (and regretfully) pull away.

When you reposition yourself, he pulls you against his lips for the messiest, most obscene kiss possible. It’s all tongue, and little else. The taste of your cunt. The sweetness of his whines. The filth of how much he loves sinning with you.

There's nobody else he could be like this with. Only you. Only ever you.

Straddled over his hips, you grind gently, his thick cock perfectly snug between your lips. Wet and swollen, they feel like silk against him. Jeongguk knows, given the chance, that he’d be able to cum like this. Easy.

That’s not what he wants, though, so you retrace your steps. Sink back down. Don’t fuck around this time. Instead, you take him in your mouth without hesitation. Return the favour he’s just bestowed upon you.

Head bobbing up and down his fat length, your hand wraps around the base of his cock. Pulling back, you spit against him, using your hand to spread it, gaining momentum. Loose with your grip, you focus on the tip of his sensitive cock, jerking him until he’s whining. Whimpering.

And then, you let your tongue stroke against his balls.

“Oh, fuck,” he whines, his hips pulsing beneath you.

It’s all the approval you need for your hand to get a little tighter, and for your lips to take one of his balls in your mouth. It’s a sensation Jeongguk fuckin’ loves, if done right—and of course, you know how to do it perfectly for him.

You take his ecstasy as a chance to move things along. Know he’s feeling good. Know he wants more.

Pulling back, you sit on your heels. Neither of you speak, but Jeongguk does slowly nod when he sees you reaching for the bottle of lube next to his body. Trepidation hangs in the air. This territory is uncharted, and it’s been a little while since you last ventured so far south—but you’ve got a roadmap. Know the way. Even if you didn’t, you like to think intuition would guide you, regardless.

Warming it a little bit in your hands, you’re slow. Cautious. Careful, knowing that he’s probably feeling a little more vulnerable than usual.

Hands slick with the gel, you wrap a palm around his shaft. Ease him into the feeling. It’s not like it’s a new sensation, but the pair of you rarely ever use lube. You’re always wet enough. He nods. Lets his eyes close as your other hand gently massages against his balls.

A little further south, you venture. He’s not a stranger to your tongue against his taint, but your fingers are less frequent. He's not as well acquainted with the sensation, but he likes it. Legs spreading a little further, Jeongguk makes himself available for you.

Smiling at just how cute he looks, you’re a curious mix of enamoured and outrageously turned on. Just like nobody could ever make him feel the way you do, nobody could ever make you feel the way he does.

“You’re so hot,” you tell him, gently wanking his cock as two of your fingers stroke up and down his taint. You apply a little more pressure. Replace his bashful smile with a wanting gasp.

Slick with lube, you let your middle finger go lower. Slowly, you press against his rim. Watch him closely as his brows furrow. There’s that look of desperation once more, and the assurance that yes, he wants this. Wants you.

You count in your head. 1, 2, 3… make sure he doesn’t stop moving his hips. If anything, he’s edging himself down. Encouraging you to apply more pressure.

And so you do. Slowly, eyes trained on his pretty, pathetic face, you push your middle finger against his tight hole, until the muscle eases.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, the penetration of a single finger overwhelmingly pleasurable for him. His eyes flicker open, landing on yours as your finger begins to curl ever so gently. Just a little. Just enough.

Chest heaving, Jeongguk looks beautiful in a way that’s hard to put into words—and when you slowly pull out, he looks ruined in a way that’s also hard to comprehend.

His lips hang slack, chest heaving as his eyes burn into you like the heat of a thousand stars. Face dewy with sweat, hair sticks to his forehead, the storminess of his gaze quickly triggers a whirlpool within your stomach. There’s a neediness to him as he swallows back a breath, lips coming together so that he can lick them, before his pout forms that pretty little o-shape once more.

Breathless as he speaks, Jeongguk rasps, “Again.”

The corner of your lips twitch into a smirk. “Yeah, babe?”

“Yeah,” he pathetically nods, fucked out but somehow still painfully desperate for more. Of course he is, though. It’s you. No one gets him like this. No one ever will. His brows furrow together, his tongue flicking against the silver hoops in the corner of his mouth, as his eyes drop to his pathetically weeping cock. He’s so hard. So keen. So needy—and what he needs right now is you. “Please, B. More.”

You tease against his entrance, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp. It’s like a reward, to hear him like this. As if you’ve done something truly remarkable.

Your other hand wraps around the base of his cock, adding to the electricity surging through him. He reaches down. Wraps his hand around yours. Encourages you. Wants more. Needs more. And so you give him more.

Finger pushing into his tight entrance, you’re slow. Painfully so, though you aren’t causing any actual pain. Jeongguk just wants you to hit that spot.

“Yeah?” You check in.

Breathless, nodding his head even though his eyes are closed, he says, “Yeah.”

Your finger curls. Strokes. Searches. Finds.

And Jeongguk moans in a way you don’t think you’ve ever heard before. It’s a whimper, almost. A plea. Or rather, a confession, maybe.

Your hands work in tandem, your finger stroking right against the spot that makes him whine, while your other hand strokes him in tempo. He’s stimulated in a way he isn’t used to. In a way he never really thought was possible.

There’s a vulnerability that comes with penetration. Far easier to fuck someone than it is to get fucked.

When he looks down towards you, it's like looking through a telescope; galaxies in his big brown eyes. Wide and wanting, he'll give you all the stars in his eyes, no questions asked, no fee charged.

It’s when your head dips to press wet kisses against his taint that his whines really begin to get desperate. Has always loved your mouth. Loves it when it does things it shouldn’t.

A girl like you shouldn’t have your nose pressed to a ballsack or her tongue mere millimetres away from an asshole, but the way you focus on delivering him pleasure would suggest otherwise. You’re made for this. Made for him.

It’s when you whine, though, obsessed with his body's response to you, that he really begins to get twitchy. His hips pulse ever so gently, encouraging the movements of both hands.

“Yeah?” you breathlessly whisper, smirking at how a man so strong is just absolute putty in your hands. “You fucking yourself with my hands, huh?”

Jeongguk is beyond the point of pride. Has no need for dignity. Just wants to feel good.

“Yeah,” he admits between desperate breaths. “Gonna make me cum so fuckin’ hard.”

Everything is moving in the same chaotic rhythm: his chest, his beating heart, his pulsing hips. Jeongguk’s cock is twitching, the sensation of you massaging his prostate taking him closer and closer to the point of release. He isn’t gonna last, and you don't want him to.

Your hand grips even tighter around the base of his cock, the stimulation impossible to fight against. There’s only so much he can take.

“B,” he whines. “Oh, fuck.”

“Cum for me,” you tell him, not even caring for your lost orgasm from earlier. He can make it up to you later. You keep the pace of your finger consistent, but wank him off faster. He whimpers and he writhes, but he doesn’t ease up. “C’mon, baby. Show me how good I make you feel, yeah?”

If there’s one thing that drives him wild, it’s when you call him sweet little names.

“Please, baby,” you beg, because you know just the right buttons to press. His hands grip his bed sheets, eyes struggling to stay open. He’s seconds away from death, or so it feels. A little death, at least. His legs begin to twitch. The onslaught of what is about to happen is unmistakable. “That’s it, baby,” you coo. “Show me how good it feels.”

“B,” he tries to speak, but can’t. All he can do it succumb to the pleasure. Whine. Mewl. Moan.

And then it’s happening; the evidence of how fucking good you are for him painting his abdomen. His cock is pathetic as it spurts ropes of thick, hot cum onto his belly. White and wet, it’s never-ending. He cums and he cums; gasps and gasps.

It’s not until he begins to twitch, chest heaving, cock spent, that you withdraw from him. Immediately, you gently begin to trail your tongue across his hard abs, cleaning up the evidence of how much he likes having you in his ass. You're keeping his secrets. Promising you'll never tell a soul.

“Shit,” he curses, all breathless and fucked out, one arm over his chest, while his other hand reaches down to stroke the side of your head. “Fuck.”

Giggling now, you clamber up to join him, and Jeongguk cares not for the fact your cum is still on your tongue. In fact, he deliberately stokes his against yours, swapping the evidence of his pleasure between you both. Moaning into your lips, he’s spent in a way he never has been before.

“God, I love you,” he whines into your mouth. Gets needy all over again. “You know that, huh? You know how much I love you?”

With a bashful nod, you find yourself giggling. “You know I know.”

“Good,” he nods, pulling away to face the ceiling, eyes closed, trying to get a little breath back. You snuggle into him, all rather sweetly considering what you’ve just done. “‘Cause I do. And I mean it. You’re literally, like, the love of my life.”

“Who knew all it would take was a little ass play to get your saying such soppy shit,” you tease him, pressing a kiss against his chest. “Should have done this months ago.”

He laughs now, too. “Just cause I didn’t say it back then doesn’t mean I didn’t think it.”

The pair of you descend into a comfortable warmth, giggling and joking, until you get up to wash yourself up a little. Jeongguk protests. Says he needs to return the favour—but ultimately agrees to wait until the morning.

“Need to sleep at some point, babe,” you tell him as you both meander to the bathroom. Jeongguk makes a mental note to get a place with an en-suite when he moves out. In a pair of boxers, he watches you fondly as you wash your hands in the bathroom sink, all love drunk and bleary-eyed.

You’re in one of his shirts, and it drapes over your body in a way that it would never drape over him. He likes it better on you. In fact, he likes most things in his life better with the addition of you. Thinks life would be impossible, if he were ever to lose you.

“I think I’d die, yanno,” he mindlessly says, watching you plait your hair to stop it from tangling in the night. “If we ever broke up or weren’t together, I’d think I’d just die.”

You laugh, because it’s absurd. Both the concept of dying of a broken heart, and the idea that you would ever break up.

“Don’t speak it into existence, then,” you tease. “It’s a full moon, Gguk. Can’t be manifesting things like that on a night like this.”

“I’m not,” he assures you, because if anything, he’s trying to do the opposite. Not once does he think to tell you that the full moon has nothing to do with it, or some other belittling remark about believing in the stars, like you know most guys would. Why would he though? A star is the closest thing he knows to religion, and he’s looking at it right now.

“Well, good,” you hum, turning to face him, hair now secure. “Let's just agree to not break up, and that way you won’t die.”

“Sounds good,” he sleepily smiles, tugging on your hand, guiding you back to his bedroom.

It’s a ridiculous conversation for a ridiculous concept.

Or at least, in the warmth of lust-drunk night, it is.

In the cold light of day, stark and sterile, everything has the potential to change.

After all, bad decisions are your forte, are they not?

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