yoonmoonn

[yoonmoonn]

taste me┃jjk

04┃show stopper┃masterlist ┃taglist

note: why do i lowk hate it 😐 might rewrite later (also i definitely didn't fell asleep last night while editing this...)

You walked into the arena with a coffee in hand and a swing in your step, humming under your breath like the world was yours and no one else had even been invited.

“Why are you singing that early in the morning?” your manager asked, squinting at you over the rim of his tablet.

You just sipped your drink—half milk, half espresso, a little chaos on top—and twirled once in place, your platform sneakers squeaking lightly on the polished floor.

“Why not?” you shot back, grinning like the devil in lip gloss.

Something was off. Not in a bad way, just...off. You were suspiciously happy. Suspiciously put together for soundcheck. You weren’t pacing, weren’t barking about mic frequencies or annoyingly cold weather. You weren’t even late. You were early.

You, who barely showed up on time for your own birthday.

The venue crew was already buzzing around, and you drifted past them like you belonged in the middle of it all. Half-humming Taste to yourself, fingers snapping along with the beat in your head.

It was going to hit so hard tonight.

Your voice wasn’t tired. It was sharp. Your tone had that sweet, teasing edge that always made your fans scream like they were in on a joke you never told them. You moved from the edge of the stage to the wings and back, spinning once, letting your hair fall over your shoulder like you were in a music video and not just rehearsing.

You walked past one of your stylists and tapped her shoulder.

“Did the tights come in?”

She blinked, nodded. “Yeah. You mean the custom sheer ones?”

You grinned wider. “Mhm. The ones with taste me written just below the hip. In black script. Looks like a tattoo, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, half-shocked, half-impressed. “It’s... intense.”

You just shrugged, eyes glinting under your sunglasses. “It’s for Act I.”

Act I: the corset bodysuit—the baby blue one with rhinestones. The tights would sit underneath, skin-colored and nearly invisible unless someone really looked. But you knew who’d look.

Act II: the black lace capri catsuit. Always made you feel like sin on Mary Janes.

Act III: the two-piece top and micro skirt covered in Swarovski crystals that danced under the lights. That one always got the loudest reaction.

Tonight, though, Act I was the one you were counting on.

You didn’t say anything else. Just sipped your coffee, swaying slightly to the rhythm in your head. Humming again.

By now, everyone around you had noticed.

You weren’t nervous.

You weren’t bitter.

You were dangerous.

Like someone who had something to prove and had already planned exactly how to prove it.

You sang a few lines under your breath again, leaning against a wall, lips curling around the words like they tasted sweet.

“You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you”

Yeah. You were ready.

And if he was watching?

Good. That was the whole point.

The venue was already buzzing when you stepped into the wings.

Cameras flashed like fireworks. Lights swirled across the crowd in glittery loops, and the hum of the pre-show electricity lit up your veins more than the iced latte you'd downed in your dressing room. You adjusted your in-ear monitor with a smirk, fingers tapping along a random beat in your head as the opening scene was played across the big screen.

It was the last show of the tour leg. You should’ve been exhausted.

But you weren’t.

You were alive.

You knew he was here before you even saw him. The air shifted. That strange intuition that always warned you of Jungkook's presence tugged at your spine, made you glance out into the crowd right before the start of Act II.

And there he was. Front row. Black hoodie, hands folded, head tilted like he was trying too hard not to be impressed.

But it wasn’t him that made you pause.

It was her.

Standing next to him like she belonged there, like she hadn’t been the girl that once broke his heart—now suddenly smiling, screaming, recording every second of you on her phone.

Jumping around.

Singing along.

You almost laughed. Of course she was a fan.

Of course he brought her here.

By the time you reached the last track, the air in the arena was thick with anticipation. The crowd was already feverish from the last set, and you didn’t say a word before the music started.

The beat hit—slick, disco-infused, glittering under the lights like a mirrorball cracking open.

Your hips moved with the rhythm, sharp and purposeful, the lyrics pouring out with sugar-laced venom.

"Oh, I leave quite an impression—

Five feet to be exact

You're wonderin' why half his clothes went missin'

My body's where they're at..."

You kept your gaze wide, teasing and cocky, letting your voice carry high over the bass. But you saw him.

He wasn’t leaning back anymore.

His jaw was tense.

“Now I'm gone, but you're still layin'

Next to me, one degree of separation

I heard you're back together and if that's true

You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you...”

You moved across the stage with a steady, practiced grace, a smirk tucked in the corner of your lips. Not loud. Not bitter.

Just surgical.

And when you reached the final lyric—when your voice slipped into that final note, slow and honeyed and sharp as glass—you did it without flinching.

“You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you...”

You pointed.

Right at them.

The lights exploded behind you.

The crowd lost its mind.

And in that tiny flicker of a second before the blackout, you caught it—Jungkook’s face, still as stone.

His girlfriend frozen next to him, hand lowered from where she’d been clapping.

You turned on your heel and walked offstage, chest rising and falling, sweat beading at your temples.

You didn’t look back.

You never needed to.

Backstage was chaos.

Glitter trailed your heels like stardust as crew members buzzed past, voices tangled in shouts and laughter, someone waving a towel, someone else yelling about lighting cues, someone crying over a broken mic pack. But it all bled into static.

You didn’t hear any of it.

Not really.

You walked straight down the hallway, past the green room, past the stylist trying to stop you for a post-show touch-up, past your manager calling your name. Your matching set was still on, the Swarovski crystals catching every low backstage light like small, sharp bursts of memory. Your lungs burned under the top. You felt too full and too empty at once.

Your heels clicked against the concrete floor, steady and sharp.

The silence inside you, though—that was deafening.

Your dressing room door swung shut behind you, and that’s when it all hit.

The adrenaline dropped like a weight down your spine, dragging heat and ache and a wild thrum of something unplaceable with it.

Your chest rose and fell like you couldn’t get enough air. You reached for the vanity, palms flat against the marble top, eyes closed as you leaned in, forcing your body to stop shaking.

You didn’t know what you were feeling.

Power?

Relief?

Rage?

A sob wanted to claw its way up your throat, but you swallowed it whole. No. Not here. Not now.

You stared at your reflection—flushed cheeks, sweat-damp hair at your temples, eyes wild and rimmed in liner that somehow didn’t smudge. You looked untouchable.

You didn’t feel it.

You felt cracked open.

Like every lyric of Taste had carved something out of you in front of 20,000 screaming fans.

Like you gave them blood in glitter wrapping paper.

You’d seen his face.

That was the worst part.

Not the shock in it. Not even the guilt that flickered there for half a second.

It was the way he watched you like he knew.

Like he always knew you could wreck him, and still let you.

You leaned forward, gripping the edge of the vanity so tightly your fingers went white.

You were supposed to feel better.

That song, that moment, that silence right after—it was supposed to be the closure you never got.

But it wasn’t.

Because somewhere in your chest, under all the performance, under all the glitter and venom and tight stagewear—he still lived there.

Uninvited.

Unwanted.

But there.

You slid to the floor before your knees could give out, the cold tile biting into your skin, arms wrapped around your legs, chin on your knees. You weren’t crying.

Not yet.

You were remembering.

The way he used to show up after soundcheck with coffee just the way you liked it.

The way he always said your voice sounded different when you were angry—hotter.

The way he used to trace your name on your shoulder with his fingers when you were half-asleep and wouldn’t remember.

You pressed your forehead to your knees.

The show was over. The crowd was gone.

There were no encores. No more songs to hide behind.

No more lights to blur the truth.

Just silence.

And you—still half-hoping, half-hating—that he’d find his way back here.

Still kind of wanting him to come backstage.

Still kind of wanting him to beg.

The elevator ride felt like a lifetime.

Your condo was quiet the second you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you like a final period to a sentence you hadn’t wanted to write. The city buzzed beyond the windows—horns, sirens, muffled bass lines from someone’s party—but inside, everything was still.

You dropped your keys onto the marble counter with a clatter that echoed louder than expected. Your sneakers came off next, the shoe laces hitting the ground with the softest sound as you kicked them aside and padded barefoot across the floor.

Every muscle ached.

Your back. Your neck. Your voice box.

But mostly your heart.

You made your way to your bedroom without turning on any lights, letting the dim gold glow of the skyline wash over everything. Your room still smelled faintly of hairspray and perfume, the scent trailing you as you pulled your hoodie off your body and threw it somewhere in the room. The cool air kissed your bare skin. Your body felt like it was still vibrating from the bass.

You threw on an oversized shirt—his, maybe. You weren’t sure anymore. Too many pieces of him had ended up here. Too many traces of something that was never meant to last.

You walked back into the living room, collapsed onto the arm of the couch, tucking one leg beneath you. The room felt too big. Too quiet. Too clean.

Your phone sat screen-side down on the coffee table. You hadn’t touched it since the car ride home.

You could still see his face in the crowd.

Not just watching you—but studying you.

His new girlfriend had been jumping around like a fangirl, singing every lyric. Singing your lyrics. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

You tilted your head back and stared at the ceiling, your heart still racing even though it had been hours since you stepped off that stage.

You should feel proud.

That song was good.

You looked hot. You sounded even better. You did exactly what you came to do.

But here you were. Alone. Wearing a shirt that wasn’t yours, mascara still clinging to your lashes, throat raw, with no one to carefully tie your hair up or ask how you felt.

No one to say, you did good tonight.

No one to pull you in when you didn’t want to be strong anymore.

A shaky breath left your lips.

Because the truth—the kind that clawed at you when the noise faded—was this:

You didn’t write that song for him. Not really.

You wrote it for you. To remind yourself that you weren’t just something to be left behind. That you meant something. That he’d feel it—your absence—in every touch he gave her. In every kiss. In every goddamn memory that wouldn’t let him go.

You weren’t the kind of girl you forgot.

And he was gonna remember that.

Even if he didn’t come back.

Even if you didn’t want him to.

It was stupid—how much you missed him.

And even more stupid how you let yourself.

You never wanted to put a label on it. You were the one who kept saying no. You had your career, your image, your press team. The spotlight didn’t leave room for real love—not the kind that didn’t crack under pressure.

But he had made you feel something. Something steady. Something warm. Something that slipped through your fingers the second you tried to hold it too tight.

You closed your eyes and let the silence swell around you.

“He’s not what you need,” you whispered out loud, your voice barely a breath.

You said it again.

And again.

“I don’t want him back.”

And maybe if you said it enough, you’d believe it.

Maybe if you kept singing, kept dancing, kept doing what you did best—being untouchable—his name would stop echoing in the places he never should’ve touched.

You weren’t going to beg.

You weren’t going to break.

You just had to keep pretending you didn’t still want him.

The apartment smelled like vanilla.

Your perfume was still in the air, sweet and sugary the way you liked it—too much, always too much. Jungkook sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, hands clasped tightly together between his knees. His hoodie stuck to his back from the sweat and heat of the crowd, but he didn’t bother changing.

The concert played over and over in his mind, but not in a nostalgic way.

Just...annoying. Loud. Unavoidable.

That song.

That look.

You pulled the stunt right in front of them, in front of everyone. Typical. Flashy. Petty. Just like you.

His jaw tightened.

He hadn’t told his girlfriend about your past—why would he? It hadn’t been anything real. Not to him, anyway. Not something worth confessing. You messed around. It was fun. It got messy. You liked playing games. He let you. That was it.

And now you turned it into a spectacle.

His girlfriend walked out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hair, wearing one of his t-shirts and some sweats, eyes narrowed and hesitant. Her voice broke the silence.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?”

He didn’t even look at her at first. Just shook his head, slow and dismissive.

“Jungkook.”

“What do you want me to say?” he muttered, finally standing up and heading to the kitchen like he needed space just to breathe.

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe that the biggest pop star in the world basically just performed a song about you while staring you down from the stage?”

He opened the fridge. Took out a water bottle. Twisted the cap slowly. “It’s not my fault.”

“That’s what you’re going with?”

“She’s dramatic. Always has been.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She does this.” His tone was flat now. Distant. “It’s what she’s good at—getting attention.”

His girlfriend looked stunned. “So you were with her.”

“For a while. Yeah.”

“You didn’t think that was important to tell me?”

“It didn’t come up,” he said, sharp. “It wasn’t serious.”

“You didn’t think I’d find out?”

“She’s not my problem anymore.”

That hit. Her face shifted, hardening. “Wow.”

He took a long drink of water, like he needed something in his mouth to keep him from saying more.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I made you come tonight because I thought it would be fun. I thought it’d be this cool thing we did together. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t even look at me.”

He met her eyes, cold and expressionless. “Maybe I didn’t want to be there.”

She stared at him, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

“Are you still into her?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“But you’re not over it.”

“She doesn’t matter,” he said, flat and final. “She’s just good at acting like she still does.”

Her eyes glossed over but she blinked fast, like she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Right.”

She grabbed her bag off the dresser and pulled her jacket over her shoulders without another word.

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t even flinch when the door closed.

Just stood there, arms still crossed, the cold bottle sweating in his palm.

And when his phone buzzed five minutes later with a dozen tagged videos from the concert—you, spinning around in glitter and spotlight, dripping with attitude—he hit mute on all of them.

He’d played the game. He was done now.

Or so he told himself.

please don't claim or copy any of my work

taglist: @kam9404 @kissyfacekoo @httpjeonlicious @bjoriis @primadonnasdream @bammbi-jeon127 @emmie2308 @bleumornings @mrspotatas @akirawhore @haveakatekath @plushjeno @stars4kooo @butterymin @kikiflwr @dany2320-blog @diggaidk @kaiparkerswife @wishicouldmeethoseok (you can add yourself to the taglist from the top of the post or the navi)

[yoonmoonn]

the flame he lit┃jjk

03┃show stopper┃masterlist ┃taglist

warning: cursing, arguing

The studio door clicked shut behind you with a soft chime, the familiar scent of cedarwood and warm ink already wrapping around your senses. You adjusted your sunglasses lower on your nose, your jaw tight, fingers curled around your phone still unlocked to your last unanswered call.

Everything was normal this morning. He’d texted you a blurry photo of his breakfast—burnt toast and too much jam. You’d laughed, sent back a voice note of you rehearsing, half-asleep and off-key. Then nothing.

No replies. No calls returned. Just radio silence.

You didn’t want to assume. He could’ve been busy. He was often busy.

But something didn’t sit right. So now you were here.

The studio was quiet, save for the low hum of music drifting through the mounted speakers. You turned the corner, rounding the wide hallway that led toward the back workstations—his usual spot—and then you saw them.

He was sitting back in his chair, all black hoodie and loose jeans, forearm resting casually on the armrest as he said something low to the girl sitting across from him.

She was perched on the edge of the tattoo chair, long legs crossed, manicured nails tapping on the iced coffee in her hand. Her head turned at the sound of your footsteps, and recognition hit her face instantly.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, eyes going wide. “You’re—wait—you’re her.” She looked from you to him and then back again. “You didn’t tell me she was your—”

“I’m not his anything,” you said, cutting her off, voice calm but sharp. You didn’t even look at him yet. Your attention was fixed on her, on the wide-eyed excitement behind her expression and the way she didn’t even bother hiding it.

Jungkook shifted in his seat.

“I tried calling you,” you said flatly, turning to him now. “Three times.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I was gonna call you back.”

“Right,” you said, nodding once, jaw tight. “But this was more important.”

“She was here for a walk-in,” he said, standing now. “She’s not—this isn’t—”

“I know exactly what it is.” You exhaled, stepping back once. “I just didn’t think I’d have to see it.”

The girl stayed quiet now, awkwardness starting to settle like fog around her. She wasn’t dumb. She could feel the tension.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jungkook muttered. “Why are you making it seem like I did?”

You looked up at him, sunglasses sliding down just enough for him to see the fury in your eyes. Not jealousy. Not heartbreak.

Just the kind of quiet rage that came from disappointment.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be sitting here with a girl who knows my name more than she knows yours,” you said coolly. “But that’s on me.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. Didn’t give the girl another glance.

You turned and walked out, the door chime barely audible over the pounding in your ears.

A week passed.

You didn’t text him. He didn’t call. It was quiet—just enough to make you wonder if you were overreacting, but not enough to make you reach out first.

The city was loud that night, lights bleeding into your apartment windows as you curled up on your couch, remote in one hand, phone in the other. Some reality show buzzed in the background, but your attention was on your screen, on the mindless scroll you always regretted.

And then you saw it.

The party was some underground thing, a last-minute invite-only type of deal thrown by some tattoo brand he worked with. You hadn’t gone. You were in rehearsals late, and he hadn’t mentioned it. Or invited you.

But there he was.

In the photo.

Jungkook.

Leaning against a wall, drink in hand, head tilted toward her—his ex.

She was laughing at something he’d said, too close, like the space between them hadn’t once been filled by you.

Your throat dried up.

There were more pictures. One where her hand was on his arm. Another where he was looking at her in a way that made your stomach twist. God you almost threw up when you saw one with his hand on her waist.

No captions. No tags. Just enough to let the whispers start in your head.

Your phone buzzed.

kookie monster: “What are you doing?”

You stared at it.

He wasn’t even going to pretend he hadn’t just been caught.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

You locked your screen and dropped your phone to the other end of the couch like it had burned you.

Outside, car horns and sirens sang their usual city lullaby. Inside, you sat frozen in the middle of it all—halfway between mad and disappointed, halfway between wanting to care and knowing you shouldn't.

Because that was the problem with being in a situation with someone like Jungkook.

He was never really yours.

And maybe you were just finally starting to believe it.

The knock came late.

Almost midnight.

You were still in the same spot on your couch, now wrapped in a blanket you didn’t remember grabbing, your hair a mess, mascara smudged beneath your eyes even though you swore you hadn’t cried.

The knock came again, firmer this time.

You already knew who it was. No one else ever came that late without warning. No one else had a key but refused to use it unless you let them.

You opened the door.

And there he was—Jungkook.

In a black hoodie and joggers, smelling like his cologne and the night. A takeout bag dangled from one hand like it was peace. Like he hadn’t just been photographed looking at another girl like that.

"Why aren't you answering my texts?" he asked, stepping in like he belonged there. His voice was soft, casual, a small furrow between his brows that might’ve looked concerned if you didn’t already know what you knew.

Jungkook blinked. His face changed just slightly as he took your look in—confused, unsure. You could see the moment he realized you weren’t playing along this time.

“What’s wrong?” he asked slowly, like he didn’t already know.

You stared at him from the middle of the room, your heart pounding out rage, your arms crossed so tight your nails dug into your skin. “Are you serious?”

He blinked. “What?”

You grabbed your phone off the coffee table and shoved it in his face. The photo lit up the screen: Jungkook at a party, his arm slung comfortably around the waist of the one person you never wanted to see near him again. His ex.

Her perfect face leaned into him. His smirk. Her hand against his chest. A little too familiar. A little too much.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” You stepped back before he could reach for you. “Don’t you dare try to pull the ‘it’s not what it looks like’ crap on me.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what, Jungkook?” Your voice cracked in anger. “You were all over her. Do you really think I’m that blind? That stupid?”

His eyes narrowed, frustration kicking up the tension already hanging in the room. “It’s not like that.”

You scoffed. “Right. Because you accidentally wrapped your arm around your ex like you never stopped fucking her.”

He ran a hand through his hair, already agitated. “Jesus, you’re so dramatic.”

You laughed—sharp and humorless. “And you’re a lying piece of shit.”

“We’re not even together, why the fuck do you care?”

The words hit you like a slap.

You stood still. Let them sink in.

And then the dam broke.

“You think that’s an excuse?” you shouted. “You think just because we never put a label on it, that you can just treat me like I’m disposable?”

He threw his arms up. “You made it very clear you didn’t want a relationship, remember? That was you!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t say I wanted to be fucking disrespected, Jungkook!”

“Oh my god,” he snapped. “You’re so fucking full of yourself.” You blinked, stunned.

“Get over yourself,” he spat. “You think just because you’re some big fucking deal, I owe you my entire life?”

You stepped forward, fire boiling in your chest. “Don’t fucking talk to me like that.”

“You’re acting like a psychopath right now. You saw a picture and lost your goddamn mind.”

You shoved his chest hard. “Because you’re a selfish, manipulative asshole who plays with people and never takes responsibility for anything.”

He shoved your hand off. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“And you’re a useless fucking coward!” you screamed back. “You can’t handle being alone for five minutes so you run to the first girl who makes you feel like you matter.”

He barked a bitter laugh. “At least she doesn’t flip out over a photo like a clingy bitch.”

Something in you snapped.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

He stared at you, jaw tight, breathing hard. “Gladly.”

You stormed to the door, yanked it open, and waited.

He didn’t move.

“I said get out.”

He turned, brushing past you, shoving the doorframe with his shoulder. “You’re a fucking nightmare.”

You smiled. “Takes one to know one.”

The door slammed behind him.

And for the first time in months, the silence felt like yours again.

Two months. That’s how long it had been.

Sixty-two days of no calls. No texts. No yelling. No door slamming. No him.

You hadn’t seen Jungkook. Not in person. Not even by accident. Not in the places you both used to orbit. You figured it was for the best. Let him rot in his silence. Let the storm settle.

But he still lived on your phone.

Not in the messages—you’d deleted those a week after he walked out. But through other people. Through tags. Through his friends. Through your friends. Through those stupid little glimpses of him you never asked for but always found.

That night, it was around 11 p.m.

You were on the couch, wearing your softest hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks that did nothing to warm the cold pit in your stomach. There was a rom-com playing in the background. You weren’t paying attention. Just scrolling. Thumb moving on autopilot.

Until it didn’t.

Until it froze, hovering above his name on your screen.

Jeon Jungkook.

Updated his story—ten minutes ago.

You shouldn’t have clicked it.

But you did.

It loaded slowly. Your Wi-Fi had a habit of turning traitor exactly when you needed it most. And maybe it was trying to protect you. But the screen blinked to life anyway.

There he was.

Grinning, shirt pushed up slightly from the way his arm curled over the shoulder of the girl tucked into his side. Her.

His ex.

Correction: not his ex anymore.

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at it for a full minute, like maybe if you looked long enough, the image would change. Morph. Reveal itself as fake. Some throwback. Something meaningless.

But no. The date stamp was fresh. So was the sting.

He looked happy. Or at least, he looked like someone trying hard to be.

And you? You were alone in a hoodie that smelled like vanilla and broken pride, suddenly burning with a kind of rage that clawed up your throat until it tasted like metal.

You tossed your phone onto the coffee table.

Then you got up.

Stormed into your home studio. Threw open your notebook. And sat at the keyboard with your jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The lyrics poured out like venom.

Every single line. Every clever little jab. The smirk behind every word. You were angry, but you were in control. And you made sure every sentence dripped with the kind of sarcasm and mock-sweetness that would make the whole damn room tilt when you sang it.

"Taste."

The title came naturally. You even wrote it on the page with a heavy underline.

It was taunting. It was confident. It was you at your most dangerous — the version of you that only came out when someone really pushed your buttons. When someone like Jungkook made the mistake of thinking he could break your heart and walk away without consequence.

The chorus was addicting, sticky with attitude, teasing something he could never have again.

By 2 a.m., the song was finished. Tight. Polished. Laced with just enough venom to make your producer raise his eyebrows when you’d send it over the next day.

This one wouldn’t just be for you.

This one would be for everyone.

And when you debuted it at your next concert—exactly a month from tonight—you’d be smiling when the lights hit your face, knowing somewhere out there, he’d hear it.

And he'd know it was for him and his new girl.

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

taglist: @kam9404 @kissyfacekoo @httpjeonlicious @bjoriis @primadonnasdream @bammbi-jeon127 @emmie2308 @bleumornings @mrspotatas @akirawhore @haveakatekath @plushjeno @stars4kooo @butterymin @kikiflwr (you can add yourself to the taglist from the top of the post or the navi)

[yoonmoonn]

no pants, no labels, just us | jjk

02┃show stopper┃masterlist ┃taglist

note: jungkook is lowk such a loser in this. also double post today woah (might post pt 3 later too)((we dont talk about the title my brain got fried trying to think of a good one))

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

taglist: @kam9404 @kissyfacekoo @httpjeonlicious @bjoriis @primadonnasdream @bammbi-jeon127 @emmie2308 @bleumornings @mrspotatas @akirawhore @haveakatekath (you can add yourself to the taglist from the top of the post or the navi)

[yoonmoonn]

kookie monster | jjk

01┃show stopper┃masterlist ┃taglist

note: sorry not sorry, i love calling him kookie monster

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

taglist: @kam9404 @kissyfacekoo @httpjeonlicious @bjoriis @primadonnasdream @bammbi-jeon127 (you can add yourself to the taglist from the top of the post or the navi)

[yoonmoonn]

before songs sound like him┃jjk

teaser┃show stopper ┃masterlist ┃taglist

You sigh, pushing your sunglasses higher up the bridge of your nose as you fight the very real, very dramatic urge to throw your phone across the cafe.

Your manager was pissing you off—again. The coffee you ordered ten minutes ago was nowhere to be seen. And your best friend had just texted that she was back with the guy who shattered her like glass two months ago. Genius.

You fix your bag on your shoulder, silently praying that your already crumpled lyric sheets weren't turning into an origami disaster inside it. The strap digs into your skin through your leather jacket, but you barely notice it with the buzz of irritation swirling around you like a second skin.

Leaning your back against the cool brick wall by the pick-up counter, you take a deep breath through your nose, jaw tight. This day was not it.

That’s when you hear it. A sharp, under-the-breath curse.

You look up, sunglasses still perched perfectly on your face, and spot the source of the frustration. He’s tall. Broad shoulders, tattoos inked along his knuckles and probably up his arm. White jacket draped lazily over a fitted black tee, black sweatpants slung low on his hips. His hair is messy in that intentional kind of way, and he’s glaring at his watch like it personally offended him.

You blink once. Twice.

Of course he’d look like that. Like every moody boy in a music video. Like someone you’d write lyrics about at 2 a.m. when your piano keys felt too cold.

He catches you staring.

And he smirks.

You roll your eyes and look away first. He takes that as an invitation.

He moves closer, now standing a foot away from you, arms crossed over his chest. “Bad day?” he asks, voice low, kind of raspy.

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Let’s see—manager from hell, coffee that doesn’t exist, and my best friend’s repeating her worst mistake like it’s a playlist. So yeah, not great.”

He chuckles, a low rumble. “Rough.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “You don’t look like you’re having the time of your life either.”

He nods, looking back at his phone. “Might be late to a client. Again.” Then he looks at you, really looks at you. “Singer, right?”

You raise a brow.

“Your face is on a poster a few blocks away,” he explains, not missing a beat. “Caught my eye this morning.”

“You a fan?” you tease.

He smirks again. “Not yet.”

There’s a silence after that, not awkward—comfortable, like the kind you don’t expect to have with someone whose name you don’t even know.

Your name gets called for your coffee at the same time his does.

You both step up to grab your cups, hands brushing briefly. You feel it—electric and fleeting.

He hands you yours, a brow raised. “You look like you’re two seconds away from writing a diss track.”

“Maybe I am,” you reply, a smug smile playing on your lips.

He pulls a pen from behind his ear—how it got there, you have no idea—and scribbles something on your napkin before handing it back. “If you ever need a muse... or a tattoo.”

You glance down. It’s a phone number. Followed by a name.

Jeon Jungkook.

You smirk, folding the napkin carefully and tucking it into your jacket pocket like it wasn’t the most interesting part of your day.

Maybe the coffee was worth the wait after all.

Two weeks pass.

You’re on a worn couch in the corner of a small, dimly lit studio that smells faintly of ink and citrus cleaning spray. The buzzing of a tattoo needle hums low in the background, like a bassline under a conversation that hasn’t quite started yet.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, cup of cold coffee balanced between your palms. Jungkook is crouched near his station, gloves on, head bowed in concentration as he wraps someone’s forearm—focused, silent, and annoyingly good-looking even in the low light.

You’re not even sure how it got to this point.

One text turned into two. Two into voice notes. Voice notes into late night calls and—somehow—this.

You’d dropped by just to “see the place.” You stayed. Twice. Maybe three times.

“Done,” he says now, pulling off his gloves and flashing a quick smile to the guy in the chair, who nods in appreciation. “Give it a few days, and no swimming.”

The guy leaves with a grin and a half-hearted wave in your direction. Jungkook turns, stretching his arms up before tossing his gloves in the bin. He looks at you, eyes soft but teasing. “Still babysitting your coffee?”

You look down at the cup, then back at him. “It’s a personality trait now.”

He laughs, walking toward you and flopping down next to you like he’s lived here his entire life—like you have.

“You been writing?” he asks, nudging your leg with his knee.

You nod. “Some verses. Stuff I probably won’t ever record.”

“Lemme hear them anyway.”

You blink at him, a little caught off guard.

He always does this—asks for things like he has the right to. Like the lyrics you scribble at 3 a.m. on the backs of receipts and napkins belong to him too.

You pull your phone out, scrolling until you find the note you’re thinking of. You pass it to him.

He reads in silence, his jaw tight, brows drawn just slightly.

Then: “Is this about me?”

You shrug, sipping your now ice-cold coffee. “Isn’t everything?”

He huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve got a way of twisting the knife while sounding sweet about it.”

“You like it.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he leans in, his fingers brushing your wrist, still holding your phone. “You know, you’re dangerous.”

You raise a brow. “You’ve got tattoos of skulls and saints all over your arm and I’m the dangerous one?”

He shrugs, smile lazy and crooked. “You get under my skin without even trying.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Because you’re here. Sitting in a tattoo shop at 11 p.m. with a boy you were never supposed to call, sipping cold coffee and letting him look at parts of you no one else sees.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You turn.

He leans closer, eyes flicking from yours to your lips and back again. “Let me tattoo you.”

You smirk. “You think you earned that privilege?”

He doesn’t back off. “I think I’m trying.”

Your phone buzzes on the cushion between you both.

Your manager. Again.

You flip it over without checking.

Jungkook’s watching you now. Really watching. “Stay a little longer,” he says.

And you do.

Of course you do.

4 months pass.

The air in the green room feels too still, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to break. Your body is buzzing from the stage lights and the crowd still chanting your name outside. But the post-show high is dulled now, tension tightening around your ribs instead of excitement.

He’s already there when you walk in—sitting in the corner, arms spread across the back of the couch like he owns it. Like he owns you. Black hoodie pushed back, a silver ring glinting on his thumb as he taps his phone screen without looking up.

Jungkook.

You drop your bag by the vanity, the rustle of lyric sheets inside it catching his attention. He looks up then, and you swear his gaze drags down your body like a slow exhale. You don’t acknowledge it. You’re too tired, too done.

“Didn’t know you were coming tonight,” you mutter, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

He shrugs, leaning back again. “Didn’t think I needed a formal invite.”

You shoot him a look. “You don’t.”

He smiles like he knows that already, like he’s smug about it. And he should be. Because you do always let him in—backstage, into your bed, into the spaces between everything you tell yourself not to feel.

It didn’t start out messy. You hooked up one night after a party, laughing too loud and kissing even louder. He made fun of your glitter heels, and you pulled him in by the collar and dared him to say it again.

That was months ago.

Now? Now it’s something. Something without a name. And you like it that way. At least, that’s what you’ve always said.

So when the fights started—over nothing, over everything—you didn’t back down. Neither did he.

“I saw you leave early last night,” you say, breaking the silence again.

He raises an eyebrow. “Were you looking for me?”

“I just noticed. That’s all.”

“Right.”

You roll your eyes, twisting the cap off your bottle too fast, water sloshing over your hand. “We’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“The weird passive-aggressive thing.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “You mean the thing where we pretend this doesn’t mean something?"

You don’t answer right away.

Because yeah, that’s exactly what you mean.

You’ve both said it, more than once: no labels, no pressure, just… whatever this is. But then he’s showing up to your shows, you’re answering his 2am calls, and both of you are starting to act like there’s something here neither of you signed up for.

He stands slowly, coming toward you like a warning. He smells like peppermint gum and cigarette smoke, tattoos peeking from under his sleeve. He looks good. He always looks good. That’s the damn problem.

“You don’t want a relationship,” he says, voice low.

You meet his eyes. “Neither do you.”

He nods, like he’s agreeing, but his jaw tightens. “Then why the hell do we keep acting like we’re in one?”

Your throat tightens. You hate that he’s saying what you’ve been trying not to think.

You lean back against the wall, arms crossed. “Because it’s easier than admitting we don’t actually know what the fuck we’re doing.”

He’s close now. Too close.

“You keep saying you don’t want this to be anything serious,” he murmurs, “but you look at me like I already belong to you.”

Your jaw clenches. “You still texting your ex?”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

He freezes. Something in his face darkens.

“She texted me first.”

“Did you text her back?”

Silence.

Then: “Yeah.”

Of course he did.

You push past him, brushing his shoulder harder than you need to, walking back toward your bag. You feel his eyes on you, feel the heat of something unsaid swelling between you.

“I’m not the only one trying to fill in the space,” he says behind you.

You turn. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You write songs about me and act like they’re just lyrics. You call me when you’re drunk and tell me you miss me but wake up pretending it didn’t happen. You say you don’t want a label, but get pissed when I so much as breathe near someone else.”

You look at him, arms wrapped around yourself like it might hold everything together.

“I don’t want a boyfriend,” you say, voice quieter now. “I want you. But not if it means playing house with someone still in love with his past.”

He flinches at that—just slightly—but it’s enough.

Neither of you says anything for a beat.

Then he grabs his keys from the side table, his jaw set like he’s about to say something else. But he doesn’t.

Just walks out the door and closes it behind him.

And still… you know he’ll be back.

Both of you always go back.

And that might just be the problem.

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

taglist: @kam9404 @kissyfacekoo (you can add yourself to the taglist from the top of the post or the navi)

[yoonmoonn]

im so tempted to make jungkook a tattoo artist....

show stopper | jjk

navi┃masterlist┃taglist

ᯓ★ you'll just have to taste me when he's kissing you

pairing: jungkook x singer!fem!reader

summary: after yet another petty fight with jungkook, the guy you refused to label, he did the one thing that made your blood boil — brought his new girlfriend to your show.

genre: uni au, fluff, angst, situationship to ??

warnings: language

⋆ teaser

⋆ more coming soon...

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

[yoonmoonn]

show stopper | jjk

navi┃masterlist┃taglist

ᯓ★ you'll just have to taste me when he's kissing you

pairing: tattooartist!jungkook x singer!fem!reader

summary: after yet another petty fight with jungkook, the guy you refused to label, he did the one thing that made your blood boil — brought his new girlfriend to your show.

genre: singer au, social media au, fluff, angst, situationship to ??

warnings: language

⋆ before songs sound like him┃teaser

⋆ 01 | kookie monster

⋆ 02 | no pants, no labels, just us

⋆ 03 | the flame he lit

⋆ 04 | taste me

⋆ more coming soon...

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

[yoonmoonn]

moth to a flame┃pjm

02 ┃moth to a flame ┃taglist

The fight starts over something small. It always does.

A forgotten text. A missed call. The way you seemed distracted when he spoke.

It unravels quickly, like a thread being pulled too hard, tension that had been simmering beneath the surface finally snapping.

“You never listen anymore,” he says, voice sharp, eyes dark with frustration. “It’s like you’re here, but you’re not.”

You cross your arms, nails digging into your skin. “I’ve been busy,” you say flatly, knowing it’s a weak excuse.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not it, and you know it.” His gaze hardens. “What’s going on with you?”

You feel like you’re being seen in a way you don’t want to be.

“Nothing,” you say too quickly.

His jaw clenches. “Bullshit.”

The word hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding.

You shift on your feet, heart hammering against your ribs. “What do you want me to say?” Your voice rises, frustration bleeding into it. “That I’ve been tired? That college is stressful? That maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to have this same conversation again?”

His brows knit together, hurt flickering across his face. “This isn’t about college.”

You look away.

He exhales, voice quieter now. “Are you seeing someone else?”

Your stomach twists.

Your head snaps back to him. “What?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what to think. You don’t tell me anything anymore.” He exhales, voice quieter now. “You don’t even look at me the same way.”

Your pulse is roaring in your ears, but you don’t let it show. “Of course I’m not.”

The words leave your lips too easily. Too smoothly.

He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, fingers curled into fists at his sides. And for a second, you think he doesn’t believe you.

But then he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Your throat constricts.

“You’re pushing me away,” he continues, voice strained. “I feel like I’m losing you, and you won’t even tell me why.”

You don’t respond. Because what would you even say?

He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, and for a split second, you think he might leave.

But then he just runs a hand through his hair, his frustration turning to exhaustion. He takes a step back but doesn’t move toward the door.

Instead, he just mutters, “I don’t want to fight anymore,” before sinking onto the couch, rubbing at his temples.

You exhale a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the table to steady yourself.

Your phone vibrates.

You already know who it is before you even look.

You don’t check your phone right away.

You can’t. Not with him still sitting there, head in his hands, chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths—like he’s trying to steady himself.

Like he’s trying to hold you together, too.

Your phone buzzes again.

You swallow hard and turn away, palms pressing against the cool surface of the kitchen counter.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he’d said.

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. Then stop asking questions you don’t want answers to.

The thought burns, bitter and cruel, because he’s not the bad guy here.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You can feel the weight of your phone in your pocket, the screen lighting up again, another message waiting—him waiting.

Jimin.

Your heart clenches.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

You startle slightly, fingers tightening against the counter’s edge. His voice is quieter now, tired, but there’s something else underneath it. Something fragile.

You turn, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“What do you want me to say?” Your voice is softer now, too. You hate that it is.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Something.”

Silence stretches between you. It feels heavy, like a loaded gun, like something that could go off at any second.

“I’m tired,” you murmur eventually, looking away. It’s not a lie.

He watches you for a long moment, jaw tightening, shoulders slumping slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Me too.”

He doesn’t press you further.

He just leans back against the couch, exhaling slowly. And for some reason, that hurts more than if he’d yelled.

Your phone buzzes again.

This time, you grab it.

Jimin: Where are you?

Your breath catches.

Another message follows.

Jimin: Are you alone?

You don’t respond. Not yet.

Instead, you glance back toward the couch. Your boyfriend is still there, his head tilted back against the cushions, eyes closed, his breathing deep and even.

He’s tired, too.

He doesn’t deserve this.

You don’t either.

And yet—

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

Then, before you can stop yourself—

You: Not yet.

The next day, you tell yourself you won’t see him.

You tell yourself that the second you wake up, before your eyes even open, before the weight of last night settles onto your chest like an anchor.

You tell yourself that when your boyfriend pulls you in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before getting up for class. His warmth lingers, his scent clinging to the sheets, but all it does is remind you of what you’re hiding.

You tell yourself you won’t see him.

And yet, you find yourself walking across campus later that afternoon, hands buried deep in the pockets of your jacket, heart pounding just a little too fast.

You aren’t sure why you’re doing this. You aren’t sure why you always do this.

Jimin is already waiting.

He’s leaning against his car, one hand in his pocket, the other spinning a lighter between his fingers. The sun catches in the metal, making it glint every time it flicks open and shut. His head is tilted down, his hair falling into his eyes, but the second he hears your footsteps, his gaze snaps up.

The moment he sees you, his lips curl—something smug and knowing, something that makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.

“You’re late,” he says.

“You didn’t give me a time.”

He hums, amused, and flicks the lighter shut. “Fair enough.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The air between you stretches, thick and familiar. You glance around, but the parking lot is mostly empty, save for a few students walking by in the distance.

Jimin’s eyes don’t leave you.

“You good?” he asks.

His voice is softer now, a little more serious. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that always makes your stomach twist.

You hesitate. Then you nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. He never does—not directly, at least. Instead, he just watches you, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.

Then he exhales slowly and leans back against the car again, crossing his arms.

“My band’s playing this weekend,” he says after a moment. “You should come.”

You blink, caught off guard.

Before you can respond, he adds, “Bring your boyfriend too.”

Your stomach drops.

Jimin watches your reaction, his face giving nothing away. But there’s something sharp in his gaze, something challenging, like he’s daring you to say no.

“You want both of us there?” you ask, carefully.

He nods. “Why not?”

You stare at him. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you any indication of what he’s thinking.

Your mouth feels dry. “Jimin—”

“We’re all friends, aren’t we?” His lips twitch slightly, like he’s fighting back a smirk. “He’d want to support me, right?”

Your throat tightens.

It’s a game. It has to be.

You should say no. You should turn around and leave, pretend this never happened. You should go back to your boyfriend, the one who texts you good morning and walks you to class and doesn’t know that, somehow, he’s already lost you.

But instead, you swallow hard and force yourself to nod.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Of course.”

Jimin smiles.

And for some reason, it feels like a warning.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I’ll save you a spot.”

He flicks his lighter open again, the small flame dancing in the late afternoon light. His eyes stay on you as he lifts it to the cigarette tucked behind his ear, lighting it with an ease that makes your breath catch.

He exhales, watching you through the smoke.

“You should get back,” he says after a beat.

Your heart pounds against your ribs.

“Yeah,” you whisper, but you don’t move.

Jimin watches you for another second before chuckling softly, shaking his head like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. He pushes off the car, stepping past you with just enough distance to keep it innocent—just enough to leave the scent of smoke and something distinctly him lingering in the air between you.

“See you this weekend,” he murmurs.

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing there, pulse roaring in your ears.

The weekend comes faster than you expect.

You spend the days leading up to it drowning in your thoughts, your textbooks open but unread, your boyfriend’s voice distant even when he’s right next to you. You should be focusing on school, on him, on anything other than the way Jimin looked at you in that parking lot, the way he said bring your boyfriend too like it was some kind of test.

And yet, here you are.

Standing in front of the venue, your fingers curled tightly around your boyfriend’s hand.

It’s a small club just off campus, a place that’s always packed on nights like this—when Jimin and his band take the stage, when half the student body crams inside just to watch him perform. The bass vibrates through the pavement beneath your feet, and you can already hear the cheers from inside, the buzz of anticipation thick in the air.

Your boyfriend squeezes your hand. "You okay?"

You force a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead before tugging you toward the entrance. "Come on, we should get a good spot before it gets too crowded."

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere swallows you whole. It’s dimly lit, neon signs casting a warm glow over the crowd. The scent of alcohol and sweat lingers in the air, bodies pressed together in excitement as the opening act finishes their set.

And then—

Your heart stutters.

Because there he is.

Jimin.

He’s already on stage, tuning his guitar, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. He’s dressed in all black, ripped jeans and a loose shirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of his collarbone. His orange hair is tousled like he’s already been running his hands through it, and when he lifts his gaze, scanning the crowd—

His eyes find you immediately.

You stop breathing.

Your boyfriend doesn’t notice. He’s too busy looking for a spot, guiding you further into the crowd. But Jimin—Jimin notices everything. His lips twitch up at the corner, just slightly, just enough for you to catch it before he looks away.

The tension coils deep in your stomach.

You shouldn’t be here.

But it’s too late now.

The show starts, and the room comes alive. The music is loud, the kind that shakes through your bones and settles in your chest. Jimin commands the stage like he was born for it, moving effortlessly, feeding off the energy of the crowd. Every note, every lyric, every strum of his guitar feels like it’s meant for you—even though you know it isn’t.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then—

Before the last song, Jimin steps up to the mic, pushing his hair back with one hand, the other gripping the stand loosely. His breathing is heavy, his voice lower than usual as he speaks over the noise.

"This next song is gonna be out soon," he says. His voice is unreadable, calm and careless and dangerous all at once. "It’s about a special girl."

The crowd cheers, some people whistling, others yelling who is she?!

Jimin smirks, tilting his head slightly. His eyes flick to yours for half a second—so quick you almost miss it.

"She knows who she is," he adds.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your boyfriend doesn’t notice.

But Jimin does.

And then—he starts playing.

The melody is dark, sensual, laced with something unspoken. The lyrics wrap around you, each word pulling you deeper into the mess you’ve made for yourself.

“Like a moth to a flame, I’ll pull you in, I’ll pull you back to what you need initially."

You feel sick.

Because you know, without a doubt, that this song is about you.

Jimin’s voice is smooth and devastating, weaving through the chords like he’s telling a story only the two of you understand. He doesn’t look at you while he sings—but he doesn’t have to. You can feel it.

Your skin burns.

Your fingers tighten around your boyfriend’s hand, but suddenly, you can’t breathe. The room is too hot, too much. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the weight of everything crashing over you all at once.

You have to get out.

Without thinking, you turn to your boyfriend. "I need some air."

He blinks, confused. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, I’ll be quick."

He hesitates, but nods.

And then—you push your way through the crowd, slipping out the side door and into the cool night air.

Your heart is still racing.

You don’t know what you’re doing.

But before you can stop yourself, you reach for your phone.

And you text Jimin.

You: I’m outside.

The door swings open behind you before you even have time to think.

You barely have a chance to register the sound of footsteps before he’s right there—Jimin, stepping into the dim alley behind the venue, the cool night air curling around him like smoke. His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in messy strands, his chest rising and falling with the last remnants of adrenaline from the stage.

And then, there’s you.

Standing frozen under the flickering streetlight, staring at him as if you hadn’t just spent the last hour drowning in his voice, as if you didn’t already know exactly why you texted him to come out here.

Jimin exhales, head tilting as he studies you. "Why do you keep doing this?" His voice is low, rough around the edges.

You know what he means. He’s not asking why you texted him. He’s asking why you keep leaving just to come back. Why you keep pulling him close only to push him away. Why you’re here when you’re supposed to be somewhere else.

"I don’t know," you whisper.

Jimin scoffs. "Bullshit." He steps closer, close enough that the heat from his skin brushes against yours. "You know exactly why."

Your stomach twists.

He tilts his head, watching you. "Tell me," his voice is quieter now, something dangerous curling beneath it, "when you're with him, does he know where your mind is?"

You inhale sharply.

"Does he know who you dream about?" His words drip like honey, thick and slow, each syllable pressing into you. "Does he know who you really belong to?"

Your throat tightens.

Jimin smirks, but there's something sharp in his eyes. He lifts a hand, fingers brushing over your jaw, tilting your face up.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "Tell me you don’t want this."

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Because you can’t.

And Jimin knows it.

So he kisses you.

No hesitation. No warning. Just his hands slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips crash into yours. And the worst part?

You let him.

You melt into it.

Because it’s him. Because it’s always been him. Because no matter how many times you tell yourself to stop, no matter how many times you swear you’ll walk away—he always pulls you back in.

His lips are soft, tasting faintly of the liquor he must have sipped after the set, and you can still feel the ghost of a smirk against your mouth, like he knew all along this was going to happen. Like it was inevitable.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping him like an anchor, because your head is spinning, your body burning, every nerve in you lighting up with the way he’s touching you. It’s dangerous and reckless and—

*"What the fuck?!"*

Your blood turns to ice.

Because that voice—

It’s your boyfriend’s.

You barely have time to react before you’re yanked back to reality. Before Jimin stiffens, his hands falling away from you as your boyfriend storms out into the alley, his face twisted in disbelief, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

And just like that—

Everything comes crashing down.

Your boyfriend’s eyes are burning into you, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths.

"You," he says, voice sharp as glass, cutting through the thick, humid air between you. His gaze flickers to Jimin, then back to you. "You and him."

His hands shake at his sides, and you can tell he’s trying to hold it together, trying not to explode in the middle of the alley behind a venue full of people.

But the way his jaw clenches, the way his knuckles whiten, tells you that he’s barely hanging on.

Jimin stays quiet. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to defend himself. He just stands there, watching, unreadable.

You swallow hard. "I—"

"Don't," your boyfriend snaps, voice low but lethal. "Don’t fucking lie to me." He lets out a short, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "God, I knew it."

Your stomach drops.

"You knew ?" you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

He scoffs, his hands flying up in frustration. "Of course I fucking knew, everyone knew! My friends—" He cuts himself off, laughing again, but there's no humor in it. "They warned me. They didn’t say it outright, but they said just enough. Just enough to make me feel like I was fucking crazy for even suspecting it." His eyes snap back to yours, raw and accusing. "You made me feel crazy."

You inhale sharply, guilt clawing up your throat.

Jimin exhales through his nose, finally speaking up. "Look, man—"

But your boyfriend cuts him off with a glare, stepping closer. "Don't." His voice is low, dangerous. "Don't try to act like you're innocent in all this."

Jimin doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He just stares, his expression unreadable, but his silence is loud enough.

Your boyfriend shakes his head, laughing bitterly again. "Wow," he breathes, looking back at you. "Wow. You really played me, huh?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because what the hell are you supposed to say?*l

That it wasn’t supposed to happen like this? That you never meant to hurt him? That every time you went back to Jimin, you swore it was the last time?

That no matter how many times you told yourself to let Jimin go, you couldn't?

"I can’t fucking believe this," your boyfriend mutters, stepping back, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s spiraling, trying to piece together every moment, every sign he ignored, every red flag he forced himself to push past. "How long?"

Your heart is hammering. "What?"

"How long?" he repeats, voice low and shaky. "How fucking long has this been going on?"

You hesitate. Just for a second. But it’s enough.

He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."

Jimin shifts beside you. "It’s not what you think—"

"Shut the fuck up," your boyfriend snaps at him, turning his attention back to you. "Tell me. Right now. How long?"

You feel like you’re going to be sick. Your stomach twists painfully, your mouth goes dry, and suddenly, your entire world is crumbling right in front of you.

And you have no one to blame but yourself.

The air feels suffocating, thick with betrayal and disbelief. Your boyfriend is staring at you, eyes dark and desperate, waiting—begging—for an answer that won’t rip him apart. But you have none.

Your throat is dry. Your lips part, but the words get caught somewhere between guilt and shame. You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how to say it.

"How long, ___?" His voice breaks at the end, and it hurts more than if he had yelled.

Jimin shifts beside you, tense, like he’s waiting to step in, but you know that won’t help. Nothing will.

Your boyfriend scoffs when you don’t answer, stepping back as if the distance might make it hurt less. "Fuck." He shakes his head, hand dragging over his jaw. "I can’t believe this. I fucking—" He stops, chest rising and falling too quickly, like he’s trying to keep himself from breaking down right in front of you. "I loved you."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. You feel sick.

"I still do," he adds, voice quieter this time, almost like an admission. "I fucking love you, and you—" His eyes flick to Jimin, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. "You kept running back to him like I was never enough."

"It’s not like that," you whisper, but the words taste like a lie even to you.

"Then what is it like?"

Silence.

Because you don’t have an answer for that either.

Because if it wasn’t like that—if it wasn’t that simple—then why the hell were you standing here now, watching the person who had loved you unconditionally fall apart because of you?

Your boyfriend exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "I should’ve fucking known," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "I should’ve fucking known when my own friends started warning me about you two."

Your stomach drops.

You knew. Of course, you knew. You knew his friends—who were also Jimin’s friends—had been wary, had made comments, had hinted at things without ever outright saying them. But they hadn’t really known. They had just known about your history with Jimin, known how things used to be between you two before your boyfriend ever came into the picture.

But now, standing here, watching everything crash and burn, you realize something.

He hadn’t really known either.

He knew Jimin had a past with you. He knew there was something unspoken there. But he didn’t know. Not until now.

"Fuck," he whispers, almost to himself, and you see it in his eyes—the moment everything fully clicks into place. "The song."

Your breath catches.

"The song," he repeats, laughing dryly, humorlessly. "‘Moth to a Flame’—it’s about you, isn’t it?"

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lets out a breath, hands on his hips as he looks away for a second, like he needs to collect himself before he completely loses it. "I sat there in the crowd, listening to him sing about you, and I didn’t even fucking realize."

Jimin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t deny it.

Your boyfriend’s hands curl into fists. "How long?" he asks again, voice rough. "How fucking long, Y/N?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

"Was any of it real?" His voice cracks, and you hate yourself for being the reason why. "Or was I just—?" He swallows thickly, looking away, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to keep himself together. "I should’ve fucking known."

"You were never just anything," Jimin says then, his voice even, but there’s something sharp beneath the surface. "She cared about you."

Your boyfriend’s eyes snap to him, venomous. "Shut the fuck up," he growls. "You don’t get to stand there and act like you give a shit about me, man."

Jimin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver, just keeps looking at him like he sees something he understands—like he sees a pain he knows all too well. "I never wanted to hurt you."

Your boyfriend lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right."

The silence stretches between all of you, suffocating, unbearable. You feel Jimin shift slightly beside you, close but not touching, and your boyfriend watches it like it’s the final confirmation he needed.

"I should go," he mutters finally, voice hollow.

"Wait—"

But he’s already turning, already walking away, his shoulders tense and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You should stop him. You should.

But you don’t.

Because what could you possibly say to make this right?

The air still feels thick, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. You watch his retreating figure, the way his shoulders stay rigid, his steps hurried, like he can’t get away fast enough.

You could call out to him. You could chase after him, tell him something, anything—but what would be the point? What could possibly fix this now?

So you just stand there. Silent. Frozen.

Jimin shifts beside you. You feel him, not quite touching but close enough that the warmth of his body cuts through the cold sinking into your chest. He doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales softly, and then—

"You okay?"

It’s a stupid question. You both know the answer. But still, you nod. Because what else is there to do?

Jimin watches you for a moment, his gaze careful, searching. And then he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "You should go after him," he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.

"And say what?"

He doesn’t have an answer to that either.

The silence stretches. Your heart is still hammering, your thoughts still racing. It feels like the walls are closing in, like the weight of your choices is finally crashing down on you all at once.

"Come on," Jimin murmurs, reaching for you. His fingers brush against yours, barely there, like he’s testing to see if you’ll pull away. When you don’t, he laces them together, squeezing lightly. "Let’s get out of here."

You nod, letting him pull you along, away from the crowd, away from the mess you’ve made.

The car ride is quiet.

Jimin doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything, just lets you sit there, lost in your thoughts, staring out the window at the blur of city lights. The weight of the night sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs, but you don’t let it break you. Not yet.

When you get to his place, everything feels eerily normal. Familiar. The same as it always is. Like nothing just imploded outside that concert venue.

You kick off your shoes, shrug off your jacket, move through his apartment like it’s second nature. Like you belong here. And maybe that’s the worst part—that even now, even after everything, this still feels like home.

Jimin watches you from the doorway. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his gaze on you, warm and weighted.

Finally, he exhales, stepping forward. "Talk to me."

You let out a humorless laugh. "About what?"

"About what just happened."

You shake your head, pressing your fingers against your temples. "I don’t even know where to start."

Jimin sighs. He moves closer, his hands finding your waist, grounding you. "Then don’t start. Just… tell me what you need right now."

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. "I don’t know."

He hums softly, fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. "I think you do."

Your chest tightens. You do. You do know.

You need this. Him.

You need to feel something other than the crushing weight of guilt and heartbreak. You need to drown it all out, even if it’s just for a little while.

Jimin sees it the moment you let go. The moment you give in. His hands tighten around your waist, and when you finally meet his gaze, there’s no hesitation—just understanding. Just the same pull that’s always been there, dragging you back to him, over and over again.

And when he leans in, when his lips brush against yours, soft and slow, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him—you don’t.

Because maybe you never really could.

The kiss starts slow. Hesitant, almost. Like he’s giving you space to change your mind. Like he knows you won’t.

Your hands move before you can think, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. And that’s all it takes. Jimin exhales sharply against your lips, something shifting between you, something heavier, something inevitable.

His fingers dig into your waist, guiding you back until the backs of your knees hit the couch. You fall, and he follows, pressing you down, his weight familiar and grounding. It should feel wrong. It should feel like a mistake. But all you feel is warmth, the way he fits against you like he belongs there.

Like he always has.

He kisses you deep, slow and consuming, like he’s trying to pull you apart, unravel you thread by thread. And you let him. Because right now, in this moment, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

But then—he pulls back. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at you.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough, quieter than before.

You nod. "Jimin—"

"No." His fingers slide along your jaw, tilting your face up. "Say it."

You swallow hard. Your chest is tight, your pulse hammering against your ribs, but you hold his gaze and whisper, "I want this. I want you."

That’s all he needs.

The space between you disappears again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

Later, much later, you lie tangled in his sheets, the city lights casting soft shadows across the room. His arm is draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even against the back of your neck.

You should leave. You should get up, get dressed, walk out that door and never look back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, mind spinning, chest tight with something you don’t want to name.

"You’re thinking too much," Jimin murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You huff a quiet laugh. "And you’re not thinking at all."

"Not true." He shifts, pressing closer. "I’m thinking about how good you feel next to me."

You roll your eyes, but he can’t see it. "You’re impossible."

"And you keep coming back to me anyway."

You don’t answer. Because he’s right. Because you don’t know how to stop.

And the worst part?

You’re not sure you want to.

Silence settles between you, thick and heavy, as Jimin’s fingers trace lazy patterns against your bare skin. The warmth of his body against yours should be comforting, should make you feel safe. But instead, there’s this weight in your chest, pressing, pressing, pressing—

"What are we doing?"

His voice is quiet but firm, breaking through the stillness of the room.

Your stomach clenches. You knew this was coming.

You don’t answer at first. You can’t. You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, biting the inside of your cheek.

”___." Jimin shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you. "You’re here. Again. In my bed. With me. But tomorrow—what? You go back to him? Pretend like this didn’t happen?"

You exhale sharply. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Make it sound like I don’t—" You stop yourself, pressing your lips together.

His eyes darken. "Like you don’t what?"

Your throat tightens. You sit up, pulling the sheets around you, feeling suddenly exposed. "Like I don’t care about you."

Jimin exhales, shaking his head. "Then tell me. Tell me what this is. Because I don’t fucking know anymore."

Your heart pounds. "I don’t know either."

"Bullshit." His voice is rough now, strained. "You do know. You just don’t want to say it."

You don’t respond.

He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh. "You keep coming back to me. Every fucking time. And I let you, because I—" He stops, jaw clenching. "Because I can't stay away from you either."

Your chest aches. "Jimin—"

"No. Just—just be honest with me." His voice drops, softer now. "Do you love him?"

You freeze.

Jimin watches you, eyes searching yours, waiting.

The answer is right there, on the tip of your tongue. But you can’t say it. Because the truth is—

You don’t know.

"That’s what I thought," Jimin murmurs, nodding to himself.

"It’s not that simple," you whisper.

"It is." He looks at you, gaze unwavering. "You don’t love him. If you did, you wouldn’t be here with me."

Your breath shudders out of you. "And what if I do?"

His expression hardens for a moment, but then it shifts—something breaking, something vulnerable. "Then why do you look at me like that?" His fingers brush your cheek, his touch unbearably gentle. "Like I’m the only one who makes you feel alive?"

You close your eyes, willing the sting of tears away. "Jimin, please—"

"No." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Don’t beg me to stop when you don’t want me to."

Your resolve cracks. You turn away, pressing your face into your hands. "I don’t know how to do this."

Jimin is silent for a moment. Then—

"You don’t know how to do this, but you sure as hell know how to run back to me when you need me."

Your lips part, but no words come out.

"You keep saying it’s complicated, but then you leave and go play house with him while I—" He swallows hard, voice sharp now. "Do you think this is fucking easy for me?"

You look at him then. The frustration in his eyes, the way his fingers tighten in the sheets. He’s barely holding himself together.

"You sure make it look easy," you murmur, and it’s meant to come out sharp, but instead, it just sounds... broken.

His brow furrows. "What?"

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. "You don’t seem to have a hard time distracting yourself with other girls."

Jimin’s expression shifts in an instant. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and his eyes—his eyes darken with something close to anger. "Are you fucking serious?"

"I see the pictures, Jimin. I hear what people say."

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, running a hand down his face. "You’re unbelievable."

You glare at him. "I’m unbelievable? You’re the one—"

"I’m the one what?" He snaps, sitting up fully now, sheets pooling at his waist. "Fucking girls who aren’t you ?"

You flinch at his words. But he’s not done.

"You wanna know why I do it? Why I go home with them?" His voice is lower now, rough, edged with something raw. "Because I’m trying to fucking forget you. And guess what?" He leans in, eyes boring into yours. "*It doesn’t fucking work.*"

Your breath catches.

"I don’t want them, Y/N. None of them. But I have to do something to keep myself from going crazy while you play perfect girlfriend with him and come running back to me whenever it suits you."

Your hands are trembling now. "Jimin—"

"No." He shakes his head, voice cracking. "I need you to hear me. I love you. I’ve always fucking loved you. And I can’t do this anymore unless you’re all in."

Your heart is pounding. The words are too much, too real, too heavy.

But you can’t deny the way your entire body reacts to them.

"You need to choose, Y/N," Jimin murmurs, softer now, but just as firm. "Me or him. But you can’t have us both."

The weight of his words settles over you, suffocating.

Because deep down, you already know.

You’ve known for a long time.

The apartment is eerily quiet.

You sit on the couch, staring at the floor, hands gripping your knees so hard your knuckles turn white. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight you can’t shake off. The dim glow of the evening sun filters through the windows, casting long shadows against the walls. It feels empty here—like something has already been lost.

Your heart pounds relentlessly in your chest.

This is it.

The choice has been made.

There’s a knock at the door.

You flinch.

Your breath catches in your throat as you force yourself to stand, legs shaky beneath you. You wipe your palms on your jeans, exhaling slowly before reaching for the door handle. The click of the lock echoes through the apartment as you pull it open.

Your boyfriend stands on the other side, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then he exhales sharply, stepping inside. His eyes sweep over you, searching for something—an answer, maybe. One you know he’s already figured out.

"So this is it?" His voice is flat. Detached.

Your throat tightens. "I—"

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he walks past you, heading straight for the bedroom where his things are. He doesn't ask. He already knows.

You follow him slowly, hands twisting together. "I didn’t mean for it to happen like this."

"Didn't you?" He throws the words over his shoulder as he starts grabbing his clothes from the closet, shoving them into his duffel bag. "Because I think you did."

You flinch. "That’s not fair."

He turns then, eyes burning as he looks at you. "No, what’s not fair is that I spent months defending you. Months ignoring the things my friends were saying. The warnings. The looks. Because I trusted you."

Your stomach twists. "I never wanted to hurt you."

He scoffs, zipping up his bag with more force than necessary. "Well, congratulations. You did."

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.

You watch as he slings the bag over his shoulder, exhaling through his nose as he studies you one last time. "It was him all along, wasn’t it?"

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t have to.

He nods, jaw clenching before he takes a step forward—close enough that you can see the pain flickering behind his eyes. "I hope he was worth it."

Then he walks past you, out the door.

And just like that—he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

You just stand there, staring at the spot where he had been, the weight of everything pressing down on you like an anchor, dragging you under.

It’s done.

It should feel like relief. Like the end of something that was always bound to break. Instead, your chest tightens so painfully you have to grip the doorframe to steady yourself.

The apartment still smells like him—his cologne, his laundry detergent, the faint trace of coffee that always lingered on his clothes. You catch sight of the empty space on the dresser where his things used to be, and it sends a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you.

Your stomach twists.

You press your palms against your face, trying to steady your breathing, trying to ignore the sting behind your eyes. You shouldn’t be crying. You made this choice.

So why does it still hurt?

A sharp knock on the door shatters the quiet.

Your heart stutters.

For a split second, you think it’s him—coming back, changing his mind, asking you to explain. But when you reach for the handle and pull it open, it’s not him standing on the other side.

It’s Jimin.

His hood is pulled up over his orange hair, the low glow of the hallway lights casting shadows over his face. His eyes find yours instantly, and something inside you splinters. He takes one look at you—the trembling hands, the unshed tears, the mess of emotions you’re trying so hard to keep contained—and he just knows.

He’s gone.

Jimin exhales, his jaw clenching for a brief moment before he steps inside, closing the door behind him.

Neither of you speak.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t have to. You know he sees right through you.

Instead, he just reaches for you.

And the moment his hands find your waist, you break.

A shuddering breath escapes you as you sink into him, forehead pressing against his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. Jimin says nothing, just holds you tighter, his chin resting against the top of your head. His warmth seeps into you, grounding you, steadying you.

Minutes pass.

Your breathing slows, the erratic pounding of your heart settling into something quieter, something calmer.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. His dark eyes search yours, quiet and careful, waiting for something—waiting for you.

And then, softly—almost hesitantly—he asks, "Are you mine now?"

The words are barely above a whisper.

You swallow hard. You know what he’s really asking.

No more hiding. No more pretending.

No more running.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his hoodie, and you nod.

"I’m yours."

Something shifts in his expression—something raw, something like relief. His hands cup your face then, his lips brushing against your forehead, your temple, your cheek—like he’s memorizing you, like he’s making sure this is real.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

And for the first time all night—maybe for the first time in a long time—you don’t feel lost

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

tag list: @kam9404

[yoonmoonn]

i used to hate fics inspired by songs. now i cant stop writing them.....

[yoonmoonn]

moth to a flame┃pjm

02 ┃moth to a flame ┃taglist

The fight starts over something small. It always does.

A forgotten text. A missed call. The way you seemed distracted when he spoke.

It unravels quickly, like a thread being pulled too hard, tension that had been simmering beneath the surface finally snapping.

“You never listen anymore,” he says, voice sharp, eyes dark with frustration. “It’s like you’re here, but you’re not.”

You cross your arms, nails digging into your skin. “I’ve been busy,” you say flatly, knowing it’s a weak excuse.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not it, and you know it.” His gaze hardens. “What’s going on with you?”

You feel like you’re being seen in a way you don’t want to be.

“Nothing,” you say too quickly.

His jaw clenches. “Bullshit.”

The word hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding.

You shift on your feet, heart hammering against your ribs. “What do you want me to say?” Your voice rises, frustration bleeding into it. “That I’ve been tired? That college is stressful? That maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to have this same conversation again?”

His brows knit together, hurt flickering across his face. “This isn’t about college.”

You look away.

He exhales, voice quieter now. “Are you seeing someone else?”

Your stomach twists.

Your head snaps back to him. “What?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what to think. You don’t tell me anything anymore.” He exhales, voice quieter now. “You don’t even look at me the same way.”

Your pulse is roaring in your ears, but you don’t let it show. “Of course I’m not.”

The words leave your lips too easily. Too smoothly.

He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, fingers curled into fists at his sides. And for a second, you think he doesn’t believe you.

But then he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Your throat constricts.

“You’re pushing me away,” he continues, voice strained. “I feel like I’m losing you, and you won’t even tell me why.”

You don’t respond. Because what would you even say?

He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, and for a split second, you think he might leave.

But then he just runs a hand through his hair, his frustration turning to exhaustion. He takes a step back but doesn’t move toward the door.

Instead, he just mutters, “I don’t want to fight anymore,” before sinking onto the couch, rubbing at his temples.

You exhale a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the table to steady yourself.

Your phone vibrates.

You already know who it is before you even look.

You don’t check your phone right away.

You can’t. Not with him still sitting there, head in his hands, chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths—like he’s trying to steady himself.

Like he’s trying to hold you together, too.

Your phone buzzes again.

You swallow hard and turn away, palms pressing against the cool surface of the kitchen counter.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he’d said.

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. Then stop asking questions you don’t want answers to.

The thought burns, bitter and cruel, because he’s not the bad guy here.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You can feel the weight of your phone in your pocket, the screen lighting up again, another message waiting—him waiting.

Jimin.

Your heart clenches.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

You startle slightly, fingers tightening against the counter’s edge. His voice is quieter now, tired, but there’s something else underneath it. Something fragile.

You turn, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“What do you want me to say?” Your voice is softer now, too. You hate that it is.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Something.”

Silence stretches between you. It feels heavy, like a loaded gun, like something that could go off at any second.

“I’m tired,” you murmur eventually, looking away. It’s not a lie.

He watches you for a long moment, jaw tightening, shoulders slumping slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Me too.”

He doesn’t press you further.

He just leans back against the couch, exhaling slowly. And for some reason, that hurts more than if he’d yelled.

Your phone buzzes again.

This time, you grab it.

Jimin: Where are you?

Your breath catches.

Another message follows.

Jimin: Are you alone?

You don’t respond. Not yet.

Instead, you glance back toward the couch. Your boyfriend is still there, his head tilted back against the cushions, eyes closed, his breathing deep and even.

He’s tired, too.

He doesn’t deserve this.

You don’t either.

And yet—

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

Then, before you can stop yourself—

You: Not yet.

The next day, you tell yourself you won’t see him.

You tell yourself that the second you wake up, before your eyes even open, before the weight of last night settles onto your chest like an anchor.

You tell yourself that when your boyfriend pulls you in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before getting up for class. His warmth lingers, his scent clinging to the sheets, but all it does is remind you of what you’re hiding.

You tell yourself you won’t see him.

And yet, you find yourself walking across campus later that afternoon, hands buried deep in the pockets of your jacket, heart pounding just a little too fast.

You aren’t sure why you’re doing this. You aren’t sure why you always do this.

Jimin is already waiting.

He’s leaning against his car, one hand in his pocket, the other spinning a lighter between his fingers. The sun catches in the metal, making it glint every time it flicks open and shut. His head is tilted down, his hair falling into his eyes, but the second he hears your footsteps, his gaze snaps up.

The moment he sees you, his lips curl—something smug and knowing, something that makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.

“You’re late,” he says.

“You didn’t give me a time.”

He hums, amused, and flicks the lighter shut. “Fair enough.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The air between you stretches, thick and familiar. You glance around, but the parking lot is mostly empty, save for a few students walking by in the distance.

Jimin’s eyes don’t leave you.

“You good?” he asks.

His voice is softer now, a little more serious. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that always makes your stomach twist.

You hesitate. Then you nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. He never does—not directly, at least. Instead, he just watches you, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.

Then he exhales slowly and leans back against the car again, crossing his arms.

“My band’s playing this weekend,” he says after a moment. “You should come.”

You blink, caught off guard.

Before you can respond, he adds, “Bring your boyfriend too.”

Your stomach drops.

Jimin watches your reaction, his face giving nothing away. But there’s something sharp in his gaze, something challenging, like he’s daring you to say no.

“You want both of us there?” you ask, carefully.

He nods. “Why not?”

You stare at him. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you any indication of what he’s thinking.

Your mouth feels dry. “Jimin—”

“We’re all friends, aren’t we?” His lips twitch slightly, like he’s fighting back a smirk. “He’d want to support me, right?”

Your throat tightens.

It’s a game. It has to be.

You should say no. You should turn around and leave, pretend this never happened. You should go back to your boyfriend, the one who texts you good morning and walks you to class and doesn’t know that, somehow, he’s already lost you.

But instead, you swallow hard and force yourself to nod.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Of course.”

Jimin smiles.

And for some reason, it feels like a warning.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I’ll save you a spot.”

He flicks his lighter open again, the small flame dancing in the late afternoon light. His eyes stay on you as he lifts it to the cigarette tucked behind his ear, lighting it with an ease that makes your breath catch.

He exhales, watching you through the smoke.

“You should get back,” he says after a beat.

Your heart pounds against your ribs.

“Yeah,” you whisper, but you don’t move.

Jimin watches you for another second before chuckling softly, shaking his head like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. He pushes off the car, stepping past you with just enough distance to keep it innocent—just enough to leave the scent of smoke and something distinctly him lingering in the air between you.

“See you this weekend,” he murmurs.

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing there, pulse roaring in your ears.

The weekend comes faster than you expect.

You spend the days leading up to it drowning in your thoughts, your textbooks open but unread, your boyfriend’s voice distant even when he’s right next to you. You should be focusing on school, on him, on anything other than the way Jimin looked at you in that parking lot, the way he said bring your boyfriend too like it was some kind of test.

And yet, here you are.

Standing in front of the venue, your fingers curled tightly around your boyfriend’s hand.

It’s a small club just off campus, a place that’s always packed on nights like this—when Jimin and his band take the stage, when half the student body crams inside just to watch him perform. The bass vibrates through the pavement beneath your feet, and you can already hear the cheers from inside, the buzz of anticipation thick in the air.

Your boyfriend squeezes your hand. "You okay?"

You force a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead before tugging you toward the entrance. "Come on, we should get a good spot before it gets too crowded."

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere swallows you whole. It’s dimly lit, neon signs casting a warm glow over the crowd. The scent of alcohol and sweat lingers in the air, bodies pressed together in excitement as the opening act finishes their set.

And then—

Your heart stutters.

Because there he is.

Jimin.

He’s already on stage, tuning his guitar, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. He’s dressed in all black, ripped jeans and a loose shirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of his collarbone. His orange hair is tousled like he’s already been running his hands through it, and when he lifts his gaze, scanning the crowd—

His eyes find you immediately.

You stop breathing.

Your boyfriend doesn’t notice. He’s too busy looking for a spot, guiding you further into the crowd. But Jimin—Jimin notices everything. His lips twitch up at the corner, just slightly, just enough for you to catch it before he looks away.

The tension coils deep in your stomach.

You shouldn’t be here.

But it’s too late now.

The show starts, and the room comes alive. The music is loud, the kind that shakes through your bones and settles in your chest. Jimin commands the stage like he was born for it, moving effortlessly, feeding off the energy of the crowd. Every note, every lyric, every strum of his guitar feels like it’s meant for you—even though you know it isn’t.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then—

Before the last song, Jimin steps up to the mic, pushing his hair back with one hand, the other gripping the stand loosely. His breathing is heavy, his voice lower than usual as he speaks over the noise.

"This next song is gonna be out soon," he says. His voice is unreadable, calm and careless and dangerous all at once. "It’s about a special girl."

The crowd cheers, some people whistling, others yelling who is she?!

Jimin smirks, tilting his head slightly. His eyes flick to yours for half a second—so quick you almost miss it.

"She knows who she is," he adds.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your boyfriend doesn’t notice.

But Jimin does.

And then—he starts playing.

The melody is dark, sensual, laced with something unspoken. The lyrics wrap around you, each word pulling you deeper into the mess you’ve made for yourself.

“Like a moth to a flame, I’ll pull you in, I’ll pull you back to what you need initially."

You feel sick.

Because you know, without a doubt, that this song is about you.

Jimin’s voice is smooth and devastating, weaving through the chords like he’s telling a story only the two of you understand. He doesn’t look at you while he sings—but he doesn’t have to. You can feel it.

Your skin burns.

Your fingers tighten around your boyfriend’s hand, but suddenly, you can’t breathe. The room is too hot, too much. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the weight of everything crashing over you all at once.

You have to get out.

Without thinking, you turn to your boyfriend. "I need some air."

He blinks, confused. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, I’ll be quick."

He hesitates, but nods.

And then—you push your way through the crowd, slipping out the side door and into the cool night air.

Your heart is still racing.

You don’t know what you’re doing.

But before you can stop yourself, you reach for your phone.

And you text Jimin.

You: I’m outside.

The door swings open behind you before you even have time to think.

You barely have a chance to register the sound of footsteps before he’s right there—Jimin, stepping into the dim alley behind the venue, the cool night air curling around him like smoke. His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in messy strands, his chest rising and falling with the last remnants of adrenaline from the stage.

And then, there’s you.

Standing frozen under the flickering streetlight, staring at him as if you hadn’t just spent the last hour drowning in his voice, as if you didn’t already know exactly why you texted him to come out here.

Jimin exhales, head tilting as he studies you. "Why do you keep doing this?" His voice is low, rough around the edges.

You know what he means. He’s not asking why you texted him. He’s asking why you keep leaving just to come back. Why you keep pulling him close only to push him away. Why you’re here when you’re supposed to be somewhere else.

"I don’t know," you whisper.

Jimin scoffs. "Bullshit." He steps closer, close enough that the heat from his skin brushes against yours. "You know exactly why."

Your stomach twists.

He tilts his head, watching you. "Tell me," his voice is quieter now, something dangerous curling beneath it, "when you're with him, does he know where your mind is?"

You inhale sharply.

"Does he know who you dream about?" His words drip like honey, thick and slow, each syllable pressing into you. "Does he know who you really belong to?"

Your throat tightens.

Jimin smirks, but there's something sharp in his eyes. He lifts a hand, fingers brushing over your jaw, tilting your face up.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "Tell me you don’t want this."

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Because you can’t.

And Jimin knows it.

So he kisses you.

No hesitation. No warning. Just his hands slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips crash into yours. And the worst part?

You let him.

You melt into it.

Because it’s him. Because it’s always been him. Because no matter how many times you tell yourself to stop, no matter how many times you swear you’ll walk away—he always pulls you back in.

His lips are soft, tasting faintly of the liquor he must have sipped after the set, and you can still feel the ghost of a smirk against your mouth, like he knew all along this was going to happen. Like it was inevitable.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping him like an anchor, because your head is spinning, your body burning, every nerve in you lighting up with the way he’s touching you. It’s dangerous and reckless and—

*"What the fuck?!"*

Your blood turns to ice.

Because that voice—

It’s your boyfriend’s.

You barely have time to react before you’re yanked back to reality. Before Jimin stiffens, his hands falling away from you as your boyfriend storms out into the alley, his face twisted in disbelief, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

And just like that—

Everything comes crashing down.

Your boyfriend’s eyes are burning into you, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths.

"You," he says, voice sharp as glass, cutting through the thick, humid air between you. His gaze flickers to Jimin, then back to you. "You and him."

His hands shake at his sides, and you can tell he’s trying to hold it together, trying not to explode in the middle of the alley behind a venue full of people.

But the way his jaw clenches, the way his knuckles whiten, tells you that he’s barely hanging on.

Jimin stays quiet. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to defend himself. He just stands there, watching, unreadable.

You swallow hard. "I—"

"Don't," your boyfriend snaps, voice low but lethal. "Don’t fucking lie to me." He lets out a short, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "God, I knew it."

Your stomach drops.

"You knew ?" you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

He scoffs, his hands flying up in frustration. "Of course I fucking knew, everyone knew! My friends—" He cuts himself off, laughing again, but there's no humor in it. "They warned me. They didn’t say it outright, but they said just enough. Just enough to make me feel like I was fucking crazy for even suspecting it." His eyes snap back to yours, raw and accusing. "You made me feel crazy."

You inhale sharply, guilt clawing up your throat.

Jimin exhales through his nose, finally speaking up. "Look, man—"

But your boyfriend cuts him off with a glare, stepping closer. "Don't." His voice is low, dangerous. "Don't try to act like you're innocent in all this."

Jimin doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He just stares, his expression unreadable, but his silence is loud enough.

Your boyfriend shakes his head, laughing bitterly again. "Wow," he breathes, looking back at you. "Wow. You really played me, huh?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because what the hell are you supposed to say?*l

That it wasn’t supposed to happen like this? That you never meant to hurt him? That every time you went back to Jimin, you swore it was the last time?

That no matter how many times you told yourself to let Jimin go, you couldn't?

"I can’t fucking believe this," your boyfriend mutters, stepping back, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s spiraling, trying to piece together every moment, every sign he ignored, every red flag he forced himself to push past. "How long?"

Your heart is hammering. "What?"

"How long?" he repeats, voice low and shaky. "How fucking long has this been going on?"

You hesitate. Just for a second. But it’s enough.

He lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."

Jimin shifts beside you. "It’s not what you think—"

"Shut the fuck up," your boyfriend snaps at him, turning his attention back to you. "Tell me. Right now. How long?"

You feel like you’re going to be sick. Your stomach twists painfully, your mouth goes dry, and suddenly, your entire world is crumbling right in front of you.

And you have no one to blame but yourself.

The air feels suffocating, thick with betrayal and disbelief. Your boyfriend is staring at you, eyes dark and desperate, waiting—begging—for an answer that won’t rip him apart. But you have none.

Your throat is dry. Your lips part, but the words get caught somewhere between guilt and shame. You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how to say it.

"How long, ___?" His voice breaks at the end, and it hurts more than if he had yelled.

Jimin shifts beside you, tense, like he’s waiting to step in, but you know that won’t help. Nothing will.

Your boyfriend scoffs when you don’t answer, stepping back as if the distance might make it hurt less. "Fuck." He shakes his head, hand dragging over his jaw. "I can’t believe this. I fucking—" He stops, chest rising and falling too quickly, like he’s trying to keep himself from breaking down right in front of you. "I loved you."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. You feel sick.

"I still do," he adds, voice quieter this time, almost like an admission. "I fucking love you, and you—" His eyes flick to Jimin, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. "You kept running back to him like I was never enough."

"It’s not like that," you whisper, but the words taste like a lie even to you.

"Then what is it like?"

Silence.

Because you don’t have an answer for that either.

Because if it wasn’t like that—if it wasn’t that simple—then why the hell were you standing here now, watching the person who had loved you unconditionally fall apart because of you?

Your boyfriend exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "I should’ve fucking known," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "I should’ve fucking known when my own friends started warning me about you two."

Your stomach drops.

You knew. Of course, you knew. You knew his friends—who were also Jimin’s friends—had been wary, had made comments, had hinted at things without ever outright saying them. But they hadn’t really known. They had just known about your history with Jimin, known how things used to be between you two before your boyfriend ever came into the picture.

But now, standing here, watching everything crash and burn, you realize something.

He hadn’t really known either.

He knew Jimin had a past with you. He knew there was something unspoken there. But he didn’t know. Not until now.

"Fuck," he whispers, almost to himself, and you see it in his eyes—the moment everything fully clicks into place. "The song."

Your breath catches.

"The song," he repeats, laughing dryly, humorlessly. "‘Moth to a Flame’—it’s about you, isn’t it?"

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lets out a breath, hands on his hips as he looks away for a second, like he needs to collect himself before he completely loses it. "I sat there in the crowd, listening to him sing about you, and I didn’t even fucking realize."

Jimin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t deny it.

Your boyfriend’s hands curl into fists. "How long?" he asks again, voice rough. "How fucking long, Y/N?"

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

"Was any of it real?" His voice cracks, and you hate yourself for being the reason why. "Or was I just—?" He swallows thickly, looking away, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to keep himself together. "I should’ve fucking known."

"You were never just anything," Jimin says then, his voice even, but there’s something sharp beneath the surface. "She cared about you."

Your boyfriend’s eyes snap to him, venomous. "Shut the fuck up," he growls. "You don’t get to stand there and act like you give a shit about me, man."

Jimin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver, just keeps looking at him like he sees something he understands—like he sees a pain he knows all too well. "I never wanted to hurt you."

Your boyfriend lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right."

The silence stretches between all of you, suffocating, unbearable. You feel Jimin shift slightly beside you, close but not touching, and your boyfriend watches it like it’s the final confirmation he needed.

"I should go," he mutters finally, voice hollow.

"Wait—"

But he’s already turning, already walking away, his shoulders tense and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You should stop him. You should.

But you don’t.

Because what could you possibly say to make this right?

The air still feels thick, heavy with the weight of everything unspoken. You watch his retreating figure, the way his shoulders stay rigid, his steps hurried, like he can’t get away fast enough.

You could call out to him. You could chase after him, tell him something, anything—but what would be the point? What could possibly fix this now?

So you just stand there. Silent. Frozen.

Jimin shifts beside you. You feel him, not quite touching but close enough that the warmth of his body cuts through the cold sinking into your chest. He doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales softly, and then—

"You okay?"

It’s a stupid question. You both know the answer. But still, you nod. Because what else is there to do?

Jimin watches you for a moment, his gaze careful, searching. And then he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "You should go after him," he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.

"And say what?"

He doesn’t have an answer to that either.

The silence stretches. Your heart is still hammering, your thoughts still racing. It feels like the walls are closing in, like the weight of your choices is finally crashing down on you all at once.

"Come on," Jimin murmurs, reaching for you. His fingers brush against yours, barely there, like he’s testing to see if you’ll pull away. When you don’t, he laces them together, squeezing lightly. "Let’s get out of here."

You nod, letting him pull you along, away from the crowd, away from the mess you’ve made.

The car ride is quiet.

Jimin doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything, just lets you sit there, lost in your thoughts, staring out the window at the blur of city lights. The weight of the night sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs, but you don’t let it break you. Not yet.

When you get to his place, everything feels eerily normal. Familiar. The same as it always is. Like nothing just imploded outside that concert venue.

You kick off your shoes, shrug off your jacket, move through his apartment like it’s second nature. Like you belong here. And maybe that’s the worst part—that even now, even after everything, this still feels like home.

Jimin watches you from the doorway. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his gaze on you, warm and weighted.

Finally, he exhales, stepping forward. "Talk to me."

You let out a humorless laugh. "About what?"

"About what just happened."

You shake your head, pressing your fingers against your temples. "I don’t even know where to start."

Jimin sighs. He moves closer, his hands finding your waist, grounding you. "Then don’t start. Just… tell me what you need right now."

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. "I don’t know."

He hums softly, fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. "I think you do."

Your chest tightens. You do. You do know.

You need this. Him.

You need to feel something other than the crushing weight of guilt and heartbreak. You need to drown it all out, even if it’s just for a little while.

Jimin sees it the moment you let go. The moment you give in. His hands tighten around your waist, and when you finally meet his gaze, there’s no hesitation—just understanding. Just the same pull that’s always been there, dragging you back to him, over and over again.

And when he leans in, when his lips brush against yours, soft and slow, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him—you don’t.

Because maybe you never really could.

The kiss starts slow. Hesitant, almost. Like he’s giving you space to change your mind. Like he knows you won’t.

Your hands move before you can think, fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. And that’s all it takes. Jimin exhales sharply against your lips, something shifting between you, something heavier, something inevitable.

His fingers dig into your waist, guiding you back until the backs of your knees hit the couch. You fall, and he follows, pressing you down, his weight familiar and grounding. It should feel wrong. It should feel like a mistake. But all you feel is warmth, the way he fits against you like he belongs there.

Like he always has.

He kisses you deep, slow and consuming, like he’s trying to pull you apart, unravel you thread by thread. And you let him. Because right now, in this moment, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

But then—he pulls back. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at you.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough, quieter than before.

You nod. "Jimin—"

"No." His fingers slide along your jaw, tilting your face up. "Say it."

You swallow hard. Your chest is tight, your pulse hammering against your ribs, but you hold his gaze and whisper, "I want this. I want you."

That’s all he needs.

The space between you disappears again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

Later, much later, you lie tangled in his sheets, the city lights casting soft shadows across the room. His arm is draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even against the back of your neck.

You should leave. You should get up, get dressed, walk out that door and never look back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, mind spinning, chest tight with something you don’t want to name.

"You’re thinking too much," Jimin murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You huff a quiet laugh. "And you’re not thinking at all."

"Not true." He shifts, pressing closer. "I’m thinking about how good you feel next to me."

You roll your eyes, but he can’t see it. "You’re impossible."

"And you keep coming back to me anyway."

You don’t answer. Because he’s right. Because you don’t know how to stop.

And the worst part?

You’re not sure you want to.

Silence settles between you, thick and heavy, as Jimin’s fingers trace lazy patterns against your bare skin. The warmth of his body against yours should be comforting, should make you feel safe. But instead, there’s this weight in your chest, pressing, pressing, pressing—

"What are we doing?"

His voice is quiet but firm, breaking through the stillness of the room.

Your stomach clenches. You knew this was coming.

You don’t answer at first. You can’t. You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, biting the inside of your cheek.

”___." Jimin shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you. "You’re here. Again. In my bed. With me. But tomorrow—what? You go back to him? Pretend like this didn’t happen?"

You exhale sharply. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Make it sound like I don’t—" You stop yourself, pressing your lips together.

His eyes darken. "Like you don’t what?"

Your throat tightens. You sit up, pulling the sheets around you, feeling suddenly exposed. "Like I don’t care about you."

Jimin exhales, shaking his head. "Then tell me. Tell me what this is. Because I don’t fucking know anymore."

Your heart pounds. "I don’t know either."

"Bullshit." His voice is rough now, strained. "You do know. You just don’t want to say it."

You don’t respond.

He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh. "You keep coming back to me. Every fucking time. And I let you, because I—" He stops, jaw clenching. "Because I can't stay away from you either."

Your chest aches. "Jimin—"

"No. Just—just be honest with me." His voice drops, softer now. "Do you love him?"

You freeze.

Jimin watches you, eyes searching yours, waiting.

The answer is right there, on the tip of your tongue. But you can’t say it. Because the truth is—

You don’t know.

"That’s what I thought," Jimin murmurs, nodding to himself.

"It’s not that simple," you whisper.

"It is." He looks at you, gaze unwavering. "You don’t love him. If you did, you wouldn’t be here with me."

Your breath shudders out of you. "And what if I do?"

His expression hardens for a moment, but then it shifts—something breaking, something vulnerable. "Then why do you look at me like that?" His fingers brush your cheek, his touch unbearably gentle. "Like I’m the only one who makes you feel alive?"

You close your eyes, willing the sting of tears away. "Jimin, please—"

"No." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Don’t beg me to stop when you don’t want me to."

Your resolve cracks. You turn away, pressing your face into your hands. "I don’t know how to do this."

Jimin is silent for a moment. Then—

"You don’t know how to do this, but you sure as hell know how to run back to me when you need me."

Your lips part, but no words come out.

"You keep saying it’s complicated, but then you leave and go play house with him while I—" He swallows hard, voice sharp now. "Do you think this is fucking easy for me?"

You look at him then. The frustration in his eyes, the way his fingers tighten in the sheets. He’s barely holding himself together.

"You sure make it look easy," you murmur, and it’s meant to come out sharp, but instead, it just sounds... broken.

His brow furrows. "What?"

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. "You don’t seem to have a hard time distracting yourself with other girls."

Jimin’s expression shifts in an instant. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and his eyes—his eyes darken with something close to anger. "Are you fucking serious?"

"I see the pictures, Jimin. I hear what people say."

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, running a hand down his face. "You’re unbelievable."

You glare at him. "I’m unbelievable? You’re the one—"

"I’m the one what?" He snaps, sitting up fully now, sheets pooling at his waist. "Fucking girls who aren’t you ?"

You flinch at his words. But he’s not done.

"You wanna know why I do it? Why I go home with them?" His voice is lower now, rough, edged with something raw. "Because I’m trying to fucking forget you. And guess what?" He leans in, eyes boring into yours. "*It doesn’t fucking work.*"

Your breath catches.

"I don’t want them, Y/N. None of them. But I have to do something to keep myself from going crazy while you play perfect girlfriend with him and come running back to me whenever it suits you."

Your hands are trembling now. "Jimin—"

"No." He shakes his head, voice cracking. "I need you to hear me. I love you. I’ve always fucking loved you. And I can’t do this anymore unless you’re all in."

Your heart is pounding. The words are too much, too real, too heavy.

But you can’t deny the way your entire body reacts to them.

"You need to choose, Y/N," Jimin murmurs, softer now, but just as firm. "Me or him. But you can’t have us both."

The weight of his words settles over you, suffocating.

Because deep down, you already know.

You’ve known for a long time.

The apartment is eerily quiet.

You sit on the couch, staring at the floor, hands gripping your knees so hard your knuckles turn white. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight you can’t shake off. The dim glow of the evening sun filters through the windows, casting long shadows against the walls. It feels empty here—like something has already been lost.

Your heart pounds relentlessly in your chest.

This is it.

The choice has been made.

There’s a knock at the door.

You flinch.

Your breath catches in your throat as you force yourself to stand, legs shaky beneath you. You wipe your palms on your jeans, exhaling slowly before reaching for the door handle. The click of the lock echoes through the apartment as you pull it open.

Your boyfriend stands on the other side, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then he exhales sharply, stepping inside. His eyes sweep over you, searching for something—an answer, maybe. One you know he’s already figured out.

"So this is it?" His voice is flat. Detached.

Your throat tightens. "I—"

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he walks past you, heading straight for the bedroom where his things are. He doesn't ask. He already knows.

You follow him slowly, hands twisting together. "I didn’t mean for it to happen like this."

"Didn't you?" He throws the words over his shoulder as he starts grabbing his clothes from the closet, shoving them into his duffel bag. "Because I think you did."

You flinch. "That’s not fair."

He turns then, eyes burning as he looks at you. "No, what’s not fair is that I spent months defending you. Months ignoring the things my friends were saying. The warnings. The looks. Because I trusted you."

Your stomach twists. "I never wanted to hurt you."

He scoffs, zipping up his bag with more force than necessary. "Well, congratulations. You did."

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.

You watch as he slings the bag over his shoulder, exhaling through his nose as he studies you one last time. "It was him all along, wasn’t it?"

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t have to.

He nods, jaw clenching before he takes a step forward—close enough that you can see the pain flickering behind his eyes. "I hope he was worth it."

Then he walks past you, out the door.

And just like that—he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

You just stand there, staring at the spot where he had been, the weight of everything pressing down on you like an anchor, dragging you under.

It’s done.

It should feel like relief. Like the end of something that was always bound to break. Instead, your chest tightens so painfully you have to grip the doorframe to steady yourself.

The apartment still smells like him—his cologne, his laundry detergent, the faint trace of coffee that always lingered on his clothes. You catch sight of the empty space on the dresser where his things used to be, and it sends a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you.

Your stomach twists.

You press your palms against your face, trying to steady your breathing, trying to ignore the sting behind your eyes. You shouldn’t be crying. You made this choice.

So why does it still hurt?

A sharp knock on the door shatters the quiet.

Your heart stutters.

For a split second, you think it’s him—coming back, changing his mind, asking you to explain. But when you reach for the handle and pull it open, it’s not him standing on the other side.

It’s Jimin.

His hood is pulled up over his orange hair, the low glow of the hallway lights casting shadows over his face. His eyes find yours instantly, and something inside you splinters. He takes one look at you—the trembling hands, the unshed tears, the mess of emotions you’re trying so hard to keep contained—and he just knows.

He’s gone.

Jimin exhales, his jaw clenching for a brief moment before he steps inside, closing the door behind him.

Neither of you speak.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t have to. You know he sees right through you.

Instead, he just reaches for you.

And the moment his hands find your waist, you break.

A shuddering breath escapes you as you sink into him, forehead pressing against his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie like he’s the only thing keeping you upright. Jimin says nothing, just holds you tighter, his chin resting against the top of your head. His warmth seeps into you, grounding you, steadying you.

Minutes pass.

Your breathing slows, the erratic pounding of your heart settling into something quieter, something calmer.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. His dark eyes search yours, quiet and careful, waiting for something—waiting for you.

And then, softly—almost hesitantly—he asks, "Are you mine now?"

The words are barely above a whisper.

You swallow hard. You know what he’s really asking.

No more hiding. No more pretending.

No more running.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his hoodie, and you nod.

"I’m yours."

Something shifts in his expression—something raw, something like relief. His hands cup your face then, his lips brushing against your forehead, your temple, your cheek—like he’s memorizing you, like he’s making sure this is real.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

And for the first time all night—maybe for the first time in a long time—you don’t feel lost

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tag list: @kam9404

[yoonmoonn]

officially im convinced tumblr hates me cuz why are my drafts getting content labels for so reason 😐

[yoonmoonn]

Everything going ok with you? You’ve been gone awhile! I hope all is well!

hiii ! yess, im very well, thank you for asking, hope youre doing amazing too💕💕 just been on a long ass trip and i left my laptop at home but now im back with a lot to post 😋 heres a little list of whats to come soon:

moth to a flame 02

the blade and the crown (im keeping that a secret for now 🫢)

call out my name 01

heavenly drabble

[yoonmoonn]

winter days together┃pjm

winter days together ┃taglist

note: this is actually very much inspired by a dream I had a few years back and I actually wrote this back then and just rewrote it now

The cold seeped into your bones the second you stepped into your apartment, the weight of the day pressing against your shoulders. Winter has always been your least favourite season—the biting air, the slush ruining your favourite shoes, the way the cold never really leaves your skin no matter how many layers you wear. But there’s one thing that makes it bearable.

Jimin.

You let out a sigh as you sink under the thick comforter that’s practically become a second home on your bed. Sleep is the only thing you crave after a long, exhausting day of college and an even longer, colder walk home. The bedroom door clicks softly behind you, the sound almost drowned out by the wind howling against the windows.

Jimin rounds the bed, his attention locked onto the video playing on his phone. He doesn’t even look up as he slides under the comforter beside you, effortlessly making himself comfortable. His phone rests against the fold of the duvet between you both, a makeshift stand so he doesn’t have to hold it anymore.

Without a word, his hand finds yours, fingers wrapping around your wrist before pulling it close to his mouth. He presses a soft, absentminded kiss against the back of your hand, warm breath fanning over your skin.

You smile at the small affection, watching as his lashes flutter against his cheeks, the exhaustion evident on his face. Reaching out, you boop his nose with your thumb.

“You’re so cute when you’re sleepy,” you murmur, voice dipping into something softer.

He makes a small sound of protest but nuzzles his face into your hand anyway. His warmth spreads through you, like the first sip of hot tea on a freezing day.

You tug your hand away just long enough to grab his phone and place it behind you on the bed. He lets out a small huff but doesn’t argue when you shift closer, pressing yourself against his chest. Without hesitation, his arm wraps around your waist, fingers slipping beneath your shirt.

The moment his skin meets yours, he flinches. “Why are you so cold?” he mumbles, concern threading through his voice. He tugs the blanket higher, tucking it around your shoulders, his hold tightening around you.

You shrug, burrowing deeper into his embrace. “I don’t know.”

His fingers return to your waist, tracing slow, lazy patterns against your skin. You let your head rest against his chest, his steady heartbeat beneath your ear. He chuckles, dipping his head to press a kiss against your hair. “Go to sleep if you’re tired.”

You shake your head, not looking up at him. “It’s too early. If I sleep now, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and won’t be able to fall back asleep.”

Jimin hums, lips curling against your temple. “But wouldn’t you be tired from running around in my dreams all night?”

You scoff, smacking his chest lightly. “I swear I can hear your cheeky grin.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Let’s watch something, then.”

You tilt your head slightly, catching the dim glow of his phone screen from where it sits behind you. “What were you even watching earlier?”

Jimin shrugs, stretching his arms above his head before settling back down beside you. “Nothing interesting. Just something random.”

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “That tells me absolutely nothing.”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the amused smile that tugs at your lips. “So, you were watching something embarrassing, weren’t you?”

Jimin lets out a breathy laugh. “I literally just said it was nothing interesting.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?” you press, shifting to prop yourself up on one elbow.

His smirk widens, and in one swift movement, he rolls on top of you, his weight pinning you to the mattress. You barely get the chance to react before his fingers are at your sides, tickling mercilessly.

“You little menace,” you gasp between laughter, struggling under him. “I just asked a question!”

Jimin grins down at you, eyes glinting with mischief. “And I answered it!”

You’re laughing too hard to fight him off, breathless as you squirm beneath him. Finally, he relents, shifting so that most of his weight is off you, but his body still presses comfortably against yours. His nose brushes against yours, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold still clinging to your skin.

His expression softens as he studies you, thumb tracing idle patterns against your waist. “You’re still freezing,” he murmurs.

You sigh, your earlier amusement melting into something more tired. “To be honest, I think I’m getting sick.”

Jimin immediately sits up, concern flickering across his face. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Pick something to watch. I’ll be right back.”

You don’t argue, watching as he disappears out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Sighing, you grab the remote and begin scrolling through movies. A few minutes later, the door opens again, and Jimin steps back in, a hoodie draped over his shoulder and two mugs in his hands.

“I made hot chocolate,” he announces, setting the mugs on his nightstand before handing you the hoodie. “And I got you this—fresh from the dryer.”

Your eyes light up as you pull the hoodie over your head, the lingering warmth wrapping around you like a hug. “I’m pretty sure you just made me fall in love with you again.”

Jimin grins, settling beside you with his own mug. He takes a sip, then hands yours over, making sure it’s not too hot before letting you take it. You lean back against the headboard, his hand naturally finding its way under your hoodie to rest against your hip.

“You’re already getting warmer,” he murmurs, fingers smoothing over your skin.

You take a sip of hot chocolate, the sweetness melting against your tongue, and place the mug back down before patting the space beside you. Jimin doesn’t hesitate to slide closer, pulling you against him as he plays the movie you picked.

Time blurs together in the warmth of his presence. The movie fades into background noise, your attention slipping with each slow caress of Jimin’s hand against your back. Your eyelids grow heavier, your body sinking further into his.

“Sleepy?” he murmurs, taking note of your slowed breathing.

You nod, humming softly in response.

Jimin kisses the top of your head. “Let’s sleep, then. It’s getting late.”

The TV volume lowers as he carefully moves, but the loss of his warmth has you groaning in protest. “Where are you going?”

Jimin chuckles. “Your hair always gets in my face at night.” He grabs a hair tie from the desk and tosses it to you.

You giggle, quickly tying your hair up before laying back down. Jimin follows suit, curling into you, his arm slipping around your waist once more. You settle against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling his fingers ghost soft, lazy patterns along your skin.

“I could never dream of anything better than this,” he murmurs, voice filled with quiet sincerity.

You smile, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against his neck. “Me neither, baby. I love you.”

Jimin’s lips brush against your forehead, his voice the last thing you hear before sleep takes you under.

“I love you too, pretty.”

The morning seeps in slowly, filtering through the curtains in soft streaks of pale winter light. The air in the room is crisp, the kind that bites at your exposed skin and makes you want to sink further into the warmth of the bed. But under the heavy comforter, tucked securely against Jimin’s body, there’s nothing but heat—comforting and all-consuming.

You can feel him before you even open your eyes. The slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the solid weight of his arm draped over your waist, fingers lightly curled into the fabric of his hoodie that you wore to bed. Even in sleep, he’s holding onto you, his body curved around yours in a way that makes it impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

There’s no rush to wake up, no alarms blaring, no obligations waiting to pull you away from this moment. Just the occasional creak of the radiator, the muted sound of wind rattling against the window, and the quiet hum of Jimin’s breath against your skin.

You sigh softly, shifting just enough to press yourself closer into the warmth of him. The movement stirs him.

A low hum rumbles against your back as he tightens his hold on you, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His breath is warm, fanning across your skin, and when he exhales again, it’s slow, content, almost like he’s trying to lull himself back to sleep.

Then, a lazy mumble, thick with sleep:

“Too early.”

His voice is raspy, deeper than usual, the remnants of slumber still clinging to it.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Then go back to sleep.”

He shifts again, pressing a barely-there kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering for a second longer than necessary. “Can’t,” he mutters. “Not when you’re awake.”

You exhale a small laugh, reaching for his hand where it rests against your stomach, intertwining your fingers with his. “You were just asleep.”

“Mmm.” His grip tightens, his body pressing more firmly into yours. “Then let’s go back to sleep.”

His lips brush against your skin again—featherlight, teasing. It’s lazy, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world.

You roll onto your back, turning to face him, and he follows the movement easily, his body molding against yours. One of his legs slots between yours, his hand slipping under the hoodie, fingertips grazing over your bare waist in slow, absentminded patterns.

His eyes are barely open, still heavy with sleep, but there’s something about the way they settle on you that makes your breath catch—warm, dark, and completely filled with something unspoken.

You reach up, brushing a few stray strands of hair from his forehead. “You should sleep a little longer.”

He catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss against the inside of it. “Not tired anymore.”

His voice is softer now, lower, as if he’s still teetering on the edge of consciousness.

You don’t argue, don’t say anything else, because before you can, he’s tilting his head, closing the distance between you, and brushing his lips against yours.

It’s slow. Lazy. Like he’s tasting the morning, savoring the feeling of your warmth beneath his hands, the way your breath mingles with his in the small space between kisses.

You sigh against his mouth, melting into him.

He hums, deep and satisfied, his fingers tightening against your waist. His lips move against yours in a way that feels effortless, familiar, like this is exactly where he belongs—here, in your bed, in the quiet hush of morning, with you.

The kiss lingers. It’s not rushed, not urgent. Just warm, and slow, and impossibly tender.

When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His nose brushes against yours, his forehead resting against your temple.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

His arm tightens around you. “You make me warm.”

You huff a small laugh, closing your eyes again as you relax into him, your fingers tracing lazy shapes against his back.

For a while, neither of you move. The weight of his body against yours, the steady sound of his breathing, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips—it’s grounding, comforting.

And then, after a moment:

“Baby?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Mm?”

“Stay like this forever.”

You smile against his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to the skin there. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

His fingers ghost up and down your spine, the rhythm slow, soothing. You let your eyes flutter shut again, letting yourself sink further into the moment.

Minutes pass like that—quiet, tangled in warmth and soft breaths, his lips occasionally pressing against your forehead, your temple, your shoulder.

Then, Jimin shifts, rolling onto his back, and in one smooth movement, he pulls you on top of him.

You let out a small sound of surprise, your hands landing on his chest, but it quickly dissolves into a laugh as you prop yourself up, looking down at him.

He grins, still sleep-heavy but looking entirely too pleased with himself, his hands finding your waist beneath the hoodie. “Much better,” he murmurs.

You narrow your eyes, but the corners of your lips tug upward. “You just like having me on top of you.”

“You figured me out.” He smirks, his hands gliding up your back, pulling you down until you’re pressed against him again.

You roll your eyes but let yourself melt into him, resting your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Jimin’s fingers slip into your hair, massaging gentle circles into your scalp, his touch slow, methodical.

“Pretty?” His voice is quiet, softer now.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

You smile, pressing a kiss against his collarbone. “I love you too.”

His arms tighten around you, his body sinking further into the mattress as he exhales a slow, content breath.

And in the quiet warmth of the morning, tangled up in Jimin, you think—maybe forever doesn’t sound so bad.

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

[yoonmoonn]

moth to a flame ┃pjm

01 ┃moth to a flame ┃taglist

warnings: many mentions of cheating

The sun is barely warming up the late morning campus, students scattered across the courtyard, some rushing to classes, others lingering around for their next break. You sit on the concrete steps outside the main building with Mina and Jisoo, your coffee resting between your hands, slowly cooling down as the conversation shifts—again—to your boyfriend.

“He’s literally the perfect boyfriend,” Mina sighs, stretching out her legs in front of her. “Seriously, he’s got no red flags. None. How did you even manage to find someone like that?”

Jisoo hums in agreement, nudging your shoulder with hers. “Right? And he’s like, actually obsessed with you in the healthiest way possible. If you don’t marry him, I will.”

They giggle, and you force out a small laugh, but it comes out hollow. You should agree. You should say something about how sweet he is, how good he treats you.

But then your phone vibrates in your lap.

You don’t have to look. You already know who it is.

Still, your fingers twitch before flipping the screen up just enough to see the name.

Jimin: What are you up to later?

Your breath catches in your throat. You shouldn’t reply. You shouldn’t even think about it.

You glance up instinctively, scanning the crowd spread across campus. It doesn’t take long to find him.

Jimin is leaning against the railing near the entrance, surrounded by his usual crowd—his boys, the ones everyone knows to stay away from. He’s laughing, dragging a hand through his messy dark hair, looking like he doesn’t have a single worry in the world. His hoodie is wrinkled, probably the same one he wore yesterday, and you’re willing to bet he’s still running on no sleep from whatever he got up to last night.

His reputation follows him everywhere—skipping class, barely scraping by with his grades, a cigarette always tucked behind his ear, a different girl in his lap every weekend. A walking red flag, a bad decision waiting to happen.

And he’s looking at you.

Your stomach twists when he raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his dark eyes when he sees you staring. He tilts his head, as if to say, Well?

You rip your gaze away, turning your attention back to Mina and Jisoo, who are still gushing about your boyfriend—your perfect, loyal, stable boyfriend.

And yet, Jimin’s text lingers on your screen, demanding an answer.

You don’t want to, but you already know what you’re going to do.

Because you always go back.

You tell yourself you won’t answer. You tell yourself you’ll sit here, sip your coffee, listen to Mina and Jisoo, and pretend like your phone isn’t burning a hole in your lap.

But then your fingers move before your mind can stop them.

You: Busy.

It’s a weak attempt, and you know it. You can practically hear Jimin scoffing through the screen.

A few seconds later, your phone vibrates again.

Jimin: No, you’re not.

Your throat goes dry.

You risk another glance toward him, and he’s still there—this time, looking straight at you. He lifts his chin slightly, his smirk deepening when he catches the way your breath stutters.

You force yourself to look away.

“Earth to you,” Mina calls, waving a hand in front of your face. “You good?”

Jisoo squints. “Yeah, you look weird.”

You blink, forcing a casual smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

It’s not a lie. You are tired. Tired of this. Tired of pretending. Tired of the constant push and pull, of knowing better and doing the opposite anyway.

Because no matter how hard you try to stay away from Jimin, he always finds a way to pull you back in.

An hour later, you find yourself in the back hallway of the library. It’s quieter here, away from the main study area, tucked behind rows of old bookshelves.

You shouldn’t be here. You should be heading to class.

But Jimin knew that already.

When you turn the corner, he’s there, leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He looks exactly the same as he did this morning—messy hair, tired eyes, the slight hint of amusement still tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Took you long enough,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes, shifting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you like he’s looking for something, like he already knows the answer.

“Did you miss me?”

You scoff. “No.”

Jimin hums, stepping closer. “Liar.”

You hate how easy it is for him to read you. You hate how, even when you try to be indifferent, his presence alone is enough to unravel you.

“I saw you with your boyfriend yesterday,” he says, voice lazy but sharp. “You looked happy.”

You swallow. “I am happy.”

Another step. Closer, closer, closer.

“Then why are you here?”

Your heart is racing, and he knows it. He always knows.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

Jimin lifts a hand, his fingers barely brushing against your wrist, and it’s pathetic how your skin burns at the contact.

“You never do,” he murmurs.

And then he’s kissing you.

And you let him.

You should stop this. You know you should.

But the moment Jimin’s lips touch yours, every thought—every rational, logical reason why this is wrong—dissolves into nothing.

He kisses you slowly, like he has all the time in the world, like he’s not the guy everyone whispers about in hallways, a name that gets written on bathroom stalls. the one with the reputation, the one you shouldn’t be tangled up with like this.

But right now, in this quiet corner of the library, he’s not any of those things. He’s just Jimin. Just the boy who always knows exactly what to say, exactly how to touch you, exactly how to make you feel seen in a way no one else ever has.

His hand slides to your waist, firm but never demanding, and when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“You always do this,” he murmurs.

Your hands tighten in the fabric of his hoodie. “Do what?”

“Act like this isn’t real.” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it—something frustrated, something vulnerable. “Act like this is just some… mistake you keep making.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Isn’t it?

Jimin sighs, pulling back just enough to look at you. His fingers move, brushing against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He’s always been like this with you—soft, patient, careful, even when he has every right not to be.

“I don’t like sharing you.”

Your breath catches. “Jimin—”

“I know,” he says, shaking his head. “I know, okay? You have a boyfriend. You love him. He’s good for you. You don’t have to tell me.”

The words sting in a way you weren’t expecting.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? Your boyfriend is good for you. He’s kind, he’s safe, he’s easy. But when you’re with Jimin, it doesn’t feel like settling. It feels like breathing.

Jimin tilts his head, searching your face. “So why are you here?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

He sighs again, softer this time, and then he does something that completely undoes you.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing lightly over your skin. It’s not possessive. It’s not demanding. It’s just him, holding you like you’re something fragile, something worth holding on to.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “But you do have to stop pretending like this doesn’t mean something.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes.

Because it does.

It always has.

Your boyfriend is asleep next to you, his arm heavy across your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. The room is wrapped in darkness, save for the faint glow of your phone screen illuminating your face. The air is thick with the scent of laundry detergent and his cologne—something safe, something familiar. But it doesn’t settle you.

Your fingers mindlessly scroll, the soft rustling of sheets the only sound in the silence. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, just chasing distractions, trying to push away the unease that’s been sitting in your chest all night.

And then you see it.

A picture.

Jimin at a club, bathed in neon light, the blur of bodies moving around him like a scene from a movie. And there, pressed against his side, is her.

A girl. Someone too pretty, too effortless, her body angled into him like she belongs there. Her manicured fingers rest lightly on his chest, right where your hand should be. She’s leaning in close, whispering something into his ear, and he—

He’s letting her.

Your stomach twists.

Your breath stutters, fingers tightening around your phone as if you could crush the image out of existence.

It’s a candid shot, taken by someone in the crowd, the kind of picture that ends up on everyone’s feed. The caption is meaningless—just a mention of the club, a couple of fire emojis. But your gaze is locked on Jimin, the relaxed tilt of his body, the faint smirk on his lips.

It shouldn’t hurt.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You tell yourself he always looks like that—always has people around him, always draws attention without trying. You tell yourself he wouldn’t—

But the tightness in your throat betrays you.

You set your phone down too fast, the screen going black as you press the heel of your palm against your eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

But it’s too late.

A shaky breath escapes, and the moment it does, you know you’ve lost. The tears burn, hot and unrelenting, slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Beside you, your boyfriend shifts, groggy. His grip on your waist tightens slightly, his voice thick with sleep. “Baby?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

Shit.

Your pulse pounds, your heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Like it’s chasing someone else. “Yeah,” you whisper, forcing the words out. “Just—just a bad headache.”

A beat of silence. Then the rustling of sheets as he lifts his head, his brows furrowed in the dim light. His concern is quiet, gentle. “Want me to get you some water?”

Your throat closes.

You shake your head too quickly. “No. Just need to sleep.”

He hums, already sinking back into sleep, his breathing steady, unbothered. His fingers graze your skin absently before going still, his presence warm, solid, safe.

And you should feel safe, too.

But you don’t.

Because the only thing playing in your mind is Jimin.

The night is heavy with silence, broken only by the distant hum of cars passing outside. Your apartment is dim, washed in the cold glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. The clock on the wall ticks steadily, reminding you of how late it is.

You’re sitting on the couch, legs pulled to your chest, your phone resting in your palm. The apartment isn’t empty—your boyfriend is asleep in the next room, his even breaths barely audible through the slightly open bedroom door.

But your mind is somewhere else.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But it’s been a week. A week of silence, of pretending everything is fine, of feeling like something is clawing at your chest every time you’re alone.

So you do the only thing you can.

You call Jimin.

The phone barely rings twice before he picks up. Like he was waiting. Like he knew.

There’s a pause, a sharp inhale on the other end, and then—

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, hushed, familiar.

Your stomach clenches. It’s stupid how much relief washes over you at the sound of him. You close your eyes, fingers tightening around the phone.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

A beat of silence. Then, his voice softer, laced with something unreadable. “Why are you calling me this late?”

You hesitate, glancing towards the bedroom door, at the shadowy figure asleep inside.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Jimin exhales, and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks again. “Yeah, you do.”

You bite your lip. Of course you do.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t want this. But you can’t help it—the way his voice settles something inside you, the way it feels like coming up for air after drowning in your own thoughts for days.

There’s shuffling on his end, the faint creak of a bed frame. “Are you alone?”

You swallow hard. “No.”

Jimin goes quiet. Then, a low chuckle, amused but tired. “So he’s there.”

You don’t answer.

He sighs. “And you’re still calling me.”

Your throat feels tight. “I don’t know what to do.”

A pause. His voice is softer when he speaks, almost like he’s afraid of breaking something.

“Neither do I.”

The words settle deep inside you, making your chest ache.

For a second, you almost say something else. Something real. Something that might ruin everything.

But instead, you just whisper, “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, finally—“Goodnight.”

You hang up, your heart still racing.

The bedroom door remains slightly open, the room beyond it barely lit and quiet. Your boyfriend is still asleep, oblivious.

And yet, all you can think about is Jimin.

The phone screen fades to black in your hand, but the weight of the call lingers. The air in the apartment is thick, pressing against your skin, and the silence is unbearable—louder than any words you could’ve said.

Your eyes drift toward the bedroom door, slightly ajar. Inside, your boyfriend sleeps soundly, his breaths slow, steady, oblivious. The warm glow of the bedside lamp spills across the sheets, highlighting the familiar shape of him—the person you should love, the one who does everything right.

But does he know?

Does he know the way your heart clenches when you see Jimin’s name light up your phone? Does he know about the late-night calls, the words whispered in the dark, the silence that stretches between you because you don’t know how to stop?

Does he know about the pictures you keep?

Your gaze flickers to the bookshelf across the room, second row, tucked between old notebooks and dog-eared novels—a single polaroid, hidden but never thrown away. The edges curled from being touched too many times. The image burned into your mind even when you’re not looking.

Jimin, smirking at the camera, arm slung around your shoulders, the neon lights of a party glowing behind you both. His hand is on your hip, a casual claim, a touch that still lingers on your skin even now.

Does he know where your heart lies?

You press your palms into your temples, squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t want to think about this.

But the images come anyway—Jimin, grinning at you across a crowded room, Jimin, fingers brushing against yours under the table, Jimin, murmuring you’re gonna be the death of me against your lips before pulling you into a kiss that made the rest of the world fall away.

And yet, here you are. In an apartment that isn’t his. Lying to someone who doesn’t deserve it.

You exhale shakily and get up, padding toward the bathroom. The light flickers on, harsh and unforgiving. You grip the sink, knuckles white, and stare at yourself in the mirror.

Your reflection is tired, haunted.

You reach for the faucet, cold water rushing over your trembling fingers. You splash it against your face, hoping—praying—it’ll wash away the guilt pressing into your ribs like a vice.

But when you close your eyes, all you see is him.

please don't claim or copy any of my work !!

[yoonmoonn]

you didnt lie 🤧 oc ate in chapter 4 like yes girl !!! Demand answers and explanations like wow, the audacity of men 🙄

ok but you are putting out these chapters so fast i love it!!! Thank youuu🫡💜

(we’re gonna pretend i answers this when it came in 🫢)

but I loved oc too, really patted myself on the back while writing it 😭

I’m sosososo glad you guys like the series, I actually wrote it a long time ago so that’s how I put them out so fast but I like writing a few chapters a day (if I can) so I can put them out every day 💕

[yoonmoonn]

added some new things!! now you have to fill a small form to be added in tag lists (you can find it in the navi, in chapters and in master lists) and i also added a ot7 master list where you can finally find wired for you now 😭

[yoonmoonn]

always just you┃myg

drabble 02 | always just you

warnings: just tooth rotting fluff :(

You look up from your phone, eyes flicking back to the window, down to the front of the art building, where Yoongi is standing.

And of course, he’s not alone.

That same dark-haired girl from the party is standing way too close, her body angled toward him like she’s got some kind of shot.

You almost laugh.

The audacity.

You remember her. You remember the way she clung to him that night, all coy smiles and desperate touches, like she really thought she could sink her nails into him.

As if.

Yoongi looks down at his phone, reading your text. Then, as if he already knew, his eyes lift straight to your window.

Of course he knows where to look.

You raise an eyebrow at him, daring him to do something about it.

And then—

He smirks.

Not the sweet kind, not the soft, reassuring one he usually gives you. No, this one is different. This one is cocky. Like he knows exactly what’s going through your mind, like he’s enjoying this.

Asshole.

The girl reaches out, touching his arm, and instead of immediately pulling away, he lets it happen—just long enough for you to notice.

You narrow your eyes.

Your phone buzzes.

“Come down, baby.”

You scoff, fingers tightening around your phone.

And then—another message.

“Or just keep glaring at me. Kinda hot.”

You roll your eyes.

This man.

You could stay up here. You could just ignore it.

But instead, you push back your chair, grab your bag, and head for the door.

By the time you push through the front doors of the art building, Yoongi’s already waiting.

The girl is still there—still talking, still smiling—but Yoongi’s focus is elsewhere.

On you.

His eyes flick up from his phone the second you step outside, like he already knew you’d come looking. Like he could feel you watching him from the window upstairs.

Smug.

You don’t acknowledge him at first, don’t even look at her. You just walk straight past them, fully expecting Yoongi to follow.

And of course, he does.

You hear the rustle of his jacket, the soft scuff of his boots against the pavement as he falls into step beside you, leaving her behind without a second thought.

“Not even a glare for her?” he teases, voice low, like he’s enjoying this a little too much. “You’re going soft on me.”

You scoff. “Please.”

He hums, clearly entertained. “So you’re not mad?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Yoongi chuckles, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s grinning now, amused, smug, because he knows you—knows you wanted to say something but didn’t because you’re better than that.

But he also knows you well enough to know you are mad.

And he loves it.

“What?” you snap, finally glancing at him.

He shakes his head, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Nothing. You’re just cute when you’re trying not to be mad.”

You roll your eyes, walking faster, but he just matches your pace easily, still grinning.

“Come on,” he coaxes, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you were jealous.”

You scoff. “I wasn’t.”

He hums again, unconvinced, and you hate how much he’s enjoying this.

So you stop, turning to face him fully, arms crossed. “You wanna know what’s funny?”

He lifts a brow, waiting.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes sharp. “How some people don’t know when to quit.”

Yoongi laughs, head tilting back slightly, and before you can walk away, he reaches out, catching your wrist and pulling you into him. His hands settle on your waist, firm and familiar.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “I only have time for you.”

And just like that, the fire in your chest dims, replaced by warmth—by him.

Annoying. Smug. Yours.

Later that night, you’re tangled up in bed together, the hum of the city outside filling the silence between you. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlights slipping through the window. The warmth of Yoongi’s body is steady beside you, his arm draped lazily around your waist, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your hip.

He’s relaxed, half-asleep, his breaths even and deep. But you? You’re still awake. Still thinking.

Still mad.

“She was flirting with you again.”

Yoongi makes a quiet noise of protest, exhaling heavily as he buries his face deeper into your neck. “Baby, please—”

“She was,” you insist, shifting against him, your voice sharper now. “And she doesn’t even care that you have a girlfriend.”

That makes him sigh, his hold on you tightening slightly. For a second, he doesn’t respond, like he’s debating whether or not to engage.

Then he finally mutters, “She’s been trying. Like she did at the party.”

You scoff, rolling onto your back. “That’s pathetic.”

Yoongi opens his eyes, watching you with quiet amusement. “You’re mad.”

“Obviously.” You cross your arms, glaring up at the ceiling. “She has some nerve. I should’ve—” You cut yourself off, jaw clenching.

Yoongi smirks, propping himself up on one elbow. “Should’ve what?”

You huff, shaking your head. “Nothing. I just—I don’t get how some people have no shame.”

Yoongi shifts, resting his chin on your shoulder now, his body pressing against yours. “She doesn’t matter.”

“She thinks she has a chance with you,” you continue, ignoring his words. “It’s embarrassing.”

He laughs softly, his breath warm against your skin. “For her, yeah.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can respond, he tugs you closer, his voice dropping lower.

“She’s tried a few times,” he admits. “After the party, and then randomly on campus. Always starts with some excuse—asking for notes, pretending to care about basketball, whatever.”

You frown. “And what do you do?”

Yoongi tilts his head, giving you a look. “I tell her no. Every single time.”

That makes something in your chest tighten, but you don’t let it show. “She obviously doesn’t listen.”

“No,” he agrees, a little annoyed now. “She doesn’t. She pretends like it’s all innocent, but I know what she’s doing.”

Your frown deepens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sighs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Because I knew you’d get like this.”

“Like what?”

“All cute and mad,” he teases, grinning when you shove at him. He catches your wrist easily, intertwining your fingers with his.

“I just hate that she acts like I don’t exist,” you mutter.

Yoongi hums, pulling your hand up to his lips. “She doesn’t matter, baby. She’s not important.”

You swallow, still feeling the remnants of frustration linger in your chest. “But you’re—you’re the most popular guy on campus. Captain. MVP. Every girl here wants you.”

Yoongi blinks at you, then suddenly flips you onto your back, hovering over you now. “And I only want you.”

You exhale slowly, heart pounding.

“That’s never going to change,” he continues, his voice softer now, his gaze steady and sure. “I don’t care about any of them. Just you.”

Your fingers tighten around his shirt. “You mean that?”

Yoongi lets out a quiet, almost offended laugh, then leans down to press his lips to yours—slow, lingering, like he’s trying to prove it.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Always just you.”

And somehow, you believe him.

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