generouspursethingbat

[generouspursethingbat]

dear me | 12

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs: mental health struggles, intrusive thoughts, emotional distress, identity crisis, implied trauma, existential themes, societal pressure, dissociation, self-neglect, emotional numbness, depressive thoughts, internalized guilt, loss of autonomy, loneliness, codependency, fear of loss, unresolved grief, generational trauma, anxiety, perfectionism, self-worth issues

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— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,7k // date: 17th of June 2025

CHAPTER TWELVE — THE MORNING GHOSTS happy reading my gummies...

AN: hii everyone!! buckle up because this chapter is a whole mood — heavy as hell, so proceed with caution. first things first, serious question: do y’all still hate nina or nah? bahahahaha, no judgment either way (judges, just kidding). secondly, we’re diving deep into jungkook’s messy mind with his pov here — spoiler alert: he’s a totally unreliable narrator, so grab your skepticism hats! thirdly, dear me is far from over, so don’t go having any emotional meltdowns about where these characters are headed just yet, kay? hehehe.

i seriously missed you all so much, and writing this chapter was like therapy — taking all that dark energy and turning it into something real.

note goal for this chapter is 500 notes — i don’t even know if y’all are still vibing with dear me, but if this chapter drags you back in, then my job here is done! let’s gooooo!

Youth is led by imagination. Carried by dreams.

To be young is to believe in the impossible — to chase after every flicker of what could be. It means waking up with a thirst. A craving for something more. For a better life, a brighter future. A world still untouched by compromise.

Youth means freedom — to dream, to fail, to try again.

To imagine a thousand versions of yourself, all of them burning with potential.

And when you’re young, you think you’ve already cracked the code.

You think you know who you’ll become.

Until the world introduces itself.

Some people — the rare, golden few — grow into exactly who they dreamed they’d be. They survive the winds, the wreckage, the crueler parts of living. They bloom anyway, like something holy. Like fate smiled and decided they were the exception.

And then there are the others.

The ones swallowed by the storm.

The ones who became something entirely different.

The ones like Jeon Jungkook.

Jungkook wakes up every morning at exactly 5:00 a.m.

No alarms. No prompting. His body just knows — as if the silence itself nudges him awake.

The room is still wrapped in that faint pre-dawn blue, a sliver of soft light spilling through the curtains. He blinks slowly, head turning to the side, and there she is.

Lying beside him. Peaceful. Breathing.

His eyes trace her features like a ritual he’s done a thousand times and still hasn’t grown tired of. The curve of her nose. The way her lashes kiss her cheekbones. The shape of her mouth — slightly parted as she dreams.

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches her.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She’s here.

She’s still here.

His hand moves almost on instinct, fingers reaching out to hover near her face — not quite touching, as if afraid the contact might break the spell. But then he does. Barely. Fingertips brushing over her cheek, the tip of her nose, the softness of her lips.

Alive.

Still alive.

A quiet exhale leaves his chest. Gratitude, heavy and constant, sits behind his ribs like something sacred.

Thank you.

He doesn’t say it out loud. He never does.

But he thinks it. Over and over. Every morning.

Thank you for letting her stay.

He shifts once more beneath the covers, reluctant to leave the warmth of her presence — the quiet comfort of her steady breathing. But eventually, his feet find the floor, cold against his skin, and habit guides him through the motions.

The bathroom light flickers on. The mirror greets him with tired eyes and a jaw shadowed with sleep. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, goes through the same steps he’s done a hundred mornings before — all while thinking of Nina.

Thank you for letting her stay.

He whispers it in his head like a prayer.

Again.

Again.

Again.

A small smile curves on his lips. It’s faint, but it’s real.

Then he heads out for his run.

No music. No distractions. Just him, the pavement, and the slow rise of the morning.

Maybe that makes him a psychopath. That’s what people always joke about.

But maybe it’s the only part of his day where the world finally shuts the hell up.

The streets are still half-asleep, the city blinking itself awake. His breath fogs up the air as he runs, steady and rhythmic, shoes slapping the concrete in quiet tempo. The breeze cuts sharp through his clothes, but it feels good — grounding.

Here, he can listen.

To the sound of wind rustling through trees.

To the beat of his own heart.

To the thoughts he avoids during every other moment of his day.

The ones that sneak up on him when he’s most still.

What if?

What could’ve been?

What never should’ve happened?

They linger in the corners of his mind like ghosts — unwelcome, but familiar. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they scream. Either way, he keeps running. It’s the only time he feels like the thoughts don’t win.

He’s made peace with it.

Or… learned to live beside it.

The truth is: Jeon Jungkook doesn’t belong to himself anymore. Not really.

He’s a mosaic of other people’s decisions — his mother’s warnings, his father’s absence, society’s expectations, and all the mistakes he’s been forced to carry.

That’s who he is now. A product of insanity, glued together with spit and survival.

And he lives like that. Every. Single. Day.

By the time he returns home, sweat clinging to his skin and breath coming in shallow bursts, the sun has fully risen.

He steps into the shower, lets the hot water rinse him clean — as if it can scrub away the noise in his head. He reaches for her shampoo, the familiar floral scent flooding the space. Lavender and vanilla. Nina.

And just like that, the heaviness begins to ease.

He hears the faint rustling of sheets from the bedroom. A yawn. The creak of the bed.

She’s waking up.

He closes his eyes beneath the stream of water.

She’s here.

She’s still here.

And that — for now — is enough.

“Morning, love,” Jungkook murmurs, stepping out of the bathroom, hair still wet, feet dragging across the floor like a sleepy child. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to her lips, tasting sleep and warmth. She giggles into it — like she always does — and her arms loop around his neck, pulling his damp body close.

“You’re so sappy sometimes,” she mumbles into his mouth, but she doesn’t stop kissing him.

He smiles against her lips, lets her melt into him, lets himself believe — just for a second — that this could last. That this version of them could stretch forever.

But the affection never lingers too long. It never does.

He breathes her in before the inevitable sting returns — the sharp edges of their reality. The thorns she carries that aren’t her fault. The ones that still pierce him anyway.

“Are you gonna let me get dressed, woman?” he teases, brushing a kiss to her cheek.

“Mmm,” she hums, clinging tighter. “Let’s just stay like this.”

Her voice softens into a small, childish whine. And something inside him aches.

Because that tone — that softness — takes him back. Back to when she was still just Nina. Before the grief. Before the silent empty spaces in their house and her chest. Before her smile needed to be faked.

Before they stopped being them.

He kisses her again. A little longer this time. He’s not ready to let go.

But he does anyway.

“I’m gonna make us smoothies, pretty,” he whispers, pulling away with one last look. He gets dressed, tugging on a hoodie, and heads to the kitchen.

She moves through her own morning routine while he blends kale, banana, and almond milk into something that tastes just barely like a compromise. She brushes her teeth. Stares at herself in the mirror longer than she should.

This is the part of the day where it starts to settle in for her — the weight. The ache. And he already hates himself for noticing it. For dreading it. But he can’t help it.

It’s not her fault.

When she finally emerges, she’s quiet, like she always is after she’s had time alone with her reflection.

“Looks good,” she says softly, wrapping her arms around his back, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. He stops mixing, just lets her hold him.

She smells like home. Like familiarity.

“You don’t have to drink smoothies because of me,” she murmurs, guilt curling around her words like ivy. “Greens are good for immunity. I have to… but you don’t. It’s not like you love kale.”

“Nonsense,” he grins, glancing over his shoulder. “We do everything together. Even suffer through smoothie torture.”

She laughs — really laughs — and it’s like hearing her soul peek through the cracks. He wants to hold that sound in his hands. Wrap it in silk and never let it slip away again.

“You’re insane,” she chuckles, settling onto the kitchen stool.

The house is still quiet. His mom and brother are asleep. Outside, the world is waking up, but in here it’s still just them. The way it used to be.

For a second — just one — he lets himself think: Maybe today is a good day for her.

But he should know better by now.

“I was thinking…” she starts, voice careful.

Immediately, his heart stumbles in his chest. His thoughts scramble. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but he can already hear the faint static building in his ears — the flicker of Grey’s Anatomy in the background, playing like a safety blanket she wrapped herself in.

“I was doing some research,” she continues, “and I think… I think I could still do it.”

His hands freeze over the blender lid.

“One of my colleague’s patients has APS too,” she says slowly. “He’s handling her pregnancy. It’s going well. So far.”

Her eyes search for his. But he’s already miles away.

“Nins…” he says softly — her nickname falling from his mouth like something sacred. “It’s too dangerous.”

“It isn’t,” she snaps, desperate now. “If he tracked her pregnancy properly — the blood thinners, the regular ultrasounds, the clot prevention — we could do that too. We could try.”

He swallows hard. “Okay,” he says, too quickly, “But I don’t think it’s the right time.”

Her eyes darken. Her voice breaks.

“Oh, so it’s not the right time now, but a year ago — that was the perfect time, huh?”

His throat closes. “We didn’t know back then. We didn’t know you had APS. We didn’t know—”

“We didn’t know the baby was going to die in my stomach, Jungkook?” she cuts him off, venom and agony laced into every syllable. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t relive it every day?”

“I’m not saying that,” he says, reaching for her, begging with his voice. “Please—Nina—my mom’s upstairs—”

“I don’t give a fuck if she hears,” she spits. “What, are you embarrassed? Embarrassed your fiancée might never be able to give you kids?”

“Don’t,” he says quickly, shaking his head, “Don’t say that—”

“Or is it because of Y/n?” she blurts, the name like a slap between them. “We reconcile with her and suddenly you’re so fucking happy. Maybe it’s just convenient for you that I can’t even try anymore.”

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Because what do you say to that?

What do you say when someone you love is unraveling in front of you, bleeding out grief and guilt and fear — and all you can do is stand there and watch?

“It’s not because of her, and you know it,” he says, forcing his voice to stay calm — steady, even though every part of him is cracking. Because it is the truth. But he understands why she'd think otherwise.

Lately, Jungkook has been quietly devouring himself with guilt. Letting thoughts of you slip into his mind more often than he should. He doesn’t act on them. Doesn’t say a word. But he knows Nina notices.

He knows.

And still… it's not about you. Not really.

“You’re not doing well, pretty,” he says gently, placing the smoothie in front of her. His voice is soft. Careful. Like if he says it too loud, she might shatter.

Her eyes flash with frustration, pain bubbling just beneath the surface.

“I know…” she says, barely above a whisper. “I just… fuck, Kook. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I get you.”

“I know you do, but I just…” She exhales hard, blinking rapidly, like she’s trying to stop the tears from spilling. “I thought I was doing better, but lately…”

Her voice trails off. Silence stretches between them, tense and aching.

He reaches for her hand, squeezing it like maybe he can pull her back from wherever her mind is slipping.

“I’ve been horrible lately,” she says, her voice cracking. “Even when you were playing, I lashed out. Everything irritated me and—I hate it. I hate not being able to be there for you.”

Tears pool in her eyes, and Jungkook swallows hard.

He knows. Of course he knows.

But that doesn’t stop the unhappiness that’s been building in his chest, doesn’t erase the slow, gnawing ache that keeps him awake some nights.

And he hates himself for even thinking that.

“I just…” she whispers, voice trembling, “I just really want a child. And I thought maybe… if we got back what we lost—if we had that again—we could be us again.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to keep herself together, but it’s all unraveling now. She’s not hiding anymore.

“Maybe it would be the way it used to be.”

Jungkook exhales, slow and heavy. His heart twists.

“We can’t do that to a kid,” he says softly, “and you know that.”

“I know,” she breathes, squeezing her eyes shut. “I know, Kook. Fuck. I know bringing a baby into this mess is wrong. I know having one just to fix us is wrong. I know trying to replace the baby we lost is worse.”

Her voice cracks again. A tear slips down her cheek.

“I’m trying. God, I’m trying. But I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

She looks up at him then, eyes wide and lost. “If my therapist writes just a little too much… if she has to file a report, I could be suspended from work for a while. I could lose everything, Jungkook. I feel like I already am.”

Her voice is raw. Frustrated. Defeated.

He meets her gaze, the depth of her sorrow crashing into him like a wave. And all he can think to say is the one thing that still feels true.

“You didn’t lose me,” he says quietly, sincerely.

But she only gives him a sad smile. One of those smiles that says you don’t get it — and maybe he doesn’t.

“Oh, Jungkook,” she whispers, voice breaking completely, “we lost each other when we lost the baby.”

He doesn’t answer. Just pulls her into his arms, tucks her into his chest, holds her like it might make this hurt a little less.

He breathes her in — the scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin.

He wants to believe this is enough.

But deep down, he knows she’s right.

He did everything he could. The proposal, the move, the sacrifices. He came back to this town that haunts him with ghosts. Swallowed pieces of himself to stay strong for her. For them.

And she did everything too. She stayed. She loved. She let him reconnect with you — even when it hurt her — because she knew how much he needed a friend. Someone who reminded him of who he was before the grief swallowed him whole.

She carried his pain while dragging her own behind her like a shadow.

And somehow… somehow, it still feels like neither of them is doing enough.

Or maybe… they’re just too tired to keep pretending they’re okay.

So he hugs her close. Wraps his arms around her like maybe he can hold the broken pieces in place a little longer. Like maybe warmth is enough.

She lets him.

Her face presses into his chest, hands clinging to the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the moment. And for a one tiny moment — it almost feels okay.

But it isn’t.

Not really.

Because it’s all starting to feel like layers.

Pretending.

Performing.

Smiling for others.

Acting like they’re still the couple people root for.

But inside, it’s quieter now. Colder. Like they’ve both started building distance just to survive.

And it’s slowly eating away at them.

Piece by piece. Word by word. Day by day.

They both feel it. That slow, inevitable unraveling — like their love is still there, but it is slowly fading.

Neither of them says it.

But the question hangs heavy in the air between their heartbeats.

Should we just let go?

They don’t speak it out loud — not yet.

But it’s there. In the way she sighs against his chest.

In the way his grip tightens like he's already afraid of the answer.

They hold on anyway.

But sometimes love isn’t enough.

When Jungkook starts his car and pulls onto the quiet morning street, he’s already bracing himself for the mess ahead. There’s a court hearing in less than an hour, and his mind runs through the checklist he’s memorized a thousand times over — case files, witness statements, last-minute evidence review.

It’s not that he’s passionate about the law. He doesn’t wake up excited to argue in front of a judge or pick apart testimonies. But damn it, he’s good at it. Really good. And sometimes, that’s enough.

But today, his focus wavers.

He thinks about you.

And just like that, guilt trickles in — subtle at first, like a crack in the windshield. Then it spreads fast.

Guilt for Nina, for the way he’s slowly pulling away from someone who’s stood by him through hell and worse. For entertaining thoughts or you — not just anyone — when he knows his relationship is already barely hanging on.

And guilt for you, too.

For the sharp words, the arguments. For the way he’s projected all his mess onto you when all you’ve ever done is try to help — even without knowing the full truth. You didn’t deserve that. Not even close.

But still… he needs to hear your voice.

It’s selfish. Pathetic, maybe. But lately, talking to you is one of the few things that grounds him. So he taps your name into his phone, connects to the car’s Bluetooth, and exhales the moment the line picks up.

“Wassup, loser?” your voice comes through, light and teasing. There’s background noise — a faint hum of the TV and maybe a coffee machine — and something in him softens immediately.

He laughs under his breath. “Don’t even ask. I’ve got a hearing in an hour. Zero motivation.”

“C’mon,” you say, playfully exasperated. “We both know you’ll crush it.”

“Obviously. I mean, I am Jeon Jungkook, after all.”

“Oh, okay, Mr. Full of Himself.”

“Shut up,” he grins, easing into your familiar rhythm. “It’s called confidence. You should try it sometime.”

“Confidence, my ass,” you fire back. “You’re just obnoxious.”

“Only to you,” he says, but there’s a warmth behind the words — a little quieter now, a little softer. Like he doesn’t want the moment to end.

And for a few seconds, it’s just that — peace, in the middle of the storm.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” you tease, your tone light, playful. He can hear you moving around on the other end — maybe shifting on your couch, maybe pacing. He imagines you sitting there, drinking your cappuccino or green tea, probably in those ridiculous cat socks you always wear.

“Obviously,” he says, eyes flickering toward the rearview mirror before switching lanes. “You’re my only friend who calls me a loser and gets away with it.”

“You make it too easy.”

He smiles, but it's not just amusement. It’s comfort. Something solid. Something that feels like home in the middle of all the noise.

“I swear,” you say suddenly, “you better not be calling just ‘cause you need moral support. Again.”

“I mean…” he starts, mock-dramatic, “if I lose this case, it’s your fault. You’re supposed to gas me up, remember?”

“Oh, don’t pull that on me,” you laugh, a real one this time, the kind that makes him loosen the grip on the wheel. “You’re a hotshot lawyer with a god complex. You’ll be fine.”

There’s a short silence, but it’s the good kind. The kind that sits comfortably between people who don’t need to fill every second with noise.

“You doing okay?” you ask, softer now. Less teasing.

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. He lets out a sigh, one he didn’t know he was holding.

“Not really,” he admits. “But this helps. Talking to you.”

You’re quiet for a second. “You can always talk to me, Jungkook. You know that, right?”

He nods, even though you can’t see him. “I know.”

Another pause. Then—

“You should come over tonight.”

“Yeah?” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” you reply. “We’ll order that greasy pizza you like. Watch a dumb movie. You can pretend you’re not emotionally constipated for two hours.”

He laughs, the sound catching him off guard. “You really do know me too well.”

“It’s a curse, trust me.”

“But you’re still here.”

You hum. “Someone’s gotta keep your ego in check.”

He’s turning into the parking lot now, pulling into a space and throwing the car into park, but he doesn’t hang up.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “For always picking up.”

“You’d do the same.”

Yeah, he thinks. He would.

“I would,” he echoes, then clears his throat. “So, um… how’s your day been? Besides obviously missing me.”

You snort. “Tragic. I spilled coffee on my last clean hoodie, the one with the cute little embroidered cherries. And to top it off, my neighbor saw me dragging out the trash in pajama bottoms with a hole right on my ass.”

He laughs — loud and unfiltered. “You’re such a disaster. I mean, it's honestly impressive at this point.”

“You love it,” you say breezily.

“Unfortunately.”

You smile, eyes flickering to the clock on the microwave. Still time before you have to head over to Ms. Kim’s for your afternoon prep work. You sigh.

“I have to get ready for work soon,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the floor. “Ms. Kim wants to try a new seaweed soup today and I’m not emotionally prepared to hear her say ‘not enough soul’ for the fifth time this week.”

“Tell her I said she can keep her soul and eat her soup too.”

“Very biblical of you.”

“I try.”

There’s a beat of silence, not awkward—just easy. Familiar.

“Are you okay, though?” he asks, more seriously now. “You’ve sound a little off.”

You sit back on the edge of your bed, curling a hand around your phone.

“I’ve been kinda… weird,” you admit. “I don’t know. Everything feels a little too much, but also like nothing’s really happening. Like I’m running around and standing still at the same time.”

Jungkook hums thoughtfully. “That’s called capitalism.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“But no, seriously. I get it,” he says, voice gentler now. “It’s that numb-overwhelmed feeling. Like you’re doing everything right and still not really feeling anything.”

“Exactly.” Your voice is small.

“You don’t have to feel okay all the time, you know? Especially not with me. You can be tired, messy, soul-less-soup-making you. I’ll still every time.”

Your throat tightens, that unspoken comfort between you settling deep in your chest.

“You’re gonna make me cry in my tragic pajamas.”

“I support it,” Jungkook says with mock solemnity. “Just keep the camera off.”

You giggle despite yourself. “You’re not as funny as you think.”

“Yet you laugh at everything I say.”

You roll your eyes, pulling your apron from the doorknob. “Okay, I need to go before Ms. Kim calls me and tells me to chop onions with more emotional depth again.”

He laughs. “Tell her I’m the reason your emotions are fried.”

“I’ll just say I watched a depressing movie and now I can’t cook rice without sobbing.”

“I’ll allow it.”

You smile. “Okay. See you later? I have to start getting ready for work.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And hey… good luck with Ms. Kim’s soup critique.”

“Thanks. Pray for me.”

The hearing goes well. Of course it does. He’s Jeon Jungkook, after all. Sharp suit, sharper tongue. He’s good at everything he does — except handling his emotions.

And right now, he’s spiraling in them. He’s excited for tonight. For you. For the comfort you bring. But guilt scratches at his insides like a splinter under skin. What is he supposed to say to Nina? After the way their morning went, after how heavy everything has felt lately — how is it fair to disappear for a night and nurse his wounds in someone else’s company?

But it’s like the universe throws him a bone — Nina texts first.

pretty: jungkook, would it be okay if i went out with my colleagues tonight? i feel like i need to air out a bit.

He sighs. She’s always like this — careful, soft, and still thinking of him, even after everything.

him: you don’t need my permission to go out, baby.

pretty: i know. i just didn’t want to leave you alone after this morning.

She’s better than him. More mature. More honest. So he figures it’s his turn to try.

him: don’t worry. i was just about to text you, i heard from y/n. she invited me for a movie night.

There’s a short pause before her reply pops up.

pretty: good!! i’m glad you won’t be alone either.

him: have fun, baby. text me if you get the chance.

pretty: you too, jungkook.

And just like that, it’s settled. No fight. No lies. Just two people, each quietly drifting, trying to hold on without pulling the other under.

When you open the door of your apartment, you’re all smiley and happy. “Hey,” you say casually, moving so he can slide into your apartment.

“Hi, dumbass,” he mutters, kicking his shoes off like he’s done it a hundred times before.

You snort. “Charming, as always.”

He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over the back of your couch, eyes roaming your place like he’s grounding himself with the familiarity. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You head into the kitchen, calling over your shoulder, “You’re lucky I bought snacks. And I didn’t start the movie without you.”

“See? That’s why I like you.”

He follows you, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, his posture a little slouched — the way it always is when he’s tired, or thinking too much.

“So,” you start, sliding a bowl of popcorn onto the coffee table, “how’d it go today?”

“The hearing?” He plops down on the couch with a sigh. “Fine. Better than expected.”

You sit next to him, tucking your legs under yourself. “That’s not very detailed, Counselor.”

He looks at you for a second — really looks — and then shrugs. “I killed it. Obviously.”

You smile. “There’s the ego.”

He doesn’t smile back. Instead, he stares ahead, voice softer this time. “It was just… a lot. You ever have one of those days where even the wins don’t feel like wins?”

You hum. “More often than I’d like to admit.”

He nods, like he expected that answer from you. “Nina and I had a fight. Or something close to it. I don’t even know. It just sucked.”

“Is she okay?” you ask gently.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, she went out with her coworkers. I think she needed the space too.”

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable, but not easy either.

You break it. “I’m glad you came over.”

He turns to you, eyes softer now. “Me too.”

Then, grinning just a little, you nudge him with your shoulder. “Wanna watch Clueless or something with more blood and guts?”

He raises a brow. “Did you just say Clueless like it’s not cinematic perfection?”

Your grin widens. “I wanted to see if you’d admit to liking it.”

“I’m a feminist, thank you very much,” he says, already reaching for the remote. “Let’s watch Cher become a better person.”

You laugh. And for a second, things don’t feel heavy. They just feel like… the way they used to be.

The movie starts, and the familiar opening chords of Clueless fill the room. You both settle in, your bodies angled toward the screen, but your focus already starting to drift — mostly because of how close he is. His thigh brushes yours every time he shifts.

“You know,” you murmur, “I used to think Cher was the most annoying person ever.”

Jungkook scoffs. “She’s iconic. You were just a hater.”

“I was twelve.”

“And clearly tasteless.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him, and he lets it bounce off his chest dramatically.

“Violence? Really?” he says. “You invite me here, feed me, and then assault me?”

“You called twelve-year-old me tasteless!”

“Well,” he says, smirking, “was I wrong?”

You roll your eyes but smile. For a while, it’s easy. The kind of easy you don’t get anymore. You both laugh at the same scenes. Quote the lines like it’s a script you memorized together years ago — because, well, you did. His shoulder presses into yours more than necessary. He doesn’t move away.

But it shifts. Quietly.

You're watching Cher get rejected by Christian when Jungkook exhales sharply through his nose.

“What?” you ask, glancing at him.

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

You pause the movie. “That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ sigh.”

He doesn’t look at you. “Can we just keep watching?”

You don’t. You let silence stretch a little until he finally glances your way.

“I’m not in the mood to talk about it,” he says, jaw tight.

“I didn’t even say—”

“You were going to,” he cuts you off. “I know that look. It’s the ‘talk to me about your feelings’ look.”

You frown. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

He leans back, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“But you said you and Nina fought.”

He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s trying to shake something off. His voice softens a notch. “Sorry. I just… I came here to not think about it, you know?”

You nod. “Got it.”

You press play again.

The movie plays on, background noise neither of you are really focused on. You're curled up on one side of the couch now, Jungkook on the other, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn between you. The silence is heavier now, no longer comfortable — thick like fog, sharp like glass.

You glance over at him. His jaw is clenched. Not in anger, not yet — more like he’s holding something back. His fingers tap rhythmically on the armrest, like the thoughts in his head are too loud for the room.

“Hey,” you say softly, nudging his foot with yours. “You okay?”

His eyes flick to you, barely a second, and then back to the screen. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. Just… you still seem off.”

“Not everything is a thing,” he mutters, voice clipped.

You blink at that, taken aback. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He doesn’t respond right away. You sit with the silence a moment longer before trying again.

“It’s just… when you react like this it’s usually—”

“Drop it.”

You almost do. Almost. But something about the way his whole body has gone rigid makes you keep going. “Jungkook, I’m not trying to pry—”

“Yes, you are.”

That stops you cold.

He finally turns toward you, eyes darker than usual, intense. “You’re always trying to figure me out and help me. Newsflash: you can’t. Sometimes shit just sucks and no amount of late-night heart-to-hearts will change it.”

You swallow, heart picking up pace. “I didn’t know it sucked. You never said anything.”

His laugh is sharp, bitter. “Yeah, well. We don’t exactly go around broadcasting our pain. Sorry if I didn’t give you a fucking pamphlet.”

Your breath catches. “Jungkook…”

But he’s already sitting up straighter, his hands raking through his hair, the unraveling fully underway.

“Do you wanna know why we’ve been weird?” he snaps, eyes glinting, voice rising. “Do you really want the full fucking story?”

Your silence is answer enough.

“She was pregnant,” he says, each word like a stone thrown hard. “Nina. She was pregnant. We didn’t tell anyone because we wanted it to be a surprise. You know, something good for once.”

You blink, stunned.

“And then she lost it,” he continues, breathing hard now. “She lost the baby, and now she doesn’t talk to me, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do. I can’t fix it. I can’t fix her. And every day it feels like the end a little more.”

His voice cracks at the end, raw and too loud in the quiet room.

“Jungkook…” you say, your voice trembling, eyes burning as tears start to pool, blurring the shape of him in front of you. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know.”

He just stares at you for a moment, the muscle in his jaw ticking, his lips parting like he wants to say something but can’t quite form the words. His eyes, dark and glinting, flicker away from yours, focusing on some invisible spot over your shoulder.

“I know you didn’t,” he finally mutters, voice low and scraped raw at the edges. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you whisper, shaking your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It’s not. I feel like an idiot. Like I’m always saying shit without knowing anything.”

He exhales, a short humorless sound. “Well, that’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?” he says, trying for a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Talking too much. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You let out a weak laugh, even as your chest twists painfully. “Fuck you, Jeon.”

“Right back at you,” he murmurs. But then his expression softens, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He lifts his hand, hesitating, then gently wipes the tear off your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m serious, though,” he says quietly. “Don’t… don’t blame yourself. You didn’t know. And I’m not… I’m not ready to talk about it anymore. Not yet.”

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “Okay,” you say. “But when you are… I’ll listen. You know that, right?”

He meets your eyes then, really meets them, and for a second it feels like the entire room goes still. He gives the smallest nod, his thumb lingering against your skin for a beat longer before he lets his hand fall.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7 @minghaosimp @cerulean1riz @anumita-2007 @vantelover1306 @vynmin @nadzzzblog @jnghs @lachimolalajeon @joonwater @choijay-07 @notsevenwithyou @mononoaware16 @sky-23s-world @auroresce @sadgirlroo @arcadiaem @kokoandkookie @nakyra2 @kissyfacekoo @butterymin @kokoandkookie @park-littlecrane

[generouspursethingbat]

전정국 | 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 — O2

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Barcelona’s streets are full of legends — but none quite like Jungkook, the soccer prodigy who’s taken the city by storm.

You’re the ultimate nepo baby with a sharp tongue and a knack for making everyone question how you got here. He’s the cocky soccer star who’s determined to prove you’re more style than substance. You’re sarcastic, entitled, and completely self-aware; he’s loud, extroverted, and impossible to ignore.

Together, you clash like two unstoppable forces—witty insults flying, chemistry crackling, and a rivalry that no one saw coming.

So go ahead—try to keep your cool. But be warned: in Barcelona, the only thing hotter than the summer sun is the mess you’re about to get tangled in.

brother's best friend, enemies to lovers, sports romance

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: soccer!player jungkook × nepo!baby y/n

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: strong language, unwanted advances, toxic masculinity, emotional distress, relationship conflict, mentions of parental neglect, anxiety, burnout

ʟɪɴᴇᴠᴇʀsᴇ ɢᴜɪᴅᴇ

ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟɪɴᴇ (ᴛᴀᴇ'ꜱ sᴛᴏʀʏ) @jungkoode

✦ ․ ˚ ݁⠀⠀․ ＃ series masterlist | taglist link

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ: ᴡᴇ'ʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴠɪʀᴀʟ

＃ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5,1k ＃ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ: 16th of July 2O25

ᴀɴ: hii everyone!! here’s btl 2 and honestly, writing this chapter felt like wrestling a tornado?? no idea why i’m this drained mentally and physically but hey, it’s out now and i hope it hits you right in the feels! seriously, i’m running on caffeine, chaos, and pure love for you all.

anyway, let’s smash that 700 notes goal like it owes us money! thank you so much for all the insane support and love — you guys are the absolute best and this series wouldn’t be alive without you!! let’s keep this wild ride going

You take a sip of your coffee, savoring the bitterness and the warmth, and swipe a stray drop off your thumb. Your laptop is open in front of you, papers scattered like confetti across the table — proof you’re either planning world domination or losing your mind trying.

Across from you, Hugo and Dante are glued to their own screens. Dante’s dark circles practically sag to his jaw, a badge of honor for too many late-night work sessions, while Hugo’s look suspiciously absent, hidden under sheer determination and that Dior concealer you bought him for his birthday.

“Graphic designers sent over the logo draft,” Dante says, spinning his laptop so you and Hugo can see.

You squint at the screen. “That looks…”

“Cheap,” Hugo cuts in without missing a beat, rolling his eyes. He lets out a soft whistle. “Like, dollar-store cheap.”

“Okay, Mr. Design Snob, I can’t just send them feedback that says ‘this is dollar-store trash,’” Dante huffs, propping his chin on his fist. “Besides, what exactly do we want for BB’s Luxe?”

You tap your nails against your coffee cup. “We want it pink. And classy.”

“It is pink and classy,” Dante insists, gesturing wildly at the screen.

“It’s cheap pink,” Hugo fires back. “And what is that font? Did they download it off some free app in 2012? Phonto, or whatever?”

You let out a short, helpless laugh. “God, why is this so hard?”

“And finding the face for the campaign is even fucking harder.” Dante lets his forehead smack the keyboard, keys rattling under the impact.

“Yeah, don’t even get me started,” you groan, rubbing your temples. “Hugo shot down literally every person I suggested for BB’s Luxe.”

Hugo lifts his head, eyes narrowing. “That’s because all your picks were Instagram models. And you. And Thiago. And Blake—which, in case your two brain cells forgot, isn’t exactly genius PR right after your ��oh-we’re-just-friends’ scandal.”

“Why not?” you shoot back, incredulous. “Didn’t we literally milk that scandal for new followers?”

“My sweet delusional child,” Hugo sighs dramatically, “we need someone viral.”

You’re about to protest, but he raises a finger like he’s delivering gospel. “And unproblematic.”

“Okay, so… definitely not me,” you mutter.

Hugo scoffs. “Bingo. We need someone nobody would ever guess. Someone so random and disconnected from you that the internet collectively loses its shit trying to figure out why they’re the face of BB’s Luxe.”

“Okay, so do you actually have anyone in mind, genius?” Dante demands, shooting Hugo a murderous glare.

“I do,” Hugo snaps back, “but I’m not saying shit because I’m not about to jinx it.”

“Really?” you say, leaning forward. “Okay, spill. Right now.”

“You’ve gotta be patient, love,” Hugo drawls, reclining in his chair like he’s the star of some mafia movie. “Let me work my magic, see if I can pull him in. Or rather… his team.”

“Oooh, so it’s a guy,” you gasp. “I’m invested now. Like, this is my line, babe—you need to tell me who’s gonna be the face of it.”

“Patience, as I just said,” Hugo huffs. “I’m not jinxing it by blabbing before it’s locked in.”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” Dante mutters.

“And smart,” Hugo shoots back.

“I’m exhausted,” you sigh, massaging your temples as if willing your brain to reboot. “And I still have to film that SKIMS try-on haul.”

“Oh, poor you,” Dante fires back, one brow arched and a wicked grin twisting his lips. “It must be so unbearable being rich, pretty, and universally adored.”

You bark out a laugh, tipping your head back so your hair spills like silk down the back of your chair. “Literally, God gives His toughest battles to His strongest soldiers,” you say, pressing a dramatic hand to your chest. “Truly, my cross to bear.”

“Sucks to be you,” Hugo mutters dryly, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head until his spine cracks. Then he levels you with a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, and by the way—if you don’t film that try-on haul today, I will kill you.” His smile is dazzling and sinister all at once.

“Okay, okay, I will,” you protest, raising both palms like you’re surrendering. “Later today. Promise.”

“Mm-hmm.” Hugo narrows his eyes, mouth twisting into a sly smirk. “Thought so.”

“Anyway,” Dante cuts in, clasping his hands together on the table. “While we’re talking about sponsors… what’s happening with Dani and that Nike deal Amaia was trying to lock down for him?”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. The metallic clink of your rings tapping against your coffee cup echoes across the table. “Bro, Kim Taehyung snatched that deal months ago. Haven’t you heard?”

“No?? How am I always the last to know shit?” Dante exclaims, shoulders slumping, his pout deep enough to drown in. He rakes a hand through his messy hair, eyes wide with genuine disbelief.

“Yeah, well… Real Madrid’s the one in bed with Nike now,” you say, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table as you swirl what’s left of your coffee. Your gaze drifts to Hugo, silently inviting him to swoop in.

“Yawning. Boring,” Hugo declares, waving a dismissive hand and flicking an invisible piece of lint from his Dior sweater like it personally offended him. The sunlight catches the sheen of his silver rings as he moves. “Barça doesn’t need a sponsor who’ll jump ship to Madrid the second they wave a fat paycheck around. Flop behavior.”

“Preach.” You grin, tracing a pattern in the condensation on your glass. “Besides… Barça’s about to drop that Adidas campaign. That’s gonna be insane.”

“Ugh, yeah, I heard,” Hugo says, eyes narrowing as he leans forward like a cat ready to pounce. “Not Barça cozying up to Nike’s mortal enemy. The sheer corporate drama. I live for it.”

“Well, you know what they say.” You wiggle your fingers theatrically, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “An eye for an eye.”

��True facts, babe.” Hugo lifts his coffee cup in a toast, pinky lifted in perfect, practiced elegance.

“How’s Dani handling losing that sponsorship, though?” Dante cuts back in, curiosity making him sit a little straighter in his chair. His dark eyes flick between the two of you like he’s watching a tennis match.

You lean back, stretching your arms over your head until your spine gives a satisfying crack. “Please. You know Dani. The only thing that man gives a shit about is scoring goals. Bro couldn’t care less if Nike, Adidas, or your grandma sponsored him—as long as he’s banging the ball into the back of the net.”

Dante laughs, shaking his head as he sinks back into his chair. “Yeah… classic Dani. Living his life in football and absolutely nowhere else.”

“Exactly,” Hugo chimes in, twirling one of his rings around his finger. “Meanwhile, we’re out here stressing over fonts and brand deals while your brother’s biggest crisis is deciding whether to wear his white or neon cleats.”

“Are you gonna film those little interviews we planned for TikTok?” Hugo demands suddenly, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. His gaze locks onto you, dark eyes wide with fervor. It’s that look — the one that silently screams this is the kind of brilliant idea that’ll boost your engagement to the moon, and if you don’t follow through, he might actually combust.

“I am,” you reply, leaning back in your chair and letting out a soft groan as you stretch your arms above your head. Your bones crack satisfyingly. “I’m swinging by Dani’s training session today to grab some footage with the guys. Thought it’d be fun. Y’all wanna come?”

“I can’t,” Dante groans, dropping his face into his hands, then dragging his palms down until his skin bunches around his chin. “I have to write a damn novella for the graphic design team because someone”—he flings an accusatory finger in Hugo’s direction—“thinks their logo looks ‘cheap.’”

“Oooh, cry me a river,” Hugo drawls, lips curling into a smirk. “It’s not like you’re not getting paid to sit there in your designer hoodie and complain.”

“Are you getting paid to be the most annoying human alive?” Dante snaps, his tone dripping with exasperation.

“Baby, I’m her PR,” Hugo shoots back, flicking a perfectly manicured nail in your direction. “Being annoying and dramatic is literally part of my contract. It’s how I maintain my mental health.”

You snort, shaking your head, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose. “Can you two chill for like… five seconds? Hugo, are you coming with me or not?”

“Fuck yes,” Hugo practically shouts, slamming both palms onto the table like you’ve just offered him front-row tickets to a Louis Vuitton runway. “You’re asking me if I wanna watch a bunch of sweaty, exhausted, possibly shirtless hot men running around in tiny shorts. How the fuck am I supposed to say no?”

“Jesus Christ,” Dante mutters, rolling his eyes so far back you’re afraid he’ll sprain something. “Remind me why I work with either of you.”

“Because we’re fab,” Hugo and you chime in unison.

It’s too hot. Like can’t-even-breathe hot. Barcelona’s sun scorches everything in its path — the grass, the stands, your skin, your last remaining shred of patience. Somehow, stepping into the stadium feels like stepping inside an oven, where the heat bounces off concrete and grass until it’s practically sizzling.

Sweat trickles down your spine, dampening the already-too-tight top that’s now clinging to your skin like a second, unwanted layer. Beside you, Hugo fans himself with a printout from your BB’s Luxe plans, muttering curses under his breath.

“Ugh, why am I here,” he hisses, wiping sweat from his upper lip, “No amount of sweaty men is worth leaving my air-conditioned apartment for.”

The green grass sticks to the soles of your sneakers, leaving ghostly footprints as you stomp closer to the field. You raise one hand to shield your eyes from the blazing sun and wave wildly with the other.

“Dani!” you yell, your voice echoing off the concrete stands.

From the distance, you spot Dani’s head whip toward your voice. He jogs over, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his shirt clinging to his shoulders.

“Hi,” he pants when he reaches you, one hand dragging sweat off his brow. “Wassup, guys?”

“Planning. Dying. Planning again,” Hugo snaps, dramatically wiping his brow like a damsel in distress.

“BB’s Luxe doing that well?” Dani jokes, a short laugh rumbling in his chest.

“Don’t even start,” you grumble, massaging your temples. “Anyway, how’s training going?”

“Santiago’s trying to kill us with these drills,” Dani whines, stomping his foot against the grass like an actual toddler.

You cringe, scrunching your nose. “Aren’t you a little old for temper tantrums?”

“Never too old,” he retorts. Then he squints at you, suspicious. “Besides… what are you doing here?”

You blink innocently. “Well, you know…” You bat your lashes, offering him your most pleading, saccharine smile. “You know how much I love you. You know I’m literally the best sister you could ever ask for.”

“Most annoying one, for sure,” Dani mutters, rolling his eyes, “Just spit it out. What do you want?”

“Why do you always think I want something? Can’t I just visit you because — I dunno — I love you?” why is this me and my sister

He levels you with a flat look. “Please. You never come to training just because.”

“Okay, fine!” You throw your arms in the air. “I want to film those Barça interviews for TikTok today…”

Dani groans, head falling back. “Ugh, I don’t know if the staff’s gonna let you.”

“You’re Daniel Torras. Make it happen,” you snap, crossing your arms defiantly over your chest.

“You’re so fucking spoiled.”

The voice comes out of nowhere, slicing through the heat like a knife and making you jolt.

Jeon Jungkook is suddenly behind you, looming like some statue — or a fucking ghost, because there’s no way you didn’t see him coming. You spin to glare at him, already simmering with annoyance from the mere sound of that teasing edge in his voice.

Asshole.

He’s wearing his training jersey, soaked with sweat and clinging to every lean muscle like it’s custom-made for sin. Wet hair drips onto his forehead, darkening his lashes. His arms are crossed, forearms flexing, tattoos winding and merging over taut skin like living art. Your eyes linger there for a second too long — which is exactly one second too many.

Ugh. No. Absolutely not.

You scoff, tearing your eyes away. “Well, someone’s cranky today. Did the ball smack you right in your dumb face, or what?”

“As if,” he shoots back, biting the inside of his cheek, jaw ticking slightly. “Your entitlement just fucking annoys me.”

“Okay, am I supposed to give a fuck?” you fire back, flipping your hair off your shoulder. You spin toward Dani instead, batting your lashes so dramatically it’s practically a workout. “Daniii,” you sing, voice syrupy sweet, “Can you pleaaaase ask the staff to make a twenty-minute break? I just need twenty minutes to film this with you guys.”

Behind you, Jungkook lets out a hiss of pure exasperation. “Jesus, you can’t just waltz in here and start making demands because your brother plays here.”

You whirl on him, planting a hand on your hip. “Well, see, I clearly can.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes, stepping closer. “You know, some of us actually had to work our asses off to get to a place where we can make demands like that.”

“Well,” you say, flicking your fingers in the air dismissively, “sucks to be you, asshole.”

A choked laugh slips out of Hugo, who quickly tries to cover it with a fake cough.

“Okay, guys, seriously — stop,” Dani groans, dragging a hand over his sweat-slicked hair. “I’ll go ask the staff. But for fuck’s sake, can you two please act normal? I can’t handle you screaming at each other every two seconds — and I’m pretty sure no one else wants to, either.”

Dani shoots you both a withering look and trudges off in the direction of the coach, shoulders slumped like he’s aged ten years in five minutes.

Jungkook looks like he wants to kill you. Or… maybe do something even worse. His jaw is clenched so tightly a vein pops at his temple, and his dark eyes follow you like he’s plotting your immediate downfall.

From where you’re standing, you can see the coach nodding as Dani talks, a grin spreading across his face. Ah, the unstoppable Daniel Torras effect.

You shoot Jungkook a triumphant look, lifting your chin high. “See? I can ask for whatever the fuck I want.”

“Fine,” he bites out, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not participating in your little interview, though.”

You scoff, flipping your hair over your shoulder like it personally offends you to share oxygen with him. “Please. I don’t need you, idiot.”

Your hand sweeps out theatrically toward the rest of the team still gasping through killer drills under the blazing sun. “I’ve already got everyone else lined up.”

Jungkook scowls, heat radiating off his body like an extra layer of the sun itself.

You give him one last glance — the kind that’s half challenge, half dismissal. “C’mon, Hu. Let’s go say hi to the players we actually like.”

Hugo gives Jungkook a look that’s half sympathetic, half exasperated, before trotting after you as you strut toward the others, your footsteps leaving dusty prints on the scorched grass.

“Why haven’t you answered my DMs, preciosa?” Mateo’s voice breaks through the heat, his tan skin slick with sweat as he grins at you. You barely acknowledge him with a tired roll of your eyes, deliberately brushing off the comment like it’s nothing.

“Stop harassing her,” Blake says, pressing a quick, light kiss to your cheek. You nod and give a small, distracted wave to the others, eyes scanning the group — searching for him.

But he’s not there.

“Where’s Thiago?” you ask, voice low, almost hesitant.

Santiago’s smile falters, replaced by a tight, uneasy expression. “Twisted his ankle in the last game.”

Your chest tightens. “He still hasn’t recovered?”

“Not yet. Could be another week or more,” Santiago shrugs, but the sympathy in his eyes says more than words ever could. “Haven’t heard from him?”

You don’t answer.

Because you haven’t. Not since the Blake incident. Not since you haven’t given him a proper explanation about it.

Thiago — he’s supposed to be close to you. Sometimes the only person you let in. Sometimes the only one you want to hear from.

But lately, silence. Endless, suffocating silence.

It’s complicated and messy — a wound that never fully healed.

That night, the one you never talk about, lingers in every quiet moment, every missed call.

Still, despite it all, he’s there. Haunting the edges of your mind, a shadow you can’t shake.

“Awww,” Jungkook’s voice drips with mock sweetness as he arches a brow, a slow smirk curling on his lips. “Worried about your bestie?”

You glance at him, feeling the heat of his gaze, and shoot back quietly, “Yeah. You should be too. He’s your teammate, after all.”

He shrugs lazily, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath his damp training jersey. “It’s just a twisted ankle. Football’s a game played with legs, you know. Injuries happen.”

You bite back a sharper retort, instead settling on, “I wish it had happened to you.”

Jungkook chuckles softly, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I don’t make rookie mistakes. Thiago should’ve passed the ball instead of playing hero and messing up.”

Your pulse quickens — part irritation, part something else — but you keep your voice steady. “Why are you such an asshole?”

He leans back against the fence, crossing his arms, looking almost amused. “I’m not. He’s just green. Needs to learn.”

You resist the urge to defend Thiago — the person who means more than you let on — knowing Jungkook’s baiting you. The tension between you isn’t loud or explosive, but it hangs in the air, a quiet current under every word.

You take a slow breath, steadying the quickening beat of your heart. “Anyway,” you say, voice softer now, “if you guys don’t mind, I want to film a few quick interview clips for TikTok. Like a little questionnaire thing.”

Jungkook’s eyes flick to you, a flash of something like surprise — or maybe frustration — before he masks it. Mateo, however, grins broadly and calls out, “Hell yeah! I’m in.”

The interview shooting is going surprisingly well. As well as it possibly can — considering Mateo can’t seem to go five minutes without tossing out another cringy pick-up line right into the camera.

You force a bright smile through the pain, even as your soul quietly shrivels every time he winks. “Okay, take it from the top,” you say for what feels like the thirtieth time, waving your phone in the air as a signal to reset.

Mateo grins, leaning in a little too close, sweat glistening on his temples. “Why film me, preciosa, when you could just film us… together… somewhere more private?”

You blink, your mouth hanging open for half a second before you glare and shove his shoulder lightly. “Mateo. Shut up. We’re shooting brand content, not your OnlyFans trailer.”

Around you, a few of the other players snort with laughter. Even Dani’s shaking his head, muttering under his breath, “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this.”

Meanwhile, Hugo’s standing behind you, arms folded, mouthing the words kill me as Mateo launches into yet another attempt at seduction.

Jungkook, a few steps away, pretends not to watch, though his eyes keep darting your way between drills. His jaw ticks faintly every time Mateo leans in too close, but he says nothing.

You catch Jungkook’s glance once and narrow your eyes at him. He merely lifts his brows as if to say you chose this shit, and turns away, his shoulders stiff.

You sigh, bracing yourself as you point the camera back at Mateo. “All right. Let’s try this again. And this time, please, no proposals or bedroom invitations.”

Mateo clutches his chest dramatically. “But how will the people know I’m madly in love with you, preciosa?”

Hugo groans. “God, give me strength.”

You roll your eyes so hard it practically gives you a headache, then plaster on your best influencer smile. “Okay. From the top.”

Eventually, you escape Mateo’s clutches, practically shoving him out of frame. You drag Blake into the shot instead.

“Okay, ready?” you ask him, steadying your phone on your mini tripod.

Blake flashes his trademark grin, easy and charming. “Born ready.”

You giggle despite yourself. “Okay, first question… What’s the one thing you can’t live without on game day?”

Blake barely opens his mouth before Jungkook’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and dripping with faux innocence:

“His hair gel. Obviously.”

You whirl around, glaring at Jungkook, who’s now leaning casually against a railing, arms folded, smirk firmly in place. His damp hair curls slightly at the edges, catching the sun.

Blake just laughs, shaking his head. “Nah, man. I’m a natural beauty.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jungkook fires back, “Natural beauty and three layers of glow serum.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, pressing a hand to your face. “Can you not? Just shut up for once.”

Jungkook shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “I’m just helping the people get the real story.”

Blake snickers. “I’m giving the people what they want. Unlike some people,” he adds, flicking a glance at Jungkook.

Jungkook holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m not the one pretending he doesn’t FaceTime his barber before every match.”

You throw your arms out, exasperated. “Oh. My. God. Can I just film one normal video without it turning into your personal stand-up routine?”

Blake winks at you. “Sorry, love. He’s petty because I’m the fan favorite.”

Jungkook scoffs. “Fan favorite my ass. Your fans are thirteen-year-olds making thirst edits.”

“Better than being the reason people mute their TVs,” Blake shoots back. "Blake, focus, just ignore him. Next question. What’s the weirdest superstition you have before a game?”

Blake starts to answer, “Okay, so I always put my left sock on—”

“—because the right one’s too busy crying for help,” Jungkook interrupts.

“JUNGKOOK!” you screech.

Hugo lets out a shrill whistle. “Jeon. Five-minute time-out. Go hydrate. Or drown yourself in the ice bucket. Whichever’s easier.”

Jungkook arches a brow. “Can’t. Gotta supervise. She might start asking real questions.”

You shove your phone into Hugo’s hands before you accidentally hurl it at Jungkook’s head. “Okay. I’m done. We’re done.”

Blake, still cracking up, catches your wrist. “C’mon, don’t tap out now. Let’s finish the TikTok. We’ll behave.”

“I highly doubt that,” you snap, glaring at him and then shooting a lethal look over Blake’s shoulder at Jungkook.

Jungkook lifts his brows. “Don’t look at me. I’m the model of good behavior.”

“Yeah. In whose fantasy?” you spit back.

Blake gently squeezes your arm, his voice softening. “Hey. Don’t let him get under your skin. He’s just jealous.”

Jungkook lets out a scoffing laugh. “Of what exactly? Her neon pink top or your spray tan?”

“Oh my god,” you groan, pressing your palms over your eyes. “I swear to fucking god, I will end you, Jeon Jungkook.”

He walks closer, voice low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”

You inhale sharply, the proximity suddenly a bit too charged, his eyes glinting dark under the bright sun. Blake blinks between the two of you, lips pursing.

“Okay. Okay, this is getting weird,” Blake cuts in. “Anyway. I’m finishing this TikTok.”

You snap back to attention. “Yes. Thank you. Professionalism. Wow. What a concept.”

Blake steps back into frame, adopting his breezy grin. “So. Weirdest superstition. I always put my left sock on first, then right sock, left boot, right boot—”

“—and then checks the mirror to practice his goal celebration,” Jungkook interjects. Again.

Blake flips him off without missing a beat. “No, but thanks for your input, princess.”

Jungkook puffs out a sigh. “You’re welcome. Glad to keep the content authentic.”

“Okay. Next question!” you say, determined to salvage something. “Who’s the biggest diva in the locker room?”

Jungkook smirks instantly. “Blake. One thousand percent.”

Blake gasps. “Fuck off! It’s literally you, Mr. Three-Hour Tattoo Touch-Ups.”

Jungkook frowns. “That’s called maintenance.”

You rub your temples. “I feel my lifespan decreasing every second I stand here.”

Mateo suddenly shouts from across the field, “Ask who Y/N wants to date from the team!”

Jungkook crosses his arms, glancing at you, eyes cool but edged with something sharper. “Yeah… why don’t you answer that one?”

Your cheeks burn. “Because it’s none of your business, you troll.”

Blake nudges you. “Just say it’s me and be done with it.”

Hugo swoops in, grabbing your shoulders. “Okay. Break time. Or I’m calling security on everyone.”

You’re too fucking tired to move. The sun has drained you dry, leaving your limbs heavy and your brain buzzing like a faulty neon sign. Maybe it’s just the heat. Maybe it’s the relentless churn of having to work—having to film, to smile, to create content even when everything, even the sky itself, screams that it’s not the right time.

Whatever the reason, you feel off.

There’s too much happening all at once. BB’s Luxe is going well—objectively, it’s thriving—but some part of you keeps whispering that it’s either too much or somehow still not enough. You sink deeper into your couch, letting a random episode of Gossip Girl flicker across the screen like white noise. Your hair spills down your back in soft waves. Periodically, your hands reach up to knead the tension from your own shoulders. You make a mental note—for the fifteenth time—to book a massage soon.

If there’s time.

Lately, time feels like some imaginary currency everyone else seems rich in, and you’re just scraping coins together.

You pick up your phone, thumb flicking over to TikTok. The player interviews are performing well. Jungkook’s little interruption has gone viral—comments full of laughing emojis, shipper theories, people reading sexual tension into every sideways glance. It’s good. It’s the kind of content Hugo drools over.

And yet… there’s that annoying voice inside you that keeps saying it’s not enough.

That you’re not doing enough.

“Watching anything good?”

The voice cuts through your fog, and you glance up sharply. Jungkook stands in the doorway, wearing that sheepish, half-boyish, half-fucking-infuriating grin. The audacity of this guy—to be a complete asshole one minute and an adorable human the next.

“Just a show,” you mumble, gesturing at the TV. “Are you two done gaming or what?”

“Kinda.” He scratches the back of his neck, damp hair falling into his eyes. “Carla called him, so we’re on a break. Might watch something in a bit.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Jungkook crosses the room and drops into the couch beside you. He’s close enough that his knee brushes yours, and you hate how your skin registers the contact immediately—heat sparking through your body like an electric wire.

“Boring,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “You guys never go out.”

“We’re too old for that shit,” he counters, lips curling into the faintest grin. “Besides, are you going somewhere tonight?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. The thought of loud music, flashing lights, sweaty bodies pressing in on all sides—it makes your stomach churn. You don’t want to go out tonight. You’re not…feeling right. Maybe it’s just your social battery, drained to the last flicker.

“Probably,” you lie, voice flat.

“Mhm.” He tilts his head, leaning it against the sofa cushion, watching you through half-lidded eyes. “Though you’ll be staying in tonight,” he declares, a lazy certainty in his voice.

“Barcelona’s nightlife can’t survive a Friday without me.”

“Can you survive a Friday without Barcelona’s nightlife?” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

You side-eye him, turning your attention back to the TV. For a moment, the silence settles between you both, soft and oddly comforting. It almost feels normal—like maybe, in another universe, the two of you could be…friends. Or at least two people who can exist in the same room without tearing each other apart.

It could be peaceful. Maybe even fun.

But Jungkook never lets things stay peaceful for long.

“Your parents coming to the BB’s Luxe launch?” he asks suddenly, voice softer than usual. He angles his body slightly toward you, searching your face for any cracks in your calm.

Your chest tightens. A dry chuckle slips out of your mouth. “My parents have better things to do than watch me sell face cream.”

“Have you invited them?”

“I will.” You stare at the screen, jaw tight. “But they won’t come.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I do, Jungkook.”

He hesitates, wetting his lips. “Wanna talk about it?”

You let out a sharp exhale, frustration burning in your veins. “Just…let it be.”

“But we could talk about it. Maybe you’d feel—”

“Jungkook, for fuck’s sake.” Your voice slices through the quiet, sharp as broken glass. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even know why you’re bringing this up. It’s not like we’re friends or anything.”

His gaze drops, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. “Right. We aren't.”

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[generouspursethingbat]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand��fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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[generouspursethingbat]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn���t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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[generouspursethingbat]

전정국 | 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 — O1

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Barcelona’s streets are full of legends — but none quite like Jungkook, the soccer prodigy who’s taken the city by storm.

You’re the ultimate nepo baby with a sharp tongue and a knack for making everyone question how you got here. He’s the cocky soccer star who’s determined to prove you’re more style than substance. You’re sarcastic, entitled, and completely self-aware; he’s loud, extroverted, and impossible to ignore.

Together, you clash like two unstoppable forces—witty insults flying, chemistry crackling, and a rivalry that no one saw coming.

So go ahead—try to keep your cool. But be warned: in Barcelona, the only thing hotter than the summer sun is the mess you’re about to get tangled in.

brother's best friend, enemies to lovers, sports romance

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: soccer!player jungkook × nepo!baby y/n

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: alcohol, hangover symptoms, public scandal, gossip, mild sexual innuendo, anxiety mentions, explicit language

ʟɪɴᴇᴠᴇʀsᴇ ɢᴜɪᴅᴇ

ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟɪɴᴇ (ᴛᴀᴇ'ꜱ sᴛᴏʀʏ) @jungkoode

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: sᴘɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ

＃ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5,8k ＃ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ: 9th of July 2O25

ᴀɴ: okay hi besties. welcome to the first chap of jungkook’s lineverse story??? i’m losing my mind. kiki and i have been texting like absolute crackheads trying to piece the lineverse together so y’all can catch lil crumbs both in my fic and hers. we’ve been working day and night. i have seen the sun rise way too many times. my neurons are on strike. but i hope y’all are gonna vibe with this cuz i’m currently hyperfixated to the point of no return.

ANYWAY, note goal for this is 500 notes bc i literally never know how to set note goals when i start new fics lmao.

also make sure to check kiki’s fic out on her account @jungkoode (she’s writing tae’s story in the lineverse) cuz it’s pure ✨chaos✨ and we’re in our silly little shared universe era. she'll be posting chap 1 in a few days. love you BYEEEEEE <3

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

God, you hate Saturdays.

See, Friday nights? Those are magic. Friday nights are Belvedere splashing into lemon soda, reggaeton pulsing so loud it rattles your ribcage. They’re sweaty bodies pressed too close, strangers’ faces swirling in neon lights — people you swear you adored, though honestly, it was probably just the vodka talking. Friday nights are you screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs until you forget your own damn name.

But Saturday mornings?

They’re a whole different beast. Saturdays are punishment. Saturdays are for the strong — and you, apparently, are not among them.

Because right now, every twitch of your body sends shockwaves of pain through your skull. Your brain’s wrapped in cotton and static. The room tilts if you dare turn your head. Your mouth feels like sandpaper, your throat raw as if you’ve swallowed broken glass. And you’re so dehydrated, you’d trade your soul for a cold bottle of water.

Saturdays suck.

You somehow peel yourself out of bed, even though every movement feels like stepping onto a minefield primed to blow your skull into tiny confetti.

You stagger toward the kitchen, groggy and half-blind, cursing the universe because each step is pure torture.

Never drinking again? Yeah, sure. Noted. Definitely lying? Also noted.

Right now, your entire existence has narrowed down to one mission: reach the kitchen. Because if you don’t get water into your body as soon as possible, you’re either going to cry, keel over from dehydration, or experience some tragic in-between state.

Saturdays definitely suck — you confirm that fact all over again the moment your bleary eyes land on the sight waiting in your kitchen.

There he is. Jeon Jungkook.

Sitting sprawled on a barstool like he owns the damn place, one tattooed arm draped across the counter, eyes glued to his phone while he casually shovels spoonfuls of ice cream into his mouth with the other.

“Damn, you look like shit.”

Jungkook barely lifts his gaze from his phone, like insulting you is just casual conversation.

Okay, sure. You’re a mess right now. But it’s not your worst look — and he’s got some nerve.

“And you look like you just broke into my house.”

“You mean Dani’s house?”

“Same thing, Jeon.”

“Not really. But if it helps you sleep at night…”

“What would actually help me sleep is not seeing your face at—” you check your phone, groaning, “—ten a.m. Get out.”

He smirks, leaning back on the stool. “Why? Afraid you’ll start finding me irresistible this early in the day?”

“You wish. Leave.”

“First of all,” Jungkook says, finally tossing his phone onto the counter. He crosses his arms, rolling his shoulders like he’s prepping for a brawl. “That’s so rude. Second, I’m waiting for Dani, so you can’t just kick me out.”

“Okaaay,” you drawl, sweeping past him to the fridge. You fling it open and start rifling through shelves like a raccoon hunting for snacks.

Ah. Jackpot. Cold water.

“I’m just gonna ignore you,” you say, unscrewing the cap and chugging like your life depends on it.

Jungkook clicks his tongue. “You know, you’d be way more convincing if you didn’t feel the need to announce you’re ignoring me.”

“Can you just shut up for two seconds? You’re killing my brain cells.”

He scoffs. “You’d need to own some brain cells first.”

“Says the one with zero left,” you shoot back, rubbing your temples like it might keep your skull from cracking open.

God. Ouch. You really hate drinking. Or at least… the aftermath.

Jungkook leans into the barstool, smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes lazily travel over you, head to toe and back again.

“Rough night?” he asks, voice dipping just enough to make your pulse stutter.

“More like a rough morning. Incredible night, though.”

“Yeah? That’s usually how it goes after a good one.”

“And you would know how, exactly?” you scoff. “Last time I saw you in a club was when you signed for Barça. Five years ago.”

He raises a brow. “Just because my idea of a good time doesn’t involve puking in Opium’s bathroom doesn’t mean I’m boring.”

“I never said you were boring.”

“Oh, come on. You were totally implying it.”

“You said it, not me.”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Trust me, there’s a lot of things I could show you that’d prove I’m anything but boring.”

You roll your eyes, though your cheeks feel suspiciously warm. “I’ll pass. I value my remaining brain cells.”

“Your loss. I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime here,” Jungkook drawls, his fingers drumming a lazy, rhythmic tattoo on the counter, each tap echoing in the quiet kitchen. His dark eyes glimmer with mischief, lingering on you just a second too long.

“Ew. I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man alive,” you snap back, scrunching your nose as if the mere thought physically repulses you.

Jungkook pauses, tilting his head. A sly grin curls at the corner of his lips.

“Wait—do you hear that?” he says, leaning forward and cupping his hand theatrically around his ear.

You frown, blinking at him. “Hear what?”

“Oh, it’s just the sound of me not giving a shit.”

He drops his hand and leans back, smirk stretching wide, like he’s just delivered the punchline of the century.

You let out a groan so deep it vibrates in your chest, fingers dragging down your face. Of course. You should have expected that. This is Jeon Jungkook you’re dealing with.

He laughs—a low, husky sound that skitters along your nerves. And God, you’d pay good money to wipe that smug grin off his face.

But there’s absolutely no way you’re risking your perfectly manicured French tips on his annoyingly perfect jawline. Even if it’s for a well-deserved punch. You’re too classy for that.

“Real mature, Jungkook. Seriously inspiring. I’m sure your fans are thrilled to call you their hero.”

He shrugs one shoulder, lips quirking as he rakes his gaze over you again, far too amused. “Hey, I’m not trying to be a role model. But, y’know… game recognizes game. So I can’t blame ‘em for loving me.”

“Ugh, whatever,” you mutter, flipping Jungkook off as you shuffle past him and sink into a stool across the counter. The cool metal feels merciful against your overheated skin as you try to keep the pounding in your skull under control.

“Where’s my brother, anyway?” you ask, rubbing your temples. “Wasn’t he with you last night?”

“Oh, shit. Right. I forgot,” Jungkook says, blinking like the realization just smacked him upside the head.

“How do you forget my brother?”

“The same way you apparently forgot how to walk in a straight line. How much did you drink?”

You wave him off with a sigh. “Just… a lil’ something. Had to keep the vibes alive.”

Jungkook arches a brow. “Yeah. You and your vibes.”

“I am vibes,” you shoot back. “You just can’t handle this level of coolness.”

“Okay, loser.” Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “Oh, and by the way—Dani slept over at Carla’s.”

Your eyes widen. “Why the hell couldn’t you have said that immediately?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Because where’s the fun in that, duh.”

“Men are dumb, and you’re walking proof,” you say, flashing Jungkook a sarcastic smile.

“Ouch. You wound me.”

“Sorry, let me kiss it better.”

“Just admit you’re in love with me at this point.”

“You wish.”

“Never,” he says, smirking, but you decide not to waste any more of your already fraying patience on him this morning.

Instead, you unlock your phone, determined to distract yourself. You start scrolling through Instagram, praying you didn’t post anything mortifying last night.

No drunk rants. No blurry, tearful selfies. No 3 a.m. cryptic captions. Thank God for that.

But then something makes you freeze.

Your follower count.

It’s gone up by half a million.

You stare at the screen, blinking. Refresh. Still there: 4.5 million.

Sure, your Instagram’s big. But not gain-five-hundred-thousand-followers-overnight big.

Fuck.

Your stomach lurches, panic bubbling up as every worst-case scenario flashes through your mind.

Did you start a fight with paparazzi? Overshare something personal about you or Dani? Did you fall over outside the club? End up in some viral TikTok?

You’re spiraling when Jungkook’s voice cuts in.

“Ohhh, what about you and my boy Blake?” he says, leaning closer, eyes sparkling. “Didn’t know you were into the British accent.”

You whip your head toward him. “I’m into what now?”

He grins wickedly. “Saw some articles this morning—something about you two making out outside Opium?”

You gape at him. “There is literally no way I did that.”

Okay, you admit—you do dumb things when you’re drunk. You’re human, after all. Flawed, impulsive, prone to moments you’d rather forget. It’s part of the chaos of life.

But there’s no way you made out with a Barçelona player.

Your brother’s friend. His teammate.

The idea feels like a punch to your gut. No matter how foggy your memory is, you know you didn’t drag yourself into that kind of scandal—especially not in front of a crowd.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you unlock your phone, the screen’s cold glow harsh against your sweaty palms. With hesitant taps, you type “BarcaBarbie” and “Blake” into the search bar, your heart pounding with equal parts dread and desperate hope.

Then it appears.

A photo.

You and Blake, standing outside Opium, the flashing camera capturing the exact moment that, from this angle, looks damn close to a kiss.

Your breath catches in your throat. The world tilts.

Was it real? Or just a trick of the light?

You stare at the photo on your phone.

Your hands are tangled around his neck, gripping like you’re holding onto something solid in a world that’s spinning too fast. His hands rest somewhere near your waist—or at least that’s what it looks like through the grainy blur of the picture.

You already know how the gossip columns will twist this. “Blake Scott caught grabbing your ass like a starved man.” The words scream in your head before they even hit the headlines.

His neck tilts casually toward you, but your face is hidden beneath a messy curtain of hair, shadows swallowing your features from the unforgiving camera lens.

The image is blurry, but clear enough to punch you in the gut.

Your mind starts to replay the night.

Blake texted earlier, asking if you were out clubbing. Of course you were — it was Friday.

You remember stepping outside just as he arrived. You wrapped your arms around him in a quick hug—just a hug.

Your legs wobble, barely holding you upright, and he steadies you, his hands firm on your hips, anchoring you to the world.

And in that moment, a camera clicks.

God.

Your heart races as the weight of the photo settles in.

That’s all it was.

But will anyone believe you?

“Okay, chill out,” Jungkook says, finally noticing the way your face has gone pale. “I already talked to Blake. He told me what actually happened in the pic. I’m just teasing you.”

“I— but… what about Dani? The press? The rumors?” You groan, dropping your forehead onto the cool surface of the kitchen counter with a dull thud, hating every single one of your life choices.

Jungkook lets out a low laugh. “Blake literally sent a whole novel in our group chat explaining it. Dani’s chill about it. And you know how dating rumors work — they come fast, but they die even faster.”

“Ugh, Jungkook, I’m literally gonna kill myself,” you deadpan, searching his face like you’re hoping he’ll tell you this is all a bad dream.

Jungkook’s eyes soften for half a second. “There, there. Blake’s PR team is probably already working on a statement. It’s not the end of the world.”

You let out a shaky breath, rolling your shoulders like you’re trying to shake off a heavy coat. “Right, right. Shit. My PR agent is gonna murder me,” you mumble.

Jungkook snorts. “Please. Hugo? He’s basically your ride or die.”

“Yeah, well… Hugo’s even scarier as a PR agent precisely because he’s my ride or die.”

For a while, neither of you says anything.

The kitchen is quiet, filled only with the low hum of the fridge and the occasional buzz of Jungkook’s phone. You rest your elbows on the counter, your head in your hands, eyes heavy with exhaustion. The screen of your own phone lies dim beside you, notifications piling up — texts, mentions, headlines you can’t bring yourself to read.

You don’t have it in you. Not yet.

Your temples throb. The weight of everything — the photo, the rumors, the pressure — presses down on your shoulders like wet cement. You’re already rehearsing what you’ll say to Hugo, how you’ll soften the blow before he blows a fuse.

And then you hear it — the gentle scrape of cardboard against the counter.

You lift your head, and there it is. A half-melted tub of ice cream now sits in front of you, pushed your way without a word.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. He just scrolls through his phone like it’s no big deal. “Eat some,” he says softly. “It’ll make you feel better.”

The gesture hits you harder than it should.

You glance at the spoon sticking out of it, raising a brow. “With your spoon? Gross.”

That earns the tiniest smile from him — lazy and crooked. “Damn. Can’t even share a spoon now? What happened to friendship?”

“Not you being delusional and calling us friends,” you mumble, eyes fixed on the tub of ice cream in front of you.

It’s tempting — way too tempting. The soft, slightly melting surface, the way the cold air curls up from the rim. But taking a bite now would mean giving Jungkook the satisfaction of a win, and honestly? That’s a low you refuse to sink to. Even in this state.

Instead, you slide off the stool, your bare feet landing softly against the cool kitchen tiles. You feel his gaze trail after you as you move, heavy and unreadable, but you don’t look back.

Your fingers wrap around the silver handle of the spoon drawer, pulling it open with a soft click. You reach in, grab a small spoon — dainty, perfect — and close the drawer without a word.

Behind you, Jungkook lets out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, spoiled queen supreme, sorry for being nice.” His voice is laced with mock offense, but the smile tugging at his lips gives him away.

You turn just slightly, spoon in hand. “Deal with it.”

You settle back onto your stool, spoon in hand, and finally give in. You scoop up a bite of ice cream, letting the cold, creamy sweetness curl around your tongue. For a moment, you let yourself simply exist — hangover, scandal, and all — savoring the tiny bliss.

Then you hear footsteps approaching the kitchen, each step a dull thud against the floor.

“Yo, guys,” Dani calls as he enters, a little out of breath, hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed. He heads straight for you first, bumping your shoulder with his elbow.

“Knew I’d find you here,” he murmurs.

He moves toward Jungkook next, and they dive into one of those elaborate bro handshakes that make you roll your eyes. Why do men even bother?

“Wassup, loser,” Jungkook says, smirking.

“Nothing much, to be honest. Oh—Carla says hi to you both,” Dani replies, dropping onto the stool across from you.

“Tell her hi back when you text her,” you mumble, spooning more ice cream into your mouth.

Dani’s eyes glint mischievously as he leans forward a little. “Saw the pics of you and Blake. Not looking good for you, lil sis.”

“Shut the fuck up, please. You already know what happened.”

“Gee, I do,” Dani says, holding up his hands in surrender. “Can’t even make fun of you anymore?”

“Not when I’m hungover.”

“Okay, sorry for existing.”

“I forgive you. Because I love you,” you say, giving him a wry look over the rim of your spoon before digging back into the ice cream.

“Do you guys have training today?” you ask, still nursing your ice cream.

“No, thank fuck,” Dani groans, leaning back in his seat like the thought alone relaxes him. “We’ve got the weekend off.”

“I swear we never get weekends off anymore,” Jungkook adds, glancing over at Dani. “I seriously needed this.”

“Same. I think it’s because the new physio’s coming on Monday, so they’re giving us a little breather.” Dani stretches his arms above his head with a sigh. “Which reminds me—have you heard from Mini Doc? How are her and Jesus settling in Madrid?”

Your ears perk up at the name. Curiosity sparks instantly.

“Mini Doc?” you repeat. “You mean that girl who followed you around like a lost puppy? Your old physio’s daughter?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Dani says with an exaggerated eye roll. “She was just a friend.”

“Uh-huh,” Jungkook chimes in, grinning. “I talked to her a bit. She hates Madrid, bro. Says the players there are spoiled and annoying.”

“She probably just misses home,” Dani says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She grew up here — I’m sure they’re not that bad.”

“Whatever,” Jungkook shrugs, “she doesn’t vibe with it.”

“Well, I don’t know if they’re cool,” you interject, “but some of them are super hot.” You sing-song the words, spoon in hand. “Marco is so my type.”

Dani scrunches his nose immediately. “Ew. I really didn’t need to hear that.”

“You just gave me the worst ick,” Jungkook says, shooting you a look of pure betrayal.

“Men can’t get the ick,” you declare, smug. “It’s for girlies only.”

You stand outside Hugo’s apartment, clutching your phone like it might shield you from the storm brewing on the other side of the door.

You’re already bracing for the headache waiting for you as soon as you step inside. Hugo must be livid. Hell, you’re certain of it.

If there’s one thing Hugo despises, it’s a scandal—especially one he didn’t orchestrate himself.

You inhale deeply, lift your chin as high as your pounding head will allow, and finally press the doorbell.

The door swings open almost instantly, like he’s been standing right there, waiting for you. Which, honestly, wouldn’t surprise you. You and Hugo have always had this weird, borderline telepathic connection. Like that time you desperately wanted the exact pair of Manolo Blahnik's Carrie Bradshaw wore in Sex and the City—the ones she got stolen at a party—and when you’d finally worked up the courage to tell Hugo… he’d already bought them for you.

Twin behavior, indeed.

Before you can even say hello, Hugo grabs your arm and pulls you inside, slamming the door shut behind you as though paparazzi might be lurking in the hallway.

“Girl, have you gone absolutely insane?” he hisses, glaring at you like you’ve personally offended every fiber of his being.

“No,” you mutter as you kick off your shoes, striding straight into Hugo’s living room like you pay rent here.

Hugo trails behind you, his steps growing louder — faster — matching your energy.

“God forbid a girl has some fun,” you mumble under your breath, throwing yourself onto his velvet couch with a dramatic sigh.

You finally pull off your sunglasses and set them gently on the coffee table, as if that might buy you grace points.

“You weren’t having fun,” Hugo snaps, his hands flying in the air like he’s about to conduct an orchestra of chaos. “It looked like you were all over Blake fucking Scott.”

“I wasn’t!” you shoot back, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “I was just saying hi. The press twisted it.”

“I know,” Hugo says, exasperated. “His PR team already reached out to clear things up. I’m just telling you how it looks.”

“Well who cares how it looks if we know the truth?”

“I do,” he says, deadpan. “And so should you. Especially since half of Barça’s fanbase now ships you and Blake. There are already fan pages. Edits, babe.” He throws up his hands again, pacing. “TikTok edits.”

You groan, burying your face in a throw pillow. “This is ridiculous.”

“What did Dani say?” Hugo asks, crossing his arms now, brows raised in challenge.

“He was chill,” you say, sitting up. “He knows me. He trusts me. He knows I’d never do anything with his teammate.”

“Well clearly he knows you wrong,” Hugo deadpans. “Do I need to bring up Thiago?”

“Shut up,” you groan again. “Don’t remind me. That was ages ago.”

“Yeah,” Hugo mutters. “Thank fuck it never hit the press.”

“No—thank fuck Dani never found out,” you correct, eyes wide. “He’d kill me.”

“Well I want to kill you right now,” Hugo says, pointing at you like a disappointed sitcom dad.

“You’re being way too dramatic,” you say, stretching your arms over your head until your shoulders pop.

Hugo lets out a sharp scoff. “Yeah? Tell that to your sponsors, your social media team, and basically everyone who works for you. I’m sure they’ll all be so understanding.”

“Okay, fuck,” you groan, slumping back into the couch. “I didn’t think about it. I made a mistake, okay? I forgot how unhinged the press can be.”

Hugo softens just a fraction, but his voice stays firm. “I get it. But you need to hammer it into that thick skull of yours. There’s no room for mistakes right now. Especially with us about to launch ‘BB’s Luxe.’”

You exhale, pressing your palms to your eyes. “Okay… you’re right. I’m sorry. So… what do we do now?”

“You?” Hugo points a dramatic finger at you. “Nothing. You act normal. Post some fit checks on your story. Maybe a random storytime on TikTok. Something totally unrelated to FC Barçelona — especially Blake.”

“Shouldn’t I just, like… go silent on social media for a while?” you ask hesitantly.

“No,” Hugo says, with the exasperation of a man dealing with a wayward toddler. “That’s exactly what we’re trying to avoid. You always post. If you suddenly go quiet, everyone’s gonna think you’ve got something to hide. Blake’s team already sent me a draft statement. Let me handle it. Let us handle it.”

“Okay…” you sigh. “I’m sorry again, bestie.”

“Stop apologizing,” Hugo snaps, though the corners of his mouth twitch. “It’s making me even angrier.”

“On the plus side,” Hugo says, tapping his finger thoughtfully against his chin, “your socials blew up overnight. That spike could actually work in our favor — especially with the skincare launch around the corner. I’m willing to bet half of Blake’s fangirls are now following you, waiting for the tea.”

“What do you have in mind?” you ask, tilting your head, curiosity peeking through your exhaustion.

“I’m thinking we flip the narrative,” Hugo says, leaning back against the arm of the couch, casual but sharp. “You went clubbing with Blake — so let’s frame it as two friends hanging out. We lean into that angle publicly. Maybe even get Blake to post a Story with you. A cute caption like ‘my little sister’ — anything that screams platonic vibes and nothing else.”

You narrow your eyes. “And why, exactly, would his PR team agree to that?”

Hugo smirks. “Because they kinda have to. If they want this to die quickly, they’ll play ball. Otherwise, we just… say nothing. And your silence would be way louder than any rumor. People would eat it up and assume something shady’s going on.”

“So… we’re blackmailing Blake’s team? Cool, cool.”

“It’s not blackmail,” Hugo says, waving his hand as though swatting a fly. “It’s strategic silence. There’s nuance, babe.”

“You’re horrible.”

“I’m practical. And brilliant. You’re welcome.”

“Okay… agreed,” you sigh, finally cracking a tiny smile.

Hugo pauses, giving you a long, assessing look. “Is Blake gonna be mad at you for this? I’d prefer not to spark World War III with your friend."

“No, trust me, Blake’s chill,” you assure him, waving a dismissive hand. “I called him earlier, and he was like, ‘Let’s feed into the delulu. Let them think we’re dating.’ ”

Hugo blinks, then bursts out laughing. “Straight men are genuinely my favorite science project.”

“You and me both, twin.”

Turns out Hugo’s plan is indeed brilliant.

You’ve only been gone from his apartment for two hours when your phone buzzes with a triumphant text from him.

Hugo (not the Boss): Blake’s PR team folded like a piece of paper. Check his Story.

You’re already opening Instagram before you’ve even finished reading. And there it is — Blake’s Story.

It’s a selfie of you and him laughing outside the club, your hair falling into your face, Blake mid-smirk. Scrawled across the picture in elegant cursive are the words:

— barça’s baby sis

Bingo.

Almost instantly, your phone lights up with notifications. Likes, comments, DMs — your Instagram turns into a frenzy of usernames, emojis, and rapid-fire speculation. People are eating it up, fan pages gushing about the “adorable sibling vibes” between you and Blake.

It’s dizzying. But for the first time all day, you feel like you can actually breathe.

You share Blake’s Story to your own account, adding a neat row of blue and red hearts underneath. Whew.

Taking Hugo’s advice to heart, you follow up with an outfit check on your Instagram feed — a carousel of mirror selfies, carefully curated angles, a playful caption. You pointedly ignore the flood of Blake-related comments piling up under the post.

Instead, you try to stay calm and patient, counting the seconds until Hugo sends over the official statement you can share publicly.

For now, you focus on controlling what you can — your aesthetic, your posts, your narrative.

Sure enough, as soon as Blake’s official statement goes live — polished, PR-approved, toeing the line between warmth and formality — Hugo sends you yours.

You smile the second you read it. Of course he nailed it. Hugo knows you like the back of his perfectly moisturized hand — well enough to write something that sounds exactly like you:

Rumors are wild, huh? Blake Scott and I… are officially in a relationship called friendship. Nothing romantic happening, I promise. Thank you for caring though — you’re all sweet. Back to the regularly scheduled program of outfits and coffee runs. 💙❤️

You post it to your Story without a second thought, watching the hearts and DMs begin to pour in — but you don’t stick around to read them.

You turn your phone off. Literally off.

Because what you need right now is some very serious, very intentional recollection with nature. Or, more realistically — sitting by the pool with sunglasses on and your SPF maxed out.

That counts too.

But to your absolute, utter disdain, sitting by your pool is none other than Jeon Jungkook — sprawled out, shirtless, muscles on shameless display, tattoos glinting under the sun, wearing a lazy grin like it’s a crown.

“Don’t you have your own house?” you whine, dropping onto your sun lounger with a dramatic sigh.

“I do,” Jungkook says, running a hand through his damp hair, sending tiny droplets flying. It almost distracts you for half a second. Almost. “But I don’t have Dani in my house.”

“Can’t you two hang out at your place sometimes? I need, like, peace and quiet. Please.”

“Nope,” he huffs, settling deeper into his chair. “Because we thoroughly enjoy making you suffer.”

Rolling your eyes, you pull out your SPF spray, misting it over your legs and working it in with careful, slow circles. The citrus scent fills the warm air.

“I’ve had a tough day, Jungkook. I really don’t have time for your shit.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, leaning his elbow on the back of his chair, eyes glinting. “Saw your little Instagram Stories. You and Hugo were clearly doing some serious PR shit to rack up those follower numbers.”

You scoff, flicking imaginary dust off your leg. “It’s called spinning the narrative, genius. You should Google it sometime.”

“I would… if I was ever in a scandal to begin with,” he says, winking. “But I’m an unproblematic king.”

Dani appears from behind you, casting a shadow across your lounger. He’s holding two tall glasses, sunlight catching on the fizzing liquid and slices of orange perched on the rims. Mimosas. Perfect.

“One’s for me, right?” you ask sweetly, batting your lashes at your brother like a starving puppy.

“Nope. One for me, one for Kook,” Dani says, pulling the glasses out of reach before you can even try grabbing one. He hands Jungkook his drink, and Jungkook shoots you a small triumphal smile.

“Pleaaase,” you whine, stretching out the word, reaching half-heartedly towards Dani's drink.

“If you want one, go make one yourself. Stop being so lazy,” Dani shoots back, settling onto the sun lounger beside Jungkook.

“Weren’t you like, hungover as fuck a few hours ago?” Jungkook asks, eyebrows raised as he casually snatches the SPF spray right out of your hand.

“Hey! Give it back, asshole,” you snap, lunging forward, but he’s already spritzing it onto his arms, rubbing it in like he owns the bottle.

Ugh. Why does he have to be like this?

“I’m not hungover anymore,” you hiss, glaring at Jungkook as you flop back into your seat. “I need to relax.”

“Daniiieeel,” you sing out sweetly, dragging his name like honey as you tilt your head toward your brother. “Can you please fetch me a mimosa?”

Dani rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. “Again, why would I do that?”

“Because you love me, and I’ve been a tragic victim of gossip blogs today.” You press a hand to your chest dramatically, as though your heart might shatter.

“You’re so annoying,” he groans.

“Please? Pretty, pretty please?” You widen your eyes, batting your lashes like your life depends on it.

Dani huffs, shaking his head. “Fine.”

You throw your arms up in victory as Dani gets up, his silhouette soon disappearing into the house. Fuck yeah.

Behind you, Jungkook lets out an exaggerated scoff. “You’re on a fast track to becoming an alcoholic, you know that?”

“You are literally drinking right now,” you huff, getting to your feet and stalking toward the pool.

You can practically feel Jungkook’s gaze drilling into the back of your neck, but you refuse to turn around. Can’t he just leave you alone for five minutes?

“At least I’m not drinking every day,” he calls after you, voice edged with exasperation.

“Neither am I, duh. It’s a weekend sport,” you shoot back over your shoulder as you lower yourself onto the edge of the pool. Cool water closes around your ankles, and you let out a blissful sigh as the sun warms your skin.

For a moment, there’s blessed silence — no snarky retort, no teasing quip from behind you. It’s so suspicious that you slowly tilt your head to look back at Jungkook.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” you say, one eyebrow arched.

But instead of firing back, Jungkook just slumps his shoulders, eyes dropping as he shifts in his seat.

Jungkook shifts again on his lounger. He clears his throat once. Then again, a little louder. He subtly pulls a towel from beside him and drapes it across his lap, smoothing it out as casually as he can manage.

He tries to focus on the glimmering surface of the pool, or the pattern of sunlight flickering across the tiles. But his jaw is clenched tight, a faint flush creeping up his neck and coloring the tips of his ears.

He crosses one leg over the other, adjusting the towel for the third time, his fingers curling around the edges like it’s his last lifeline.

“Hot out today, huh?” he mutters under his breath, voice a little strained.

You laugh, splashing a bit of water with your heel. “The fuck? What’s up with you?”

“Me? Nothing. What’s up with you?” Jungkook shoots back quickly, his brows pulling together a little too tightly.

“You’re being weird,” you accuse, narrowing your eyes at him.

“No I’m not.” His voice comes out just a shade too high.

“Since when do you talk about the weather, dumbass?” you say, flicking droplets of water in his general direction.

“Umm…” Jungkook clears his throat, shifting yet again on his lounger. His fingers grip the edges of the towel across his lap like it’s a security blanket. “Since it’s… hot outside.”

“You’re scaring the crap out of me right now,” you say, squinting at Jungkook.

He sits stiffly on the lounger. “You’re just imagining things,” he snaps, a little too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” You narrow your eyes. With an exaggerated huff, you slip into the pool, shivering as the cool water closes over your warm skin.

“Careful, don’t drown,” Jungkook calls after you.

“Wow, thanks for the concern, Captain Safety,” you shout back, smoothing your hair back as you paddle toward the deeper end.

“I’m just saying, you’re dramatic enough as it is. You’d probably turn a noseful of water into a near-death experience.”

“Excuse me? I’m elegance and grace personified,” you shoot back, glaring at him from mid-pool.

He snorts. “Sure. Says the girl who fell off a bar stool last month completely sober.”

“That stool was wobbly, okay? Don’t make me come over there.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he retorts, eyes glinting.

You roll your eyes, diving under the surface. The water muffles the world into a hush, bubbles swirling around your face as the sunlight fractures into golden shards overhead. For a few seconds, it’s blissfully quiet.

When you pop back up, hair slicked back, Jungkook’s still watching you with a look somewhere between annoyance and... something else.

“Why are you staring at me like I’m a circus act?”

“Because you are a circus act.”

“Jealousy’s not a good look, Jeon,” you snap, sending another splash toward his lounger.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, adjusting the towel in his lap like it might save his dignity. “Just don’t come crying when your little scandal makes headlines again.”

Floating on your back, you grin at the blue sky. The water is cool and perfect, sunlight warming your face.

“Not worried, loser,” you call, voice echoing off the pool tiles. “Because at the end of the day, I’m me. And you’re just Jeon Jungkook.”

“And you’re a pain in my ass,” he fires back.

“And you love it.”

He groans, rubbing his face. “God, why do I even hang out here?”

“Because I’m fabulous. And Dani’s here,” you remind him.

You let yourself sink beneath the surface again, the cool water closing over your ears and swallowing the noise of the world. For a few precious seconds, there’s nothing but soft blue light and the gentle sway of currents around you.

Yeah… today actually turned out fine. You had a blast last night. The scandal, against all odds, ended up working in your favor. BB’s Luxe is about to launch soon. Life is good. Life is actually fucking amazing.

So, fuck Jungkook and his random weirdness. Whatever. It’s just how he is.

Because he’s Jeon Jungkook.

And he’s simply the biggest loser ever.

taglist: @cherryreadsfics @dreamersparacosm @dailynnt @kelsyx33 @jungkooksseuphoria @stvvrgrr @plutocartii @mimi1097 @unefleurv @111vln @adorepinkseworld @nikkinikj @taolucha @rarakore @beattiestreet @souleater44 @cdllevantae @jungkoode @kimishataheyung @fleintur @generouspursethingbat @taesnumber1 @kooever @impossiblecopoaffire @kaystrategy @taekrve @vintagemoonsstuff @lcvryu @guwol @jenniebyrubies @mar-lo-pap @smolchild95 @sstass @midas-quinn @osirisnasa @superstarfishsandwich @alextgef @sphrssss @pitchblack0309 @jinnyverse @bjoriis @httpjeonlicious @yooforeaa @petals4bangtan @futuristicenemychaos @lvnderdreams @breezy-bts @annyeongbitch7

[generouspursethingbat]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 06

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, fluff, angst, arguing :’(, jk’s an asshole in this i’m sorry, (eventual) explicit sexual content, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.6k

notes: okay first of all, i’m SO sorry for the wait. second of all, this chapter was meant to be much longer but i split it into two :< anyways, likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are sooo appreciated!! enjoy (?) reading my angels <33 (and pls don’t hate me </3)

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⤷ chapter six — tv

“and i’ll be in denial for at least a little while / what about the plans we made.”

The kitchen is quiet, only filled by the soft buzz of the fridge and the distant sound of waves. You take a slow sip from your mug, fingers curled around the ceramic.

The coffee's still warm, just the way you like it — strong, slightly bitter, just enough milk to soften the edge. You’d made Jungkook’s the same way you always have. You didn’t even think about it. Just moved through the motions like you’ve done a hundred mornings before.

But that was nearly half an hour ago.

His mug is still sitting on the counter. Steam long gone, surface barely warm. You glance at it for the third — maybe fourth — time, as if expecting it to have vanished. It hasn’t. It’s still there, untouched.

And so is the space beside you.

You haven’t seen him since waking up.

You’d stirred sometime around eight, alone. No arm slung over your waist, no weight shifting the mattress beside you, no sleepy grumble against your shoulder. Just cold sheets and a quiet room. The fan was still spinning overhead lazily, and the only thing on the nightstand that hadn’t been yours was a single bottle of water.

You’d stared at the ceiling for a few minutes after that.

It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t let yourself get used to waking up like that again. If you hadn’t let it feel like something.

But you did, because you always do, with him. Even now.

So when you eventually got out of bed, you made two cups of coffee. One for you. One for him.

You tell yourself it was just habit. But that’s only half-true.

Because the other half — the part you don’t say out loud — is that you were kind of hoping he’d show up.

That you could sit across from him, trade casual conversation, build your way back into something steady enough to finally ask the things you’ve been swallowing down since the breakup. Finally ask the things you wanted to ignore last night when you kissed him.

What happened?

What changed?

Why did it feel like he was ready to spend the rest of your life with you, and then suddenly, he wasn't?

You’ve been sitting with those questions for weeks. Letting them settle into your bones. Last night had started to smooth out the edges. That kiss, the way he held you, the weight of him tucked against your back — none of it felt like someone who’d let go for good.

But this morning?

This morning feels like the reset button was hit again. Like you’re back at square one.

And it’s starting to scare you.

You take another sip from your mug.

It’s not just that he left. It’s the fact that you have no idea where he went, or why, or when he’s coming back. It’s that your questions are still sitting in your chest, unanswered. It’s that his coffee is still sitting in front of you, lukewarm.

It’s that you keep hoping for something that keeps slipping away.

And sure, it could be nothing. He could walk into the kitchen any minute and prove that all of your overthinking was for nothing and place a kiss against your temple as he silently confirms that you guys are finally okay again. But as you stare down at nothing in specific, eyes unfocused on the ground, you can't ignore the feeling that it's not going to be that easy.

A hand waving in front of your face breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Hello? Earth to ___?"

You blink and turn to find Kiara standing in front of you, one brow raised, one hand waving dramatically in front of your face.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling back a little, caught off guard. “You scared me.”

She grins. “I said your name twice. Thought you died standing up.”

You force a breath through your nose, trying to ease the tension from your shoulders. “Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Clearly,” Kiara says, folding her arms as she leans back against the island across from you. “You were staring at that coffee like you were possessed or something.”

You glance back down at Jungkook’s mug. The coffee inside has gone a dull, murky brown. It's oddly fitting.

“Just thinking,” you murmur.

Kiara gives you a long look, tilting her head slightly. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

You expect her to pivot the conversation, maybe ask what time you’re heading to the beach, or what’s for breakfast.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she says, softer now, “Is everything okay with you and Jungkook?”

Your stomach drops, and you're too slow to catch the surprise on your face before it shows.

She doesn’t look accusatory. Just curious. Maybe a little concerned.

You think about what Jungkook said — that your acting sucks.

Clearly, he was more right than you gave him credit for if this is the second time someone has thought that something was off between you two.

You give Kiara a tight smile, trying to play it off. “Of course we’re okay. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end and Kiara’s face shifts. Her eyes narrow, expression flattening just a little.

God. You suck at this.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you.

And when you glance past her, you realise Ari and Yasmine are both in the kitchen now too. You didn’t even hear them come in. They're hovering by the counter, not pretending they didn’t hear the conversation. Yasmine raises her eyebrows at you as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

You laugh, the sound a little too loud and a little too fake.

“No, seriously. There’s nothing going on. We’re totally fine,” you insist. You try to make it sound breezy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. But there’s this edge of strain in your tone that even you can hear now.

Yasmine exchanges a quick glance with Ari. Ari raises a single brow.

“____,” Kiara says, and her voice almost sympathetic. “We love you to death. If anything if going on, you can tell us. We will fight that man if needed.”

You snort at the ridiculousness of the offer, trying to ignore the way they're all watching you.

“Okay, maybe don’t plan my best friend’s murder right in front of me,” Jimin says around a half-yawn, wandering into the kitchen. His hair is a mess — flattened on one side and fluffy on the other — and his hoodie is inside out. His expression, though, is amused as hell.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It’s half a laugh, really — short and quiet, but enough to break the tension hanging over you. Your shoulders drop just slightly.

“No one said murder,” Kiara replies, looking entirely unbothered. “We said ‘fight.’ With fists. Maybe knees.”

“Maybe a little arson,” Yasmine adds, chewing on the edge of a strawberry she pulled from the fridge.

Jimin walks past them and reaches up to grab a granola bar from the top shelf. “You know I’m contractually obligated to defend Jungkook’s honour,” he says through a yawn, unwrapping the bar. “Even if he’s being an idiot. Which, to be fair, is frequent.”

“Then maybe pass that message along,” Ari says, deadpan.

He finally glances toward you then, eyes briefly scanning your face. He doesn’t say anything — and thankfully, he doesn’t ask — but something in his expression softens. Like he can see the way you’re slightly curled in on yourself, even if you’re trying to fake calm.

The semi-circle of concern around you shifts a little to make room for him, and he steps into it without hesitation, granola bar still in hand. It’s oddly comforting, how casually he folds into the space — like maybe if he acts normal, things will be normal.

And you’re grateful for it. The way attention slides off you and onto Jimin’s sudden presence.

You sip your coffee again, and it tastes slightly better now. Or maybe it’s just that your heart’s not pounding against your ribs anymore.

“Actually, I actually need to tell you guys something,” Jimin says once he’s halfway through the bar, mouth still kind of full. “Before everyone disappears into the sand for the rest of the day.”

You tilt your head, turning slightly more in his direction.

Jimin finishes chewing, wipes his hands on the front of his hoodie — inside-out tag flipping up in the process — and leans casually against the counter.

“Okay,” he starts, tone turning slightly serious. “This doesn’t leave this room. At least not yet.”

Immediately, all of you perk up.

“Oh my god,” Kiara says, leaning in. “Are we finally getting the tea?”

“Someone’s pregnant,” Yasmine whispers like it’s a wild theory, eyes wide.

“Wrong group,” Ari deadpans.

You snort.

“No one’s pregnant,” Jimin says. “But something is happening. And it’s big. So, swear you won’t say anything to Haeun.”

You all nod in varying degrees of seriousness. A chorus of “obviously” and “duh”s.

“Seokjin’s proposing.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Not because no one saw it coming — but because even when you expect something, hearing it said out loud hits differently.

“No way,” Ari breathes.

“Finally,” Yasmine grins, clapping once. “She’s going to lose it.”

“I knew it,” Kiara says, not even pretending to be surprised. “He’s been acting weird since we got here.”

“Super obvious,” Ari agrees. “He kept spacing out yesterday during volleyball. I asked him if he was okay and he just said, ‘Just picturing things.’ I thought he meant, like… strategy?”

You set your coffee down, half-smiling. “That man has never strategised a day in his life.”

Jimin nods, serious. “Exactly. So, the plan is— he’s doing it the day after tomorrow. Right at sunset. On the back deck. He wants to keep it lowkey but still romantic. Just the group, nothing flashy. He’s got this whole thing with the fairy lights and stuff. It’s very... Jin.”

Yasmine clasps her hands together with a little squeal. “Do we get to be part of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at her. “Actually, he wants you to take pictures. Nothing major. Just candids. And the rest of us just need to, like, not make it weird.”

“What do you mean not make it weird?” Ari asks.

“I mean like… don’t swarm them,” Jimin says. “Don’t make it a whole scene. Just let it happen and then we can scream after she says yes.”

You all nod.

“God, they’re gonna be so annoying and in love,” Kiara sighs. “Good for them. Can’t wait.”

Jimin’s expression softens as he talks — and you can tell how much this means to him. How long he’s probably been sitting on it. How relieved he is to finally let it out. He’s one of Jin’s closest friends — the fact that Jin looped him in says everything.

“Wait, does Haeun know anything?” Ari asks.

“Not a clue,” Jimin says, grinning. “She thinks she’s just getting a sunset drink on the deck with Jin tomorrow before dinner. Meanwhile, he’s been carrying around the ring like it’s a live bomb.”

“She’s gonna be a mess,” you say quietly, voice warm.

"They're both gonna be a mess," Kiara replies, and you smile.

Honestly, it feels good to think about something else — to imagine someone else’s future for a while. One that's good and certain.

Not murky. Not lukewarm. Not tangled up in old habits and unfinished questions.

And just as that lightness settles in — just as you feel your chest unclench, just a little — the glass doors behind you slide open with a low hiss.

Everyone freezes.

The sliding door clicks back into place, the sound of it too sharp in the sudden stillness. Jimin’s eyes dart past you. Kiara, mid-sip of her drink, lowers her glass. No one says anything.

Your breath catches as you look over Yasmine's shoulder.

Please not Haeun, you think. Pleasepleaseplease.

Jungkook.

Helmet in one hand, motorbike keys hooked around two fingers on the other.

You're heart tugs with relief.

You’re glad he’s here.

Not because things are fine. Not because you know what you’re going to say. But because not knowing where he was all morning had started to eat at you, slow and annoying and persistent. Like something you couldn’t scratch out of your skin.

Jimin’s the first to speak.

“Fuck, man,” he says, twisting toward the door. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Haeun.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile. “Sorry.”

He steps further into the kitchen, the door soft-clicking shut behind him, and sets the helmet down on the island with a dull thud. The keys land beside it with a jingle. The whole group relaxes and the conversation starts backs up, but you’re barely tracking it.

Your eyes stay on Jungkook.

And his eyes don’t quite stay on you, but they flicker. Once. Then back down.

He moves to the cabinet and pulls out a mug from the same shelf you used earlier.

You pause, glancing at the mug still sitting beside your own on the counter. You hesitate for a second before you slide it toward him with your fingertips.

“Here,” you say. “I made one for you already.”

He pauses mid-motion, the clean mug in his hand, and his eyes drop to the one you nudged forward, then back up at you.

“I’m fine. Thanks though." He gives you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh.

Okay.

Maybe he just wants tea or something. You've never known him to be a tea person, but you don't dwell on it that much.

You're already moving to shrug it off when you catch a glance — just over the rim of your mug — of him moving back toward the coffee pot, and you watch, with a slow-burning disbelief, as he starts making the exact same cup of coffee that’s still sitting in front of him.

Same brand. Same scoop. Same splash of milk from the fridge. He reaches for the sugar and adds the same amount.

You stare.

Seriously?

You don’t say it out loud, but it hovers in your expression. Long enough that Ari, who’s been half-listening while peeling a clementine beside you, gives you the smallest nudge with her elbow.

You don’t even glance at her.

Your eyes are still on Jungkook.

He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

The air shifts around you and it feels like you’ve suddenly dropped into a scene you weren’t given the script for. Because it’s not about the coffee, really. It’s never just about the coffee.

It’s about how easily he dismissed it. Dismissed you so easily, as if you were nothing more than a stranger.

And maybe it’s petty, but come on. You made that cup for him. It wasn’t some random gesture. You got up, went through the routine, thought about what he’d want, even left it sitting there like a peace offering. And he’d rather go through the whole process again himself than take what you’d already done for him?

Fine.

You sip your own drink again, and try tune back into the conversation.

Jimin is talking about how Seokjin tried to smuggle the ring through airport security without Haeun seeing. Kiara makes a joke about hiding it in his shampoo bottle. Yasmine laughs so hard she nearly drops her bowl of strawberries.

And for a moment, it’s fine.

You even smile a little. Force yourself to pull your eyes away from Jungkook and land somewhere safer — like Jimin’s dramatic re-enactment of Seokjin’s TSA panic face.

But when your gaze flicks back, just for a second, you find Jungkook leaning against the opposite counter, sipping his freshly made coffee like he didn’t just say a whole lot by saying nothing.

And you don’t say anything either. Because what are you going to do — call him out for rejecting your cup of coffee?

So you let the conversation keep moving. You nod along. You laugh in the right places. You keep your expression neutral. Maybe a little too neutral.

But your jaw is just the tiniest bit tight. And your fingers wrap around your mug a little firmer than before.

Guess you weren't just overthinking after all.

The rain starts as a mist before quickly turning into a steady downpour.

You and Haeun are halfway back from the beach by the time it hits properly. She doesn’t bother running, and neither do you. You just glance up once at the thick, grey sky and laugh a little under your breath. She grins beside you, jogging lightly as she shakes water out of her ponytail.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she says, smug.

You’d been adamant about it, insisting that it would be warm as usual when you asked Haeun to come swim with you. She’d shown you her weather app and you’d waved it off with a dramatic, “Those things are never right.” Now, soaked halfway to the bone and blinking through the drizzle, you’re starting to eat your words.

"Yeah yeah, whatever."

By the time you step inside the house through the glass sliding doors, your legs are lightly dusted with sand and your hair is sticking to the sides of your neck, still damp from the ocean, and now slightly tangled from the breeze.

It’s warmer in the house, and for the first time since the trip started, everyone is inside. No one has slipped off to the beach or disappeared with a book to some random corner of the deck.

You brush your fingers through your hair absently as you kick off your flip flops near the threshold. Haeun’s already moved toward the kitchen, mumbling something about tea, leaving you to linger for a second by the open space where the wooden floor transitions into the living room rug.

Jimin and Taehyung are on the floor by the coffee table, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths with miserable aim and laughing at their failures. Ari’s curled up with Namjoon on one end of the abnormally large couch that takes up almost half of the room, the two of them watching something muted on the TV while Kiara and Yasmine scroll through their phones on the floor beside them, bickering about which photos to post later.

And there's Jungkook.

He's sitting on the other end of the couch, knees propped up, thumbing idly through something on his phone.

He looks calm. Not relaxed, exactly — Jungkook doesn’t really do relaxed when he’s spaced out, but his shoulders aren’t hunched like they were this morning, and his jaw isn’t clenched. He just sits there scrolling.

You hadn’t seen him on the beach. You’re not even sure where he’d gone off to all morning, after the coffee exchange that had been awkward enough to replay itself in your brain on loop.

It’s not that you’re trying to obsess, but it’s hard not to notice when someone you used to know inside out starts moving like a stranger.

You take a slow breath, brushing your hand down your thigh once — a nervous gesture you don’t bother disguising — and cross the rest of the living room, stepping carefully over Taehyung’s outstretched legs as you make your way toward the couch.

There’s an open space beside Jungkook and you decide take it.

But before you can even properly sit down or bring up your knees to get comfortable, Jungkook's already standing.

You watch as he crosses the living room and drops down into the armchair beside Yoongi without a single word, disbelief painting your features for a second before reel your expression back to neutral.

You don’t look at anyone.

You definitely don’t look at Jungkook.

Instead, you keep your gaze pinned to the muted television in front of you — some vaguely familiar movie playing with the subtitles on — and try to ignore the way your heartbeat has picked up in your ears.

It’s not a big deal. Not technically. Maybe he just wanted to sit by Yoongi. Maybe you’re reading too much into it. Again.

But still.

Still.

You cross one leg over the other, trying to breathe through the stiffness now crawling up the back of your neck. You can feel a strand of hair clinging to your collarbone. You reach up and tuck it behind your ear just to do something with your hands.

“Hey,” Jimin says suddenly from the floor, glancing back toward you, “you two get caught in the rain?”

You force your mouth into a small smile. “A little.”

“Dumbasses,” Taehyung says fondly, tossing a kernel of popcorn that smacks Jimin square in the cheek. “Told you it was gonna pour.”

“It’s barely even raining,” Haeun calls from the kitchen, voice slightly muffled from the distance.

You hum in agreement, mostly to say something, but your voice barely makes it out. You don’t think anyone notices.

Except maybe Kiara, who glances at you briefly from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s enough to make you shift in your seat.

You try not to look again. At him.

You fail.

Jungkook’s posture hasn’t changed — one arm resting on the armrest, the other slung low in his lap. He’s facing the TV, but his gaze isn’t fixed on anything in particular.

This isn’t normal. Not even close.

Not that anything has been normal since the breakup, but this is different. Cold in a way he’s never been with you — even when you fought. Even when you broke up.

It’s the kind of distance that doesn’t come from anger. It’s more deliberate than that.

And you really don’t know what you did to deserve it.

The rain doesn’t last. It trails off sometime after the movie ends — not that you can remember a single scene of it — and by the time it does, the sky outside is starting to dip in colour.

You keep your eyes on your hands, loosely folded in your lap, while the rest of the group starts to migrate back outside into the pool and the beach. Someone tugs open the back door and lets the salt-heavy breeze rush back in. Kiara walks past and ruffles your hair lightly, says something about joining them soon. You nod, even though you’re not sure you will.

You don’t even register Jungkook until he’s moving past the arm of the couch.

“Jungkook,” you say.

He stops just in front of the door to the front.

He doesn’t turn fully. Just glances over his shoulder, enough to let you know he heard.

You stand before your courage can second-guess you. “Can we talk?”

A beat of silence passes. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.”

It takes you a second to process his words.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting.

“I just—” Jungkook shifts, hand flexing at his side like he’s trying not to clench it. “I think we’re handling things fine. Everyone still believes us, right? That’s the whole point.”

You stare at him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He exhales, but doesn't respond.

“I’m not talking about the deal. I’m talking about you— us— and the fact that you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“I haven’t—”

“Yes, you have,” you cut in, voice firmer now. “You wouldn’t even look at me this morning. You’ve barely said more than three words since last night.”

“I thought you wanted space,” he says quietly, finally turning around to face you. “I figured, after yesterday, that it’d be easier if I just gave you room.”

“Easier?” you echo. “For who?”

He swallows. His gaze drops. You can see the tension in the way his shoulders pull in slightly, like he’s trying to fold himself smaller.

“I’m just trying not to make this harder than it already is."

Your chest tightens, something sharp rising behind your ribs. There’s a line between being careful and being cowardly, and you don’t know when Jungkook crossed it — only that he’s already miles past it now, still walking away from a conversation he won’t even let you have.

“And moving when I sit beside you— what’s that supposed to be?” you ask. “Because if that’s you being careful, it really fucking sucks.”

His jaw twitches.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Jungkook? Because you’re not talking to me. You won’t even look at me.”

His lips part like he wants to say something before he stops himself.

You wait, but he doesn’t answer.

He just stands there in silence, eyes unreadable, like he’s scared whatever comes out of his mouth next will be the wrong thing.

And that frustrates you more than anything else.

Because you just want the truth, not silence. Even if it hurts. Even if it means hearing him say that he doesn't love you anymore. Because at least, then you’d know.

You cross your arms slowly, swallowing the lump that has started forming in your throat.

“You can’t just fucking kiss me one day and ignore me the next.”

“Look, I’m—” He exhales harshly. “I’m sorry the kiss didn’t mean anything, okay?

You freeze.

Something inside you falters, buckles under the weight of it. You try to breathe around the burn clawing up your throat, but the room suddenly feels too stuffy.

You press your nails into your palms. You can feel your pulse there — quick, shallow, and it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment. You don't trust yourself to speak, so you don't.

Jungkook's voice is soft when he eventually speaks. “We only have to do this shit for one more day. That’s it. I’ll stay out of your way until then, and when it’s over, we can pack our bags, go home, and you never have to talk to me again.”

You stand there for half a second too long. Long enough for the silence to feel thick again. Long enough to think — maybe he’ll take it back, or stop you. Maybe he’ll say something else.

But he doesn’t, so you turn.

You walk away, footsteps too loud against the hardwood. Your throat is tight, your chest worse. You make your way outside and up the stairs into you room, shutting the door with a quiet click — not because you're calm, but because slamming it would mean he still matters enough to make you angry.

And right now, you're trying not to let him matter at all.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall, trying to will yourself not to cry.

You don’t win that one. Not completely.

But you wipe away your tears before they can stain your face, because if anyone comes looking, you’ll lie. If he comes looking, you won’t open the door.

Still, you wait for the sound of footsteps outside the room.

None come.

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[generouspursethingbat]

dear me | 11

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: emotional repression, jealousy, passive aggression, emotional conflict, secrecy, pregnancy mention, guilt, self-deprecation, avoidance, emotionally unavailable relationships

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,1k // date: 22nd of June 2025

CHAPTER ELEVEN — THE SECRET happy reading my gummies...

AN: hi there my babes. guess who's back. mhm that's me. here's dear me 11. are we excited or what (i know fully well i am). ugh guys, this chapter is actually one of the most important chapters in season one of dear me (even though it doesn't seem like it), because we're slowly going to be unlocking past and present character arcs and i’m so excited (and scared) about it. did you like it? what do you think? i can't wait to read your comments and theories ugh.

also let’s be honest, this chapter is unhinged in the most emotionally constipated way possible. people be fighting, lying, cracking under pressure, and someone is being the hot nuisance he always is. a full-course meal.

now for the note goal—note goal for this chapter is 500 notes. let’s see if we can still do it or if we’ve collectively died from the angst. love you always mwah.

“Jesus, come back to bed, why are you up so early?” Taehyung groans from the tangle of your sheets, voice still thick with sleep.

The morning sun breaks through the blinds and slides across his bare chest like it’s trying to seduce you too. His dark hair is a mess, sticking out in different directions, pillow-creased and annoyingly perfect. He throws one arm over his eyes, the other lazily patting the space beside him.

“Because some of us have actual lives,” you mutter, knotting your robe and trying not to look at how the sheet’s dangerously low on his hips. Taehyung in your bed is already dangerous enough. Taehyung all golden and sleepy? That’s a war crime.

“Boo,” he yawns. “So no morning sex?”

You grab your phone off the nightstand. “Wasn’t last night enough for you?”

“Enough?” He lifts his head, giving you a grin that is absolutely going to get him smacked one day. “I’m never full when it comes to you. You're like—dessert. Irresistible, kinda bad for me, but still... I keep going.”

You throw a sock at him. “Gross.”

“True.”

You laugh anyway, tossing your charger into your tote. “I have to go see my parents. And then clean, grocery shop, return that thing that’s been sitting in my bag for three weeks, try not to spiral into a panic attack—just Saturday things.”

“Wow,” he says, voice flat. “Sexy.”

“Don’t pretend like my crippling to-do list doesn’t turn you on.”

“Oh, it does,” he groans. “You scribbling little notes in that scary planner? That’s peak hot girl behavior.”

You roll your eyes, walking toward the kitchen for coffee. “You know this isn’t a sleepover, right? You don’t actually live here.”

“I’m aware,” he calls after you, voice sing-song. “But you let me stay the night, so by the rules of fuckbuddy law, I get coffee privileges.”

“Who made those rules?”

“Me. I’m the mayor of casual hookups. Respect my office.”

You return with your mug, taking a long sip. “You’re lucky I don’t charge you rent.”

“I’d pay in very creative ways,” he says, stretching his arms above his head in a way that absolutely should not be legal. “Very. Creative. Ways.”

You glance at the time on your phone. “Well, unfortunately for you and your creative payment plans, I’ve got to go.”

He pouts like a child being told recess is over. “So that’s it? I get kicked out into the cruel world with nothing but last night’s memories and a boner?”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

You head to the door with your bag, pausing before you open it. “Lock up behind you.”

Taehyung salutes you from the bed. “Yes, captain. Until next time, my cruel queen.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t eat all my cereal.”

“No promises!”

Taehyung keeps spamming you with messages until you pull into your parents’ driveway, phone lighting up like it’s possessed.

[11:36 AM] Tae: where’s the coffee. be honest.

[11:36 AM] Tae: also why do you have like… seven bags of quinoa??

[11:37 AM] Tae: are you okay

[11:38 AM] Tae: help me

[11:38 AM] Tae: if i die in your apartment, it’s your fault

[11:39 AM] Tae: okay nvm found the coffee i love you

[11:39 AM] Tae: wait no i don’t that was the caffeine talking

[11:40 AM] Tae: also the sugar was in the fridge?? are you a serial killer

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you as you scroll, thumb tapping a quick reply.

[11:40] You: stop touching my stuff or i will block you.

[11:40] Tae: kinky

You ignore that.

Kim Taehyung makes everything so damn complicated and yet so stupidly easy at the same time. Like, he’s the human equivalent of throwing glitter in the air—chaotic, unnecessary, but admittedly very pretty. He talks too much. Sends too many selfies. Wears your robe like he owns it. But he also listens when you rant, hugs you like you’re breakable, and makes your coffee just how you like it—when he actually finds the ingredients.

He’s also extremely good in bed. Like, top-tier, Olympic-gold-medal-in-thrusting good. You’d give him a solid 11/10 if it didn’t feel like stroking his already inflated ego.

You have thought about it before—what being with him would look like. But every time the fantasy starts to form, it fizzles out just as fast. Because Taehyung? He’s a walking red flag with mood swings and a god complex. He’s emotionally unavailable, possibly allergic to commitment, and once said “monogamy is a social construct” while eating cereal shirtless.

So yeah. He’s hot. He’s fun. He’s probably texting you right now asking if he can borrow a pair of your socks. But he’s not boyfriend material.

Clingy fuck buddy it is.

You put your phone on Do Not Disturb just as you climb out of your car. The second your foot hits the pavement, you hear your mom yelling from the front porch.

“There she is! Finally! You said eleven! It’s basically noon!”

You sigh, slipping into your practiced smile. “Traffic.”

“Sure. Come kiss your father.”

Your dad’s in his usual spot on the porch, coffee in hand, pretending he’s not amused by your mom’s dramatics.

You wave. “Hi, dad.”

“Morning,” he grunts. “You look tired.”

You want to say well I didn’t sleep much because I was too busy getting railed by a man who thinks air fryers are sentient, but instead you just smile and say, “Didn’t get much sleep.”

Your mom tuts and ushers you inside with a fuss. “You young people and your strange schedules.”

You shoot her a grin. “You’d be surprised.”

Vicky gently grabs you by the wrist, pulling you to the side as you enter the house.

“Heard Jungkook played a few days ago,” she says casually, as if even bringing up Jungkook’s name doesn’t flare her up with irritation.

You hum, noncommittal, mostly because you don’t feel like unpacking that whole situation with Vicky before you’ve had any sugar in your system. “Yeah. He did.”

“That’s all?” She raises a brow.

“That’s all,” you say, brushing past her.

You don’t have the energy to explain the layers of tension and warmth and unresolved mess between you and Jungkook—not to Vicky, who has her own (unsolicited) commentary on your friendship with him. Besides, you’re still piecing it together yourself.

You head into the kitchen where Leah is already sitting like a little gremlin, legs folded up on the stool, waiting for you.

“There she is,” she grins, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Girl, I made crème brulée. You gotta give me a taste test.”

“Bring it out,” you say, finally smiling as you drop your bag and lean your hip against the counter. “Let’s see what all the hype is about.”

Leah stands up dramatically, like she’s about to present a Michelin-starred dish on MasterChef. Vicky follows behind, arms still crossed like she’s itching to circle back to the Jungkook thing, but stays quiet—for now.

“You’ve been avoiding us,” Leah says sing-song as she grabs the ramekin from the fridge. “Which makes me think either you’ve been in a depressive spiral… or you’re hooking up with someone you’re not telling us about.”

Vicky snorts. “Honestly, could be both.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ve just been busy. I have a life, you know.”

“Suuure,” Leah says, placing the ramekin in front of you. “But your life doesn’t make crème brulée and ignore group texts for 48 hours straight.”

You grin despite yourself. “Okay, this looks kinda insane, not gonna lie.”

“Tap it,” she says, holding her breath.

You grab a spoon and give it a gentle smack—the sugar top cracks perfectly.

Leah gasps like she just won a medal. “DID YOU HEAR THAT?! I told you I got it right.”

You take a bite. “Leah… this is stupid good.”

“She’s been unbearable all morning,” Vicky mutters, sipping her lukewarm coffee. “She forced me to do a blind taste test at eight a.m.”

“Because I’m a culinary icon,” Leah says, beaming.

“You’re a menace,” Vicky deadpans.

“Soooo,” Leah says, dragging the word until it becomes a warning, “are you hooking up with someone?”

You lean back in your seat, one hand ruffling your hair. “Maybe I am.”

“Knew it,” Vicky mutters, smug like she just cracked a case. “You’ve had that freshly-fucked glow for weeks.”

Leah gasps. “I told you it wasn’t just new moisturizer!”

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second, I’m literally just… chilling. No big deal.”

“Uh huh,” Vicky deadpans. “Just chilling. Meanwhile someone’s breaking your back on the regular.”

You grin. “Someone’s helping me with my stress management, let’s say that.”

Leah squints at you. “Do we know him?”

“No.”

“Do you like him?”

You pause, blink. “I like that he leaves when I tell him to... Sometimes... and brings snacks.”

Vicky claps. “That’s growth.”

“He talks too much after sex though,” you say, grabbing a cookie off the counter. “Thinks I wanna discuss jazz theory while I’m still catching my breath.”

Leah laughs. “Wait. Is this the guy who got lost in your kitchen trying to find coffee the other day?”

You smirk. “The very same.”

“Oh my God,” Vicky says. “He texted you, didn’t he?”

You wordlessly flash your phone screen with six unread texts from Taehyung. One of them just says:

“where’s the fucking sugar i’m begging u i’m eating cereal like a prisoner”

They both burst out laughing.

“This man,” Leah says between wheezes, “is your reward for getting your life together?”

“I never said I was doing great. I said I was managing.”

“Are you gonna keep seeing him?” Vicky asks, still giggling.

You shrug. “Probably. He’s fun. Keeps things light. Doesn’t ask dumb questions like ‘what are we?’ or ‘have you eaten today?’”

Leah grins. “So you’re thriving.”

“Obviously.”

Leah moves around the kitchen with the kind of grace that only comes from familiarity, pouring coffee into mismatched mugs she’s had since high school. The smell is rich, warm — a little stronger than you’d make it yourself, but comforting all the same. The three of you shuffle into the living room like it’s muscle memory, each one naturally taking the spot you’ve claimed a hundred times before. It’s easy, effortless. The kind of comfort only years can bring.

You curl up on the couch, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic of your cup. The cushions dip just the way you remember them — this couch has survived a lot of heartbreaks and way too many spilled drinks.

“Where’s Nick?” you ask, not really thinking much of it. It’s just something you say when someone’s missing.

Leah leans back into the loveseat, tucking a blanket around her legs. “He’s at the Jeons’,” she says, completely unbothered.

You nod, already knowing she means Jungwoo’s place. Nick’s been best friends with Jungkook’s younger brother since forever — they’ve been inseparable since middle school, and by now he basically lives over there. The Jeon house is his second home, just like it used to be yours.

“I’ll give him a call,” Vicky says, already unlocking her phone with a dramatic sigh. “We barely get time like this anymore. He should come hang out with us.”

You hum in agreement, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “He probably thinks we’re gonna start trauma-dumping the second he walks in,” you joke.

“Honestly, he’s not wrong,” Leah adds, grinning as she pulls her hair up into a messy bun. “But he can survive a little emotional depth.”

Vicky rolls her eyes as she puts the phone to her ear. “If he picks up on the first try, I’m buying a lottery ticket.”

You glance around the room while she waits — the soft ticking of the wall clock, the slight creak of the ceiling fan above, a framed photo of the four of you at Leah’s high school graduation still hanging a little crooked on the wall. You didn’t realize how much you missed this — not the house, not even the coffee, but the quiet sense of belonging that comes with being around people who get you.

“It’s so weird that this used to be, like, every day,” Leah says, eyes scanning the ceiling like she’s watching a memory float by. “Now we need to schedule hangouts like we’re CEOs or something.”

“Yeah,” you say, your voice quieter than you expect. “I miss this.”

Vicky groans, “Ugh, he sent me to voicemail. Whatever, he’ll show up. Eventually.”

You all laugh, because that’s just so Nick. Always the last to arrive, always the one who makes an entrance.

The moment isn’t flashy, or even all that eventful. But it feels like something you’ll remember. A lazy Sunday afternoon and some coffee that’s too strong but made with love. No pressure to talk about anything heavy, no expectations — just a soft space to exist in for a while.

And honestly, that’s enough.

Just as Vicky pulls the phone away from her ear with an annoyed sigh, it starts ringing — his name lighting up the screen like a miracle.

She stares at it, stunned. “Okay, what the hell?”

You and Leah both lean in to look at the screen like it’s a rare artifact.

“No way,” you say, laughing. “Nick’s actually calling you back? Right now?”

Vicky answers dramatically, “This must be a sign of the end times.”

“Hello?” she says into the phone, already sounding skeptical. “Oh now you wanna pick up?”

You can only hear her half of the conversation, but you can imagine Nick on the other end — probably sprawled out on the Jeons’ beanbag, gaming controller in one hand, phone pressed to his cheek.

“No, we’re not dying, idiot,” she continues, exasperated but fond. “But we’re all here — me, Leah, and our lazy-ass sister — and you should be too.”

You sip your coffee as Vicky rolls her eyes dramatically again, clearly being fed some kind of excuse.

“Well put down the controller or say goodbye to your dignity, because I’m putting you on speaker.”

She taps her screen and tosses the phone onto the couch between all of you. “Say hi, loser.”

Nick’s voice comes through, slightly crackly but clear. “Yo! Okay, okay, chill. I’m coming, alright? I just gotta finish this round.”

“Told you,” Leah smirks.

“Finish it fast or I’m eating everything without you,” you snark.

There’s a pause. Then Nick goes, “You guys suck,” before hanging up.

The three of you burst out laughing.

“God, I missed this,” Vicky says, letting her head fall back against the cushions.

You don’t say it out loud, but you did too. It’s rare now — the ease, the messiness, the way you all still slip back into each other like puzzle pieces that still fit, even after years of growing up.

You glance toward the door like you can already hear his footsteps on the porch.

“He’ll probably show up in, what, an hour?” Leah teases.

“Or fifteen minutes,” you say, smiling. “If he thinks I really am eating his food.”

“Yoooo,” Nick yells as he bursts into the house exactly twenty minutes later, arms open like he’s walking into a sitcom set. He immediately goes for everyone’s cheeks, pinching each of you with dramatic enthusiasm like he’s not the literal youngest here. “Missed me?”

“Unfortunately,” Vicky says dryly, slapping his hand away.

“Your energy is so loud,” Leah mutters, even as she’s smiling, trying to avoid his fingers. He gets to you last, practically squishing your face in his palms. “Ugh, you’re all so weird,” he teases before dropping into the armchair like a king returning from war.

Right behind him, like an awkward little shadow, comes Jungwoo. He looks up with a shy smile, offering a timid “Hey,” and you instantly brighten.

“Jungwoo!” you say, pulling him into a warm, quick hug. He lets out a quiet laugh, and you pat the seat next to you, already scooting over to make room.

“Thanks,” he says, settling down carefully, like he doesn’t want to take up too much space. His presence is comforting though — calm and familiar in a way that never demands anything.

But then—

You hear the casual thump of sneakers on the hallway tiles and, a beat later, him.

Jungkook walks into the room like he owns the lease, all lazy posture and understated confidence. His hair’s a little messy, like he didn’t bother checking it before leaving the house — or maybe because he doesn’t have to. His hands are in his pockets, and his eyes scan the room like he’s just checking in on what’s his.

You don’t notice him right away, not until his presence actually reaches you — like the heat of a flame you didn’t realize was too close.

Your eyes flick toward Vicky before anything else, and sure enough, she’s already rolling hers, the irritation practically humming off her. Classic.

Jungkook doesn’t seem fazed. He leans down and presses a casual kiss to your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world — and maybe it is, maybe it’s just who he is, but the air still shifts slightly around the room, and you’re hyper-aware of it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and it’s so brief, so soft, it’s almost a whisper.

You hum back already feeling the subtle undercurrent vibrating beneath what was just a chill hangout moment ago.

Nick, of course, is oblivious, already asking if there’s food in the kitchen. Leah’s staring between you and Jungkook like she’s trying to connect invisible strings. Jungwoo politely sips on some soda, and Vicky... Vicky looks like she’s trying not to throw something.

“Jungkook,” Vicky says with a dry cough, her voice laced in sugar-coated sarcasm as she shoots him a smile that feels more like a threat than a greeting.

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. He plasters on a polite grin, the kind that says I see you, but I’m not giving you the satisfaction, and replies, “Hey, Vicky.” His voice is casual, as he lowers himself into the open seat beside you. His knees knock yours lightly as he settles in, spreading his legs like he owns the damn couch.

You can practically hear the smugness in the shift of his body.

He leans back into the cushions like he’s been part of this family hangout every Sunday for the past ten years.

“So glad you two made it,” Leah says, eyes warm as they flick between Jungkook and Jungwoo. She’s the only one in the room who actually seems excited, cradling her mug like it’s a shield against the inevitable chaos.

“What, no love for me?” Nick gasps, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “I walk in here after being ignored in the chat all week and you’re acting like I’m invisible?”

Leah rolls her eyes without looking at him. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, little bro.”

“You wound me,” Nick mutters, falling into the armchair like he’s been personally attacked.

You snort into your coffee. “What were you guys even doing before you came here?” you ask, turning your head just slightly toward Jungkook. He’s too close. His cologne smells like cedar and leather and something vaguely sweet, and it’s driving you crazy.

Jungkook stretches his arms over the back of the couch and shrugs. “Just gaming. Got sucked into a ten-round match. Jungwoo was rage quitting every five minutes.”

Jungwoo, still looking slightly nervous to be around this much estrogen, huffs from the corner. “Only because you kept stealing my kills.”

“I call that teamwork,” Jungkook says smugly.

“Amazing,” Vicky cuts in, her voice a touch too bright. She leans forward like she’s part of the conversation, even though she clearly wants to be anywhere else. “A group of full-grown men, spending their precious free time playing make-believe war on a flat screen. So inspiring. Truly peak masculinity.”

There’s a second of silence.

Jungkook just raises a brow. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried the high of landing a perfect sniper shot.”

“Right,” Vicky deadpans. “Because that’s what’s missing from my life. Digital murder.”

You hide your smirk behind your mug. Nick snorts out loud.

“Don’t take it personally, Kook,” you whisper under your breath, your lips brushing the rim of your cup. “She’s just mad because no one ever carried her to victory in Mario Kart.”

Jungkook chuckles low under his breath, and that stupid little sound warms the side of your neck.

“Please,” Vicky says, crossing her arms. “If I wanted to waste hours of my life, I’d re-download Tinder. At least that has real people.”

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, and even Leah lets out a laugh at that.

“Besides,” Vicky sing-songs, stretching her arms over the back of the chair like she owns the entire damn living room, “if I wanted to, just hypothetically speaking, spend my time engaging in murder…” —her gaze drifts pointedly toward Jungkook, slow and deliberate— “it sure as hell wouldn’t be the digital kind.”

A beat.

Jungkook blinks once, then exhales like she’s personally exhausted him. “Damn, Vick. I barely stepped into the house and you’re already out here threatening my life?”

“Who says I’m talking about you?” she snaps, lips curling into a sweet, venom-laced smile. “But I mean… if the shoe fits.”

Leah snorts from the couch, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Size ten in petty.”

Nick, spoon halfway to his mouth, glances between the two of them like he’s watching a tennis match. “You realize he’s a lawyer, right?” he says, around a mouthful of Leah’s crème brûlée. “He could probably put you in jail for, like, intent to commit murder. Or… psychological intimidation. That’s a thing, right?”

“Wow. Thank you, Nicholas,” Jungkook says, lifting his hand to his chest in mock appreciation. “Glad someone here respects the law.”

“Oh, boo hoo,” Vicky sighs, tossing her hand dramatically. “I’m so scared. What are you gonna do? Sue me for having bad vibes?”

Jungkook’s brows shoot up. “Don’t tempt me. I bill by the hour.”

Leah nearly chokes on her tea, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. “God, this feels like a deleted scene from Legally Blonde."

Vicky eyes Jungkook one last time before shifting her focus to her nails like he’s not even worth the continued energy. “Whatever. I’d win in court anyway.”

“You’d win by sheer volume of attitude,” Jungkook mutters.

“You’re damn right.”

“Anyways,” you say, drawing out the word like a life raft tossed into rising tension, “Where’s Nina? How is she?”

“Uhh…” Jungkook scratches the back of his head, a little too slowly. “She’s sick, so she’s resting a bit.”

“Again?” you ask, brows knitting, concern slipping into your voice before you can curb it. “She was feeling off the night you played too. Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook shifts in his seat, a bit too quickly. “It’s probably just the weather changing, I'm not sure. But it's nothing serious.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” Vicky mutters under her breath, swirling her tea like it wronged her. “What is she, pregnant or something?” She lets out a short laugh, but no one joins in.

In fact, the air shifts—just slightly, but unmistakably.

You feel it first. Jungwoo straightens his shoulders like someone pressed a nerve in his spine. Nick stops mid-bite, his spoon hovering somewhere between the table and his mouth before he quickly lowers it like the dessert is suddenly too rich to swallow. He stares at his plate like it might hold the answer to why this room just dropped ten degrees.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook doesn’t laugh. Not really. He lets out a single, clipped chuckle that dies as quickly as it’s born. His jaw tightens—once, twice—his fingers twitch subtly at his knee. His breath comes shallow. Controlled.

“Of course not,” he says, voice just a tad too light, too quick. “Just a little cold. Happens.”

But his eyes don’t meet yours.

Vicky blinks, her expression faltering as she scans the room, the energy clearly not matching her intent. “I was just joking, guys,” she says slowly, like she’s unsure whether she should be apologizing or doubling down.

You offer her a small, almost sympathetic smile—because truly, you don’t think she meant it. But your stomach twists all the same. Because whatever she said hit something. Something tender. Something no one’s talking about.

And most of all, because Jungkook’s not looking at anyone anymore. Just at the edge of the coffee table. Like he’s suddenly a million miles away.

And for the life of you, you don’t know why.

The conversation trickles back after a few awkward gulps of coffee and half-hearted jokes. Leah tries her best, bless her, chattering about some new café that opened up in town. Nick throws in the occasional sarcastic comment to keep the rhythm from collapsing entirely. Jungwoo nods along like a man on autopilot.

But you can still feel the heaviness clinging to the room like smoke.

Jungkook’s unusually quiet now. He's answering questions when prompted, but his usual warmth is gone—like he packed it away with Nina’s name.

You’re not the only one who notices. Vicky’s arms are crossed tight, and her jaw ticks like she wants to say something but bites it back. Leah’s glance darts between the two of them, the peacemaker instincts activated but unsure where to step in.

Eventually, the opportunity comes when Leah gets up to take more dessert orders and Vicky follows her into the kitchen with a pointed, “We need more whipped cream,” which is clearly just code for let me vent for five minutes before I explode.

Nick and Jungwoo fall into their own small conversation—basketball, you think—something safe.

That’s when you nudge Jungkook’s leg.

He looks at you, slow. You nod toward the hallway.

“Come with me for a second?” you ask quietly.

He follows you without a word.

You stop near the coat rack in the hallway, just out of earshot. It’s dimmer here. Quieter. The hum of a refrigerator from the kitchen and soft chatter from the living room feel miles away.

“You okay?” you ask, voice gentle.

Jungkook shrugs. “Yeah. I told you—she’s just sick.”

You tilt your head, squinting at him. “I didn’t ask about Nina.”

That catches him off guard. His shoulders drop slightly, like you just called him out on holding his breath.

“I’m fine,” he says, this time without the fake lightness. “I just… didn’t expect that.”

You nod, arms crossing, not in defense, but in comfort. “Is there something going on you’re not telling me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His tongue rolls over the inside of his cheek like he’s chewing on whether or not to speak. And then he exhales through his nose, sharp and quiet.

“There’s just stuff I’m… still figuring out.”

“Okay,” you say simply, not pushing.

His eyes meet yours for a second longer than necessary. There’s so much in them. Fatigue. Frustration. And something else—something you can’t name, but it makes your heart sting a little.

And then, as quickly as it cracked, the mask slides back on.

“We should go back,” he says, already stepping toward the living room.

You watch him walk off. You don’t follow right away.

There’s a weird heaviness in your chest. Not worry. Not sadness. Just this strange, frustrating itch of not knowing.

You don’t know what’s going on with him.

You don’t know what Vicky’s comment touched.

And you really don’t know why all of it is starting to matter more than you want it to.

It's past midnight when you finally get home.

The apartment is dark, your skin smells faintly of creme brulée and laundry detergent, and your phone’s been silent for the past hour.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. And you think about it.

About Vicky’s joke.

About the shift in Jungkook’s posture.

About how he didn’t touch his coffee after that.

About the hallway, and the way he didn’t answer your question, but his eyes did.

So, you do what you shouldn’t do.

You open your texts.

[12:27 AM] You: hey

You stare at it. Delete. Re-type.

[12:28 AM] You: i hope you're okay. you don’t have to explain anything if you’re not ready. i just wanted you to know i’m here. always.

You press send.

And then — because you can’t help yourself — you add one more.

[12:29 AM] You: also. if you ever need someone to fake a kidnapping so you can vanish for a weekend, i have a shovel and a good alibi.

You hit send.

Immediately regret it.

Immediately laugh.

Immediately wonder if he’ll reply.

You put your phone face down on your chest and close your eyes.

The kind of tired you feel isn’t physical.

It’s the kind that settles behind your ribs and waits.

You’re not expecting a reply.

Not tonight, maybe not at all. You know Jungkook — he shuts down when things get too heavy.

But your phone buzzes. Once.

[12:41 AM Kook]: you always know when to text me. it’s scary sometimes.

Then, after a beat, another one.

[12:42 AM] Kook: i’m okay. or trying to be. it doesn't matter. but thank you

Your heart tugs in a way you don’t like. A way that feels too much, too soon, too everything.

He sends one more.

[12:44 AM] Kook: also, pretty sure the shovel thing is illegal. but i’m keeping you in mind. just in case.

You laugh. You smile. You almost cry. All at once.

You set your phone down gently, like it’s carrying something fragile. Because maybe it is. Maybe it always has when it comes to Jungkook.

The room is dark except for the soft glow of the city bleeding in through your curtains, dancing shadows on your wall. You exhale, long and quiet, and sink deeper into your mattress, the weight of the day pressing against your chest.

You don’t reply to him. Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t trust yourself not to say too much. Because your fingers are twitching to type "I miss you,” and your chest aches with the need to ask "What are you not telling me?” But instead, you let the silence answer for you.

You turn over, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes open to the ceiling, and you realize something:

This is no longer simple.

It hasn’t been for a while now.

Jungkook's words echo in your head as you finally close your eyes.

“You always know when to text me.”

And yeah—

That’s exactly the problem.

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[generouspursethingbat]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 05

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, kissing, making out (?), you guys are gonna hate me lolol, reader and jk are both stupid, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 8.1k

notes: i did NOT think this would take this long, i’m so sorry angels :< as always, like, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are so appreciated!!! enjoy reading <33

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⤷ chapter five — anything

i don’t wanna talk about anything / i wanna kiss, kiss you eyes again / wanna witness your eyes lookin’

You wake up to warmth.

It takes you a second to realise it’s not the kind that comes from the sun bleeding through the sheer curtains. It’s heavier than that. Warmer. It smells like the detergent he always uses, that subtle citrus blend you used to make fun of for being “too clean.” You shift slightly; not enough to stir anything, but just enough to check.

Yep. That’s his arm, still draped across your waist.

He’s curled behind you, breathing steady, chest rising and falling against your back. One of his legs has somehow found its way tangled with yours. His grip on you is loose, almost lazy, like even in sleep, he doesn't want to let go — but he would if you pulled away.

You don’t.

Your pillow is soft, but his chest was softer last night. You remember the way he just climbed into bed, half-drunk, barely conscious, and slung his arm around you. No hesitation. No asking. Just like nothing had changed.

And maybe, for a second, you’d let yourself pretend that was true.

Now, in the stillness of early morning, there’s something terrifyingly comforting about his hold. About the way your bodies fit together so seamlessly, like no time had passed at all.

And you can feel the small ache in your chest — the part of you that misses him so much you're not sure how to deal with it.

You miss the way he sleeps like he’s protecting you from something. You miss the way his warmth settles over you like a blanket. You miss... him.

Your hand twitches, like it wants to reach for his, but you don't move — you don't want to break the moment.

So you just stay still, letting yourself exist in the space between what was and what could’ve been. Letting yourself remember, even if just for a minute, what it felt like to be loved by him without question.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, eyes half-lidded and mind floating somewhere between sleep and something a little too close to dreaming.

Eventually, his breathing shifts.

Not a lot — just the kind of subtle change that lets you know he’s slipping out of sleep. His chest rises a little deeper, his fingers twitch once at your side, and you feel the slight tension in his leg where it’s tangled with yours.

You keep your eyes closed.

He doesn’t move immediately. In fact, for a second, you think maybe he’s still asleep after all. But then you feel it: the tiniest brush of his thumb against the hem of your shirt.

You hear him breathe in, a little sharper this time. Not quite a gasp, but close. The kind of inhale people take when they suddenly remember where they are, and who they’re with.

Then his voice, low and scratchy with sleep, murmurs near your ear, “Still drool in your sleep?”

You scoff, caught off guard, and shove at his arm without really meaning it.

“No,” you mutter, voice thick, “but you still snore.”

There’s a quiet laugh behind you. It's barely there, a warm exhale more than anything else, but it vibrates faintly through his chest where it rests against your back. It feels nice, but too easy. Like a bad habit.

Then, silence.

Another beat passes, and you can feel the change the moment it happens. Like something clicks back into place for him. His arm retracts slowly, the weight of it disappearing from around your waist. He shifts back a few inches — not a lot, but enough to put space where there hadn’t been any for hours.

You feel the loss immediately.

Your skin feels cooler where he was, your body suddenly too aware of the places that were warm just seconds ago. You don’t move. Don’t look at him. You just stare at the soft curve of light on the wall in front of you and pretend you don’t miss the closeness already.

“Sorry,” he says under his breath, barely audible. “Didn’t mean to... yeah.”

You nod, still facing forward. “It’s fine.”

But it’s not. Not really.

He sits up slowly, the mattress dipping under his weight as he pulls his legs over the edge of the bed. You don’t turn around, but you can hear the way he rubs at his face with his hands, the quiet sound of palms dragging over skin.

“Sun’s already up,” he says, like you hadn’t noticed.

You hum in agreement, but you don’t say anything else.

He sits there on the edge of the bed for a second, then lets out a groan. "Fuck," he mutters. "How much did I drink last night?"

You shift slightly on the mattress, just enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. His hair’s a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up in soft waves on the other. It makes you smile.

“Judging by the way you came in here like a tranquilised bear? Enough.”

He huffs a sound that might be a laugh, head hanging low. “Figures.”

He pushes himself up with a grunt, standing slow like the weight of being vertical is a little too much this early. There’s a faint crease across his cheek from the pillow, another on the side of his neck where the blanket must’ve bunched up under him. He scratches absently at his jaw, eyes still droopy.

You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t look at you.

He just stands there for a beat, arms loose at his sides, before murmuring, “I’m gonna go see if there’s coffee. You want anything?”

You finally roll over, propping yourself up on one elbow just in time to see him standing by the door, his hair messy and eyes avoiding yours.

You hesitate. “Coffee sounds good.”

He gives a small nod. “Okay.”

The door clicks softly behind him, and you’re alone in the room again. The only evidence he was ever there is the indent on the mattress beside you and the faint trace of citrus still lingering in the air.

You sigh, falling back against the pillow.

You hate how badly you already want him to come back.

The small Hello Kitty sticker on the side of Jungkook’s helmet is still there.

It’s barely hanging on now, faded from years of sun and road and rain, peeling slightly at the edge like it's just waiting for someone to come along and pull it off for good. But no one ever has. Not even him.

You remember the day you put it there. It was in your third year of college, and he’d just bought the bike and rolled it into the lot, grinning proudly. He was already talking about road trips; about escaping the city and taking you everywhere just because he knew how much you loved travelling. You’d pulled the sticker from your phone case and pressed it onto the side of the helmet before he could say anything.

He’d groaned. You’d grinned. He kept it.

And now, here you are — arms wrapped around him as the motorbike hums down the road toward town, your legs pressed tight against his. You ignore the overwhelming urge to press your cheek against his back and just relax against him.

The wind is warm, laced with salt. You feel it push through your clothes and tangle your hair, but most of all, you feel him — solid in front of you, body moving in sync with the turns. His shirt is damp with heat, and your fingers rest lightly against the fabric, careful not to hold too tight.

But you want to.

You feel his breath shift when the town comes into view, a small stretch of painted buildings and narrow streets nestled between the coastline and the hills. It’s beautiful — chipped and colourful, with flags strung between rooftops and open-air shops spilling out into the street.

He pulls into a spot near the edge of the square and cuts the engine. For a second, neither of you move. Your arms are still around him. Your chest is still mere centimetres away from his back. The silence settles in like heat.

When you finally slip off the bike, the world feels too bright. You run a hand through your hair, trying to tame the wind-tangled strands, and glance back just in time to see Jungkook unbuckle his helmet and set it on the seat. The sticker catches the light. So does his smile — soft, and slightly crooked as he smoothens the edges.

You take a few steps toward the square, eyes scanning the little street corners and shaded storefronts. There’s a carved wooden sign hanging from a crooked beam, and beside it, a wire rack of postcards spinning lazily in the breeze.

But no sign of Ari. Or Namjoon.

Which is funny because it was Ari who had convinced you to come down here in the first place.

You’d been perfectly content by the beach, book in hand, half-asleep in the sun, but she’d tugged you up and kept begging you to come with her until you finally gave in.

To be fair, she did have a good reason; the house was running critically low on groceries.

Somehow, she’d managed to convince Jungkook too — which honestly, you're glad about because there's nothing you hate more than third wheeling a happy couple — but no one else was swayed enough to tag along.

And now, she's the one that's late.

You shade your eyes with your hand and glance further down the street.

“They said they’d meet us here, right?” you ask, finally.

Your voice is quiet. You’re not even sure if it’s meant to break the silence or just soften it.

Jungkook lifts his phone halfway, thumb tapping the screen like it’s muscle memory. “Yeah,” he says, not looking up right away. “Ah, Namjoon just texted me there. They just got here, so they’re probably still looking for parking or something. He said they'll meet us eventually."

You nod once and step away from the curb, eyes trailing the narrow stretch of market street ahead. Sunlight glints off the tin roofs. There’s the murmur of voices, the occasional clink of glass, and the low thrum of a radio somewhere playing a song you don’t recognise but vaguely like.

Jungkook falls in beside you without a word.

A couple passes going the opposite way, their hands intertwined. You glance down at yours.

“We should probably start,” he says after a beat. “Since they’ll just meet us.”

You shrug. “You have the list, right?”

He unlocks his phone again and scrolls. “Yeah. Ari texted it to me this morning.”

“What’s on it?”

He reads as you both start walking again. “Eggs, lemons, bread. Peaches. Some kind of pasta. And then she added ‘whatever fruit looks pretty.’”

“What's that supposed to mean," you say, amusement lacing your voice.

"No idea."

You break off from the main road, following a shaded lane lined with uneven cobblestones and quieter stalls. The air’s a little cooler here, less crowded, the noise of the market fading to a background hum. You walk slowly, letting your shoulders drop, adjusting the tote bag looped over your arm as it shifts with the weight of everything you’ve already picked up.

So far: a bundle of slightly overripe peaches, a paper-wrapped loaf of bread, lemons, and some fresh mango juice.

Jungkook had gone to find water in some corner café he'd spotted, and you’d just nodded and wandered a little further on your own, not really thinking about where your feet were taking you.

Now, you’re standing in front of a narrow stall tucked between a linen vendor and a rack of second-hand books, and the table in front of you is lined with jewellery.

Nothing fancy — just a board of earrings propped on the table, arranged in uneven rows on pale linen. Some dangle, some are simple studs. Silver, gold, brushed metal, the occasional coloured stone.

You scan them slowly, half out of habit. You’ve been keeping an eye out since yesterday, hoping you might stumble across something like the ones you lost, but nothing here is quite right. Too ornate, too polished, too intentionally handmade.

Though, one pair does catch your eye: small hoops with a single pearl hanging from it. They're pretty.

You don’t pick them up.

Just stand there, letting the edge of your bag dig slightly into your shoulder, the sun hitting your arms in slow patches between the slats of the awning overhead.

The vendor is older, seated on a stool in the corner, half-hidden behind a stack of folded cloth. She doesn’t greet you. Just watches, quiet and patient, a thread of silver hair slipping from behind her ear.

You tuck your hands into your pockets, shift your weight to the other foot.

The earrings catch the light when you shift your stance — just a soft glint where the pearl curves beneath the hoop. You stare at them a second longer than you mean to, thumb brushing the strap of the tote against your hip.

“Pretty,” someone says behind you.

You blink, half-turn.

There’s a guy standing just outside the edge of the stall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

You offer a polite nod.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “You just looked kind of... focused.”

You shrug. “Just browsing.”

He steps closer.

“Any good finds?”

Your hand tightens slightly around the bag handle. “I’m just looking at earrings.”

His eyes flick to the table like he hadn’t actually noticed it until now. “Right. The pearls are cute. I could see them on you.”

You don’t answer. Just shift your weight, subtly angling your body away.

He doesn’t pick up on it. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.

“You from around here?” he asks, like he’s picking up a conversation that was never started.

You glance down the alley, scanning for a glimpse of Jungkook, but it’s still quiet — just the linen swaying in the heat, a burst of laughter carrying from somewhere across the square.

“No,” you say, clipped.

He smiles like that was the answer he wanted. “Yeah, figured. You’ve got that kind of—” he gestures vaguely. “Not-local look.”

You’re not sure what that means. You don’t ask.

“Vacation?” he tries again.

You glance back at the table, pretending to study a thin necklace you’re not really looking at. “I’m waiting for someone.”

The guy hums, still standing there.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, almost like it's a joke. Like he already knows what he thinks the answer is.

You don’t look at him. “Yeah.”

Another beat passes.

And he says, “Don’t see him.”

You square your shoulders slightly, still not facing him.

“I told you, I'm waiting for him. I don’t need company,” you say.

He lets out a little laugh. “I’m just making conversation.”

You press your lips together and turn, this time fully, eyes meeting his just long enough to say I’m done.

And still, he lingers.

But his smile falters for a brief second, almost as if he’s not used to not being smiled at. Not used to being dismissed.

“Look,” he says again, something shifting under his voice now — flatter, slightly annoyed, like he’s decided you’re being difficult for no reason.

You stay silent, eyes on the earrings, jaw tight.

For a second, you think about just walking away. Heading back through the stalls, finding a different corner to browse that doesn’t come with commentary and unwanted company. You should’ve just stayed with Jungkook. Should’ve waited by the fruit stand like you said you would instead of wandering off like this.

You shift your weight again, about to turn to walk away when you hear the easy scrape of sneakers against stone behind you.

Relief blooms in your chest as the steady weight of Jungkook's palm settles low on your back.

“Hey baby,” he says, voice smooth, a little softer than it needs to be. “Sorry, it took forever.”

You turn toward him instinctively, letting your shoulder brush his chest, relief flooding through you.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you. His attention is on the guy, who’s already taking a step back.

The stranger raises an eyebrow, trying for a laugh. “Didn’t realise she was taken.”

Jungkook’s tone doesn’t change. “She is.”

You don’t pull away.

The guy looks between the two of you — sizing up, maybe, but the math’s already been done. He’s not stupid. He huffs a small breath through his nose and nods, like this was all just a misunderstanding.

“All good,” he says, and turns to walk off.

Only once he’s out of sight do you finally breathe. Jungkook’s hand stays where it is.

“Fucker,” you mutter, glancing back toward the street. “I literally fucking told him I had a boyfriend.”

Jungkook smiles — a quiet, amused curve of his mouth, like he’s holding back more than he’s saying.

“You delivered it well,” he says. “Had me convinced.”

You shoot him a look, but your irritation is already starting to melt at the sight of him.

“I should’ve thrown a lemon at him.”

“You did buy extra.”

That pulls a genuine laugh from you, and he hands you the water bottle like nothing happened at all. His fingers graze yours — not long enough to mean anything, but long enough to notice.

You take a sip.

“Thanks,” you say.

He nods once, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Comes with the role, right?” He nudges your arm lightly with his elbow. “Acting boyfriend of the year.”

You raise a brow, lips curving. “Please, you’re barely qualified.”

"Uhm, ouch?"

You laugh again, leaning into the teasing by gently nudging his side.

Jungkook shifts beside you, elbow lightly brushing yours as he nods toward the side of the stall. “You know what we should get?”

You glance over at him, the corners of your mouth twitching. “What?”

He tips his chin toward a tray tucked beside the earrings — a neat line of woven bracelets laid out in rows, some beaded, some braided, some with tiny charms strung through the middle like afterthoughts. “Matching couple bracelets.”

Your brow lifts. “That’s bold.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. That way, if someone else tries to come up to you again, you can just lift your wrist or something. Plus, it'll get Ari off your ass.”

You look down at the bracelets. Most of them are simple. Worn leather cords. Clay beads in dusky colours. A few pale shells strung on white string. The kind of thing you would’ve scoffed at years ago. Now… you kind of like the idea.

Still, you don’t let him off that easy.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” you say slowly, reaching out to nudge one with your finger. It rolls in place, beads clicking softly against the table. Then, a beat later, you glance sideways at him. “You know, if you want to match with me… you could just say that.”

He scoffs under his breath, but his mouth curves like you’ve caught him. “I literally just did.”

You smile without meaning to. “No, you disguised it as self-defense.”

He leans a little closer, voice low and casual like he’s letting you in on something. “Well, your safety is my top priority.”

“Sure,” you say, dragging out the word. “Let’s pretend that’s the reason.”

Jungkook holds up both hands like he’s innocent. “Hey, if matching bracelets keep weird guys away and makes us more convincing to everyone else, I think we’ve found the perfect investment.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand lingers over one of the pairs — two braided threads in muted navy and cream. His gaze follows yours, and you don’t miss the way his fingers brush close to yours when he reaches to pick them up.

He turns one over in his hand, quiet for a moment. “These okay?”

You meet his eyes. “Yeah. They’re nice.”

He pays for them — slipping a few folded bills to the vendor without looking at you — and you don’t stop him. You just put out your hand and let him tie it around your wrist, before doing the same for him.

You both linger for a second after the knots are tied, wrists side by side, the new bracelets snug against your skin. His fingers ghost over yours when he lets go.

“See?” he says, voice soft. “Official now.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugs at your lips anyway. You’re not sure if it's from the joke or the fact that he hasn’t stepped away yet.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking whatever invisible thread was hanging between you.

He pulls it out, thumb swiping across the screen. His eyes flick across the message.

“It’s Namjoon,” he says. “They’re around the corner, by that little gelato place.”

You nod, ready to follow, but before you can move, Jungkook slips his hand into yours.

The movement is so smooth, so casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers lace between yours with practiced ease, like they’ve done a thousand times before — because they have.

Your breath catches for half a second, but you don’t pull away.

He starts walking, gently tugging you along behind him, navigating through the narrow alley like he knows exactly where to go. His grip is firm but easy, thumb brushing once against the back of your hand as he adjusts your pace to match his.

And fuck, how you've missed this.

By the time you, Jungkook, Ari, and Namjoon made it back from town, everyone had drifted to the beach, bottles already half empty in hand. Naturally, the four of you joined in almost immediately.

Now, the sun hangs low over the ocean, melting slow into the horizon, throwing streaks of deep orange and pale lilac across the sky. The sand beneath you is warm, still holding onto the heat of the day, and the breeze smells like burnt sugar from someone’s abandoned marshmallow.

There’s a bonfire going, and everyone’s settled in a loose sprawl around it, feet kicked up, shoes long since discarded. Blankets are half-buried in the sand, and there's a speaker somewhere playing a random song no one has bothered to skip.

Seokjin and Haeun are curled together near the fire, trading sips of something dark from a flask. Taehyung’s stretched out with his head in Yasmine’s lap, sunglasses still on, despite the sun being nearly gone. Namjoon’s half-asleep, leaning back on his elbows and arguing about constellations with Hoseok.

Jungkook sits beside you. His legs are stretched out, knees bent, one arm hooked around the neck of a bottle he hasn’t touched in a while. There’s a subtle red glow along the edge of his cheek from the firelight. He’s watching the flames, brow relaxed, and you wonder if he’s even noticed how close your knee is to his.

You’re three drinks past tipsy. Four, maybe. Whatever the number is, it stopped mattering after the second time you laughed so hard your face hurt. Your skin feels flushed, limbs loose, everything a little too loud and a little too lovely.

You’re holding a glass in your hand and when you tip it back, only a lukewarm sip greets you. You shake the glass above your mouth, trying to summon more, but you only manage a few drops.

You glance around. Taehyung is still holding a beer, someone else’s drink sits forgotten near a towel, but the vodka — the one you’d claimed earlier, the one you’ve been nursing all night — is gone. Empty. Bottle tossed sideways near Kiara’s ankle.

You frown, squinting at it like it might magically refill if you look disappointed enough.

“We’re out,” you announce.

Your voice comes out rougher than you expect. The circle barely reacts — just a few shrugs, a lazy groan from someone too comfortable to care.

You push your hands against the sand and slowly rise to your feet, not bothering to brush it off your legs. The world tips, then steadies.

“I’ll grab more,” you say, already turning toward the path that leads back up the beach, toward the house.

Jungkook shifts next to you.

His voice is calm, but something in it feels closer. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

You pause, glance over your shoulder. He’s looking at you now, legs still stretched out in front of him, hand still around the neck of the bottle — but his focus is sharp. You tilt your head, expression loose.

“What, you think I’m gonna fall into a bush?”

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “I’m saying I’ve seen you trip over air.”

You roll your eyes, already turning back toward the path. “I’ll be fine.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose — just the smallest huff of a sound — then pushes up from the sand with a groan. He dusts off the back of his jeans, tossing the bottle onto a towel.

“Wait up,” he says, catching up to you in a few easy strides. “I’ll come.”

You pause again, frowning faintly. “You don’t have to.”

“You’re drunk,” he says simply, meeting your eyes like that should be the whole argument.

It kind of is.

You shrug, not really fighting him on it. “Fine. But you’re carrying the new bottle.”

“Deal,” he says, and you’re already walking again, sand shifting under your feet as the last of the sun bleeds into the sea behind you.

The path up from the beach isn’t long, but it stretches just enough to make you feel the weight of your steps. You walk beside him in silence at first, the kind that’s filled with the hush of your own breath and the faint pop and crackle of the fire behind you.

He walks a step behind you at first, and you can feel the rhythm of his footsteps syncing to yours.

“Still think I’m gonna trip?” you mutter, not looking back.

“I’ve seen you fall off a curb while standing still,” he says, casual.

“That was one time.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Sure it was.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, and his mouth pulls into that crooked grin that used to mean everything to you.

It still might.

When you reach the edge of the porch, you pause to shake the sand from your ankles. He opens the screen door with one hand, letting you step through first without a word.

The air inside the house is cooler, shadows stretching across the walls where the sun hasn’t fully let go. The hum of distant music still trails in from the beach, muffled now, wrapped in layers of wood and silence.

You kick your shoes off at the door and Jungkook follows behind you.

The kitchen light is off, but there’s enough ambient glow from the setting sun through the windows to see. You move toward the counter on autopilot, stepping over someone’s forgotten hoodie on the floor. Your body’s loose, hips swinging slightly as you walk, unbothered by how your tank top’s ridden up a little from the waistband of your shorts.

Jungkook makes a soft noise behind you, like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. Instead, he goes to the sink, running the tap and filling a glass.

You find the stash of liquor tucked behind the blender. Whoever stocked the place has questionable taste — peach schnapps, a half-full bottle of cheap whiskey, something unlabelled that smells like danger. But the vodka’s there, unopened. Cold from the fridge.

You pull it out with a small victorious sound and place it on the counter with a thud. The bottle’s condensation beads against your fingers.

Jungkook sets the glass of water down beside you and leans his hip against the counter.

“Drink that first,” he says, nudging the water toward you.

You groan, but reach for it anyway, your fingers brushing against his. They linger longer than they need to. You don’t move them.

“Responsible,” you murmur, bringing the glass to your lips. “Since when are you the responsible one?”

“Since you decided to replace dinner with mango juice and vodka.”

You hum at that, taking a slow sip. The water’s ice-cold, and the chill hits your throat all the way down, sharp enough to make you blink.

He watches you swallow, jaw flexing slightly.

“You’re staring,” you say, teasing, eyes glinting under the dim light.

“You’re drunk.”

“You said that already.”

“I’ll say it again if you keep looking at me like that.”

You laugh, short and soft, setting the glass down a little too forcefully. Some water sloshes over the side and you don't even care.

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“Liar.”

You tilt your head and smile, stepping closer, into his space. Your arm brushes against his. He doesn’t step back.

He smells like sun and sea and a little like smoke, and the sharpness of the scent makes your chest tighten. You lean your hip against the counter, closer now, your shoulder touching his as you both look at the bottle between you like it’s something important.

“You look good,” you say, and your voice is low — blurry with the buzz in your blood, but not slurred. Just honest.

He glances down at you, one brow raising, like he’s surprised but not really. “You’re drunk,” he repeats, gentler this time.

You shrug. “Still true.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything.

Not right away.

He just stands there, eyes still on yours, like he's waiting for something — waiting for you to laugh, maybe. To wave it off. Turn away. But you don’t. You stay close. Too close. The air between you is warm and still, humming with something you don’t want to name. Not yet.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the way the last of the sunset catches in his lashes, turning the brown of his eyes molten — but you swear, for a second, his gaze drops to your lips.

Your heart beats harder than it should. Like it’s thinking louder than your brain.

You shift, just slightly, your hand coming down to rest on the counter beside his. Your pinky brushes his. The silence stretches, heavy and soft, and you can feel your own pulse pressing up against your ribs like it’s trying to claw out.

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

It’s quiet — so quiet you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t already tracking everything about him. The slight shift in the set of his jaw. The way his fingers twitch once, like they want to move but don’t. He’s still watching you, still breathing like he’s trying not to let it show. But his gaze drops to your lips again and you're certain you're not imagining it this time.

“You’re drunk,” he says again, softer this time. Like he’s reminding himself.

You blink, slow and lazy, like the weight of the moment is pressing down behind your eyes. But you don’t move away. Don’t close the gap.

“Not that drunk,” you murmur, and it’s not a defense. It’s the truth, or close enough. You know how you feel. Know what you want.

Still, he hesitates.

His hand lifts like he wants to touch you — your arm, your waist, your jaw, something — but he doesn’t let it land. It just hovers there in the space between you, fingers flexing slightly. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or maybe for you to step back. Like he’s giving you one last chance not to want this.

But you don’t step back.

You hold still and let the silence stretch, taut as a wire between you.

“I don’t want you to regret anything,” he says.

You tilt your head, just a little. The corner of your mouth curls — not quite teasing, not quite sweet. “Then make sure I don't.”

That does it.

Something in him cracks. Or maybe he just exhales, finally, after holding his breath for weeks, months, too long.

He leans in.

And when he kisses you, it’s soft. So soft it makes your chest ache.

His lips brush yours like he’s scared you’ll disappear. Like he’s scared he’ll ruin it if he pushes too hard. His hand finally settles at your waist, the touch almost featherlight. You let your eyes fall shut as your fingers curl against the counter’s edge, your breath catching.

You’re not thinking clearly — not really. Your thoughts are cotton-wrapped and soft at the edges. The vodka, the heat, the way his lips feel on yours — it’s all tangled together now. You should probably be more careful with this. You should probably be thinking harder, asking him the all the questions that have been clawing at the back of your throat since the moment you two ended before letting this happen.

But you don’t want to. Not tonight.

You don’t want to pick this apart or hold it up to the light. Not when it feels like this. Not when his hands are on your waist, not when your mouth still feels like his.

Not when you’re this close to feeling whole again.

So you let it go.

Just for now.

You kiss him back slowly, deliberately, mouth parting just enough to deepen it. And when you do, he melts. A little. Just enough to let you feel the want he’s been trying not to show. The way he leans into you like he’s been waiting for this, needing this, and now that he has it, he’s terrified to let it go.

His hand at your waist grips tighter, pulling you in, and your chest brushes his. You slide one hand up to the side of his neck, your thumb brushing the curve of his throat, and he shivers under it, like the touch unravels him.

He parts your lips with his again, slower this time, and you sigh into his mouth — soft and involuntary and full of everything you haven’t said — and it pull something from him.

Jungkook's kisses turn firmer — still slow, still careful, but less afraid. Like whatever restraint he was holding onto just loosened a little.

You can feel the way his breath catches when your hand slips into his hair. The way he leans into it, barely chasing your touch. His thumb strokes slow, unconscious circles into your waist, and when your lips part again, he meets you there without hesitation.

You kiss him one more time.

Slow, like you’re trying to memorise the shape of it. Like you don’t know when you’ll let yourself have this again.

Then you pull back — not because you want to, but because if you don’t now, you might never.

It’s gentle. Barely a breath of distance. Just enough to meet his eyes, just enough to remember where you are. Your lips still tingle from the press of his, and your fingers stay curled in the fabric at his shoulder, not quite letting go yet.

His eyes flutter open, dazed and soft, and your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw before you drop your hand to your side.

Your lips hover over his, still close enough to feel the heat of him. He exhales, the sound soft and staggered.

“The others are probably waiting,” you murmur, voice low, breath a little unsteady.

His eyes open slowly, gaze heavy-lidded and warm as it settles on you. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to want this much.

“Let them wait," he mumbles.

You soft giggle leaves your lips at his words and he can't help but smile too, and it's real and a little stupid because of course he’d say that. Of course he’d look at you like that.

Your forehead presses gently to his for just a second, and he doesn’t move, but you feel his hand twitch at your waist, almost as if he’s not sure whether to pull you in again or let you go.

And god, part of you wants to stay. Wants to forget the weight of all the unanswered questions sitting heavy at the bottom of your stomach. Wants to let this keep happening. Just him and you and whatever the fuck this is.

But you don't. Instead, you lean back a little, just enough to get a proper look at him.

He looks dazed. Soft around the edges. His lips are pink, still wet from the kiss, and there’s this look on his face — like you could pull him back in with a single breath and he wouldn’t fight you on it.

Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth, then back up to his eyes before taking a small step back.

Your hand fall from his shirt and you reach for the vodka bottle on the counter. It’s still slick with condensation, and your grip slips slightly before you adjust.

You turn toward the door, feet padding softly against the cool floor, unable to stop smiling.

Jungkook stays behind you for just a breath, before you hear the shuffle of his steps as he follows.

It’s only been a few minutes since you and Jungkook made it back to the fire, vodka bottle in hand and cheeks just a little too flushed.

Now, the two of you sit side by side on a shared blanket, close but not too close, feet stretched out toward the fire. And despite your best efforts, you keep catching each other’s eyes.

It’s stupid. So stupid.

But every time it happens, one of you looks away, smiling.

You’re mid-sip when someone sighs dramatically into the circle, long and loud and theatrical.

“I’m bored,” Kiara announces, collapsing backwards onto a throw pillow someone must’ve stolen from the porch chairs. One arm flops over her face; the other lifts her cup to the sky dramatically

“You’re drunk,” Jimin says, somewhere behind a stack of solo cups. His voice is lazy, amused. “That’s different.”

“Drunk and bored,” she corrects, lifting her head. “Which is objectively worse.”

Someone snorts — maybe Hoseok — and Haeun mumbles something about how this is supposed to be a chill night, how she’s too full to function. You agree — the fire’s burning low, and no one looks like they’re in a rush to do anything.

Except Taehyung, who perks up suddenly, sunglasses still on even though the sun’s been gone for hours.

“We should play something,” he says, too enthusiastic. “Old-school, like we used to. Come on.”

There’s a round of groans — some weak, some performative. A few “nooo”s and a “please don’t make me move” from Namjoon. But Taehyung doesn’t let it die.

“You know what I’m thinking,” he adds, already grinning. “Truth or drink.”

That gets a bigger reaction. Jimin laughs like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night and Kiara groans and says something you can't quite make out.

Beside you, Jungkook lets out a soft sound that might be a sigh, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You lean back on your palms and squint at the fire.

“No,” you say, not looking up. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Kiara whines, bumping your knee with hers. “It’s for old times’ sake.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung adds, already sitting up straighter, brushing sand from his thighs. “We literally used to play this every other week in college. Don’t act brand new.”

You're opening your mouth to protest and complain some more when Jungkook leans in, voice casual as he says, "I'm in."

You blink, glancing at him just quick enough to catch the faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

With a sigh, you tip the last of your drink back and swallow hard. “Fine,” you say, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. “But I’m not going first.”

Taehyung cheers. Someone claps. The bottle cap twists loose, and suddenly cups are being refilled, rules half-remembered shouted into the dark.

Everyone huddles closer together, and you put out your hands in front of you, letting the warmth of the flame dance across your skin.

Yasmine spins the bottle. It wobbles across the sand, slows, then lands pointing somewhere between Ari and Namjoon.

“Ooooh,” Taehyung says, wiggling his brows. “A couple round already?”

Ari laughs, unbothered. “Hit me.”

Yasmine leans in. “Alright. If you had to kiss someone here who isn’t Namjoon—”

Namjoon throws his hands up. “Wow. First question.”

“—who would it be?”

Ari purses her lips, glancing around the circle dramatically. “Hmm… probably Haeun.”

Haeun immediately covers her face with both hands as everyone laughs, and Seokjin wraps an arm around her, pretending to shield her from further corruption. “Yah, back off,” he says, laughing.

The bottle spins again, this time landing on Jimin.

Ari smirks. “Have you ever made out with someone here and not told the group?”

Jimin lifts his cup halfway with a sigh, freezes, then drinks anyway.

You have a feeling you know who it is, but you don't say anything as Yasmine and Jungkook immediately start yelling over each other.

“Who was it?!” Yasmine demands, eyes wide.

“Seriously, who?” Jungkook adds, pointing his cup at Jimin like he’s about to interrogate him under a spotlight.

"Not telling," Jimin replies in a sing song voice before spinning the bottle.

It slows until it lands squarely on Jungkook.

You glance at him. He doesn’t flinch.

Jimin squints at him, letting out a hum like he’s considering a deep philosophical question. “Alright. What’s your biggest regret?”

You freeze before you can stop yourself.

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the bottle. Then at Seokjin. Then, just as calmly, he picks up his cup and takes a drink.

It’s quiet for a beat. Jimin groans. “Lame.”

“Strategic,” Jungkook replies, setting his cup down again.

Without missing a beat, he reaches for the bottle and spins.

It rolls smoothly through the sand before stopping at Kiara.

“Oh god,” she mutters, already bracing herself.

Jungkook’s lips curl into a half-smile. “Weirdest place you’ve fucked.”

Kiara groans, but she’s grinning. “You guys are the worst.”

“Come on,” Yasmine says. “No way you don’t have a good one.”

She sighs, thinking. "Nowhere crazy, just in the back of his car.”

"Boringg," whines Jimin, and Hoseok just laughs as Kiara reaches for the bottle again.

It turns, slowly, then comes to a stop pointed at you.

You tense a little, just for a second. Kiara catches it — she doesn’t say anything, but her smile softens.

She tilts her head. “Would you ever take back an ex?”

You blink.

There’s a beat — just a flicker — where your brain stalls. The question lands soft, not sharp, but it still makes your pulse skip a little. You lean back on your palms and tilt your head toward the fire, letting the heat lick at your cheeks like it might hide the flush.

Then, without much thought, you answer.

“Nah,” you say, casually.

Your tone is light. You smile around the rim of your cup as you take a small sip, and raise your eyebrows at Kiara like it’s a no-brainer. Because, really, what girlfriend is going to say yes to that kind of question when her boyfriend’s sitting two feet away?

Kiara simply shrugs, like she already knew what you'd say and lean forward to spin the bottle. You don't notice who it stops at because you turning to look at Jungkook, a small smile playing on your lips.

You expect him to smile back. Or roll his eyes. Or whisper something stupid, like 'Really? Not even after you made out with him the kitchen?'.

But he doesn’t.

He’s looking at the fire.

His cup is loose in his grip, his thumb brushing over the rim once before going still. He doesn’t make a face. Doesn’t say anything. But there’s something… quiet about him now. Like he’s stepped back from the circle without actually moving.

You blink, puzzled for half a second, but someone’s already laughing at something Jimin said and Kiara’s reaching for the bottle again, so you brush it off and take another sip of your drink.

The fire pops in the background as the questions continue. Someone asks Namjoon what his favourite position is (cowgirl), how many people Haeun has slept with (three), what Yoongi's biggest fantasy it (he chooses to drink).

Eventually, someone mumbles something about calling it, and no one protests. The fire’s burned low, just embers now, and the ocean breeze has started to bite. Haeun's already dragging Seokjin to his feet, Namjoon’s helping Ari brush sand off her pants, and slowly the circle breaks apart.

You push yourself to your feet, arms wobbling a bit as you dust the sand from your shorts. It takes longer than it should. Everything takes longer than it should. You feel warm and floaty and kind of like a loose kite being dragged around by your own legs.

You’d only been asked the one question all night, but you’re pretty sure you’ve had enough to drink for ten.

Jungkook stands next to you. He doesn’t say anything, but when you wobble slightly, the back of his hand brushes yours. You grin down at your feet.

Everyone starts peeling off, drifting toward the cabins in sleepy pairs. Taehyung’s got Yasmine slung across his back like a backpack. Ari’s hanging onto Namjoon’s arm, swaying slightly. Jimin’s halfway through singing something that might be a lullaby. No one seems to care.

You and Jungkook trail behind, still barefoot, shoes forgotten somewhere near the porch.

The path back is quieter than before, but not uncomfortable. You’re humming under your breath — something soft and aimless — and you twirl the near-empty bottle in your hand like it’s a microphone.

Jungkook walks beside you, arms swinging slightly at his sides. He doesn’t say much, but he’s not far. Not ahead. Not behind. Just there. Close enough that your elbows bump once, and you giggle, not even sure why it’s funny.

The stairs creak beneath your feet as you climb up to your bedroom. He opens the door without a word, and you step past him. He follows you in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

The room is dimly lit, and you don't even consider changing into more sleep appropriate clothes before crawling onto the bed.

You hear Jungkook moving around — the soft rustle of his hoodie hitting the chair, the creak of a drawer, the small thud of his water bottle landing on the nightstand beside you. It all feels distant, muffled by your buzzed brain.

You roll over dramatically just as he switches off the light. The room falls into shadows, and then the bed dips beside you as he climbs in.

You grin up at the ceiling.

“This was fun,” you say, voice low but still sing-songy.

Jungkook lets out a little sound in response.

The sheets are cool. The pillow smells like the detergent he always uses. You pull the blanket halfway over yourself and nudge your foot toward his under the covers without even thinking about it.

No words pass between you.

But it doesn’t feel weird. Just sleepy. Soft. Like the good kind of tired that settles behind your eyes after a long night.

You don’t notice how quiet Jungkook’s gone. Don’t notice that he hasn’t moved since lying down. You’re not paying attention to the way he’s staring up at the ceiling, or the way he hasn’t turned toward you at all.

You just let out a small sigh and mumble, “Goodnight, Jungkook.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, voice low and barely there, he asks, “Did you mean it?”

You’re already slipping into sleep when he says it — and maybe he’s talking about the game, or something from earlier, or maybe he’s not talking to you at all. You’re too warm, too tired to figure it out, so you just hum quietly and roll over, cheek pressed into the pillow.

He doesn’t say anything else, and the silence settles again.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the question lingers, but you don’t ask.

You’ll think about it tomorrow.

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[generouspursethingbat]

死 KKANGPAE | #19 死

† infiltration †

"When you ask about Sylvia, you are poking at wounds that run deeper than any knife Jeon's ever taken to the chest."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.2k

content: the infiltration mission begins with motorcycle rides and pine-scented tension, jeon's impromptu marriage lie creates dangerous dynamics, seduction division training put to deadly use against fervio and kaleido, comm line conversations revealing painful histories, successful bug planting while y/n plays the most dangerous game of flirtation, and one name that changes everything

☠ author's note ☠

THE INFILTRATION MISSION IS FINALLY HERE!!! Can I just say how absolutely FERAL I am about this chapter?? Because holy SHIT did this turn out more intense than I planned. Originally this was going to be a straightforward "get in, plant bug, get out" situation but then my brain said "hey what if we make this psychologically devastating instead?" and here we are!

First off, let's talk about Jeon on that motorcycle because DEAR GOD. Writing him all leather-clad and dangerous while being simultaneously protective and calculating? *chef's kiss* The man really said "let me create the perfect storm of sexual tension and strategic brilliance" and then had the AUDACITY to pull that husband stunt. Like sir, who gave you permission to be that smooth under pressure? The way he reads Kaleido's predatory nature and immediately adapts the cover story? That's not just tactical genius, that's emotional intelligence wrapped in a bulletproof vest and it's SO fucking attractive.

But can we also discuss the absolute NIGHTMARE that is Fervio? Writing that character genuinely made my skin crawl. I spent SO much time researching the psychology of sadistic personalities to make him authentically terrifying without glorifying anything. The yellow contacts, the theatrical cruelty, the way he gets off on psychological manipulation—every detail was chosen to make readers feel the same visceral discomfort that Y/N experiences. And Y/N having to flirt with that monster while maintaining her cover? That girl deserves a medal for not throwing up or committing murder on the spot.

The comm line dynamics absolutely DESTROYED me to write. Having AD and Jeon's fractured relationship play out in real-time while Jeon's navigating enemy territory? The guilt, the anger, the way old wounds keep reopening? And then that slip about Sylvia—OOPS. Y/N hearing that name and filing it away for later? The way Jeon's walls SLAM back up the second she asks about it? I'm obsessed with how trauma shapes every interaction between these characters, how the past keeps bleeding into the present no matter how hard they try to compartmentalize.

Speaking of compartmentalizing—Y/N's performance in this chapter showcases exactly why she belongs in Seduction Division. The way she reads the room, adapts to Jeon's improvisation, keeps both psychopaths distracted while processing the horror of their situation? That's not just survival, that's mastery. She's not some damsel being protected; she's a professional doing her job under the worst possible circumstances. The balance between vulnerability and competence, between genuine fear and trained composure—that's what makes her such a compelling character.

The ending though? Jeon retreating back into his shell the moment Y/N shows curiosity about his past? PAIN. Pure, unadulterated emotional pain. He's so desperate to maintain distance, to keep his trauma locked away, but Y/N's already under his skin. She's asking the right questions and it terrifies him. Because letting someone see your wounds means risking them poking at them, and Jeon's been hurt enough for several lifetimes.

Next chapter is going to be... *evil laughter* ...let's just say the aftermath of this mission is going to hit DIFFERENT. Hope you're ready for some serious emotional excavation because these two aren't done processing what just happened. Not by a long shot.

Edit: Also, yeah. The coins was a post-editing addition because I’ve been watching the John Wick movies and I loved the coin system so I adapted it heheheheh. 🤭

— read on

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Pine is all you can smell right now.

It's annoying, really, how the air outside the night air hits different outside the castle. It's crisp—almost sharp against your skin.

And of course, because the universe loves to fuck with you, it's saturated with that distinct scent of pine and wood that follows Jeon everywhere.

You check your phone. 22:00. Perfect timing.

The moon's doing that thing where it makes everything look like a noir film, all dramatic shadows and silver light washing over the castle grounds. It's actually kind of pretty, in a moody sort of way.

Jeon's walking ahead of you, and god—even his walk is intimidating.

The air around him swirls slightly, tinged with static. Like a thunderstorm incoming.

You're starting to think his whole 'I must look badass 24/7' thing is just his default setting.

The gravel crunches under his boots as he approaches his bike. It's this sleek, black monster of a machine that somehow manages to look both elegant and menacing.

Just like its owner, you think, watching him move with that fluid grace that comes from years of... well, probably things you'd rather not think about.

He opens a compartment on the bike, pulling out leather gloves with an ease that makes it look like he's done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably has. The way he slides them on is almost hypnotic—not that you're staring or anything.

(d̶e̶f̶i̶n̶i̶t̶e̶l̶y̶ maybe staring.)

Then he's got two helmets in his hands, checking them over like he's inspecting weapons.

Everything's a tactical operation with this man, isn't it?

He puts his on first, and suddenly Chief Jeon of Tactical Assassinations is fully activated. The transformation would be impressive if it wasn't so intense.

The second helmet comes flying at you without warning.

Your hands scramble to catch it—which you do, thankfully, because dropping it would be mortifying. But then comes the real challenge: actually putting the damn thing on.

The straps are being particularly bitchy tonight. They keep slipping through your fingers like they're coated in butter or something. You're probably making this look way harder than it needs to be, but whatever.

You catch Jeon watching you, and there's this tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. It's barely there, but you've learned to spot these micro-expressions of his. The fact that you can read him at all is probably something you should worry about later.

"You always manage to make the simplest tasks look like a battle," he says, voice slightly muffled by his helmet.

The words should sting, but there's this undercurrent of... something else. Something almost playful, if you didn't know better.

He steps closer, and fuck—the wind hits you full force.

It's like being caught in the eye of a storm, where everything's calm but you know there's chaos just inches away.

His gloved hands reach for the straps, and despite the leather barrier, his touch is weirdly gentle.

Clinical, sure, but gentle.

"There," he says, and it's just one word but it feels loaded.

You make the mistake of looking up at his eyes—those dark, intense eyes that make you feel like you're being dissected and devoured all at once.

"Thanks," you manage to say, keeping your voice steady because you refuse to let him see how much he affects you. "I guess I'm still not used to all this."

He takes a step back, and you can breathe again. His expression is back to that unreadable mask he wears so well.

"You're still fairly new, you've got time to learn. Everyone does, eventually."

Silence. Words hovering between you, carried by the night breeze.

If you were s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ optimistic enough, you might think his voice had softened just a bit. But you know better.

You've learned better.

"We should get going," he says, breaking whatever moment was building. "We have a long night ahead of us."

Yeah, you think. A long night of pretending this tension doesn't exist.

Jeon swings his leg over the bike with this fluid grace that's honestly unfair, engine purring beneath him like some mechanical beast waiting to be unleashed.

You climb on after him, trying (and probably failing) to look half as graceful. The leather seat is cool against your thighs, and you're suddenly very aware of how close you need to be.

Fuck it.

You wrap your arms around his torso, hands splaying across his abdomen. Even through his jacket, you can feel how solid he is—all muscle, all heat, like a human furnace.

The proximity makes your skin tingle where you're pressed against him.

He goes completely still for a moment. You feel his breath catch, just slightly. Then he relaxes, and you could swear the air shifts, becoming less stormy, more like a breeze.

The engine growls louder as he revs it.

"Hold on tight," he says, and you know that tone. That's his 'I'm-about-to-be-a-little-shit' voice. "Don't let go."

You barely have time to process the warning before he twists the throttle.

The bike lurches forward and—holy shit—you slam back against him, the sudden acceleration catching you completely off guard. A very u̶n̶d̶i̶g̶n̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ surprised yelp escapes you as he immediately cuts the speed, leaving you pressed firmly against his back.

The bastard chuckles. You can feel it rumble through his chest where you're plastered against him.

"Gotta hold on tighter than that, sunshine," he taunts, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Don't want you flying off the back now."

You smack his shoulder, hard enough to mean business but not enough to actually hurt.

Not that you could probably hurt him anyway. He's like a fucking brick wall.

"You're such a dick," you mutter, but you're fighting back a smile he can't see.

You can practically feel his shit-eating grin and you're starting to think this whole helmet struggle earlier was just an excuse to mess with you.

"Maybe I should drive," you say, matching his teasing tone. "Since you clearly can't be trusted to act like a proper adult."

"In your dreams, sunshine." The pet name rolls off his tongue like honey-coated poison. "Now hold on properly, unless you want another demonstration."

You tighten your grip around him—maybe a bit more forcefully than necessary. Your chest presses flush against his back, and you swear you feel his breath hitch again.

"Just drive the damn bike, Jeon," you say, trying to sound annoyed but probably failing miserably.

"Yes ma'am," he drawls, and this time when he revs the engine, the acceleration is smooth as silk as you both glide into the darkness.

The bike thunders beneath you, eating up the empty backroads leading away from the castle.

You catch glimpses of city lights in the distance, little pinpricks of civilization breaking through the darkness.

Jeon handles the bike like it's an extension of himself, without exaggeration.

His back is solid against your chest, and you're definitely n̶o̶t̶ totally noticing how the leather jacket stretches across his shoulders with each turn. One gloved hand stays steady on the throttle while the other grips the handlebar confidently.

The road then straightens out, and Jeon takes full advantage.

The engine roars as he opens up the throttle, and you instinctively press closer. Your thighs tighten around the bike, and you swear you feel him tense for a split second before relaxing again.

After that, your world becomes a blur of shadows and occasional bursts of neon. Each mile brings you closer to the city, that concrete jungle where your target is hiding.

The buildings start growing taller, streets getting busier, and Jeon weaves through traffic with this contained impatience that you feel in your bones. Every block brings you deeper into enemy territory, and you can't help but think about what's waiting at the end of this ride.

God, you think, this is actually happening.

The bike slows as Jeon turns down an alley, the engine's growl echoing off brick walls before he kills it.

You've stopped beside this completely unremarkable door that somehow manages to look threatening anyway.

Because you know what's behind it.

Who's behind it.

Jeon pulls off his helmet, and those dark eyes find yours.

They're intense, focused—the kind of look that makes your stomach do this weird flip thing you're choosing to ignore.

"We're here," he says, voice low and serious.

You resist the urge to say 'no shit.'

Barely.

Jeon slides off the bike and you follow, yanking off the helmet and running fingers through your hair to fix whatever mess the wind made of it.

The alley you're in is sketchy as fuck—all grimy walls and creepy shadows.

And to add onto that—a siren wails somewhere in the distance before dying out, and you can't help but think how perfectly ominous that is.

You take a deep breath, trying to get your shit together.

The mission brief keeps playing in your head like some twisted PowerPoint presentation: get in, play nice with the bad guys, wait for the lights to go out.

Easy peasy.

Right.

No pressure or anything—just the tiny matter of infiltrating a rival gang's hideout.

Then, Jeon is moving—towards the grimy door.

Wind cuts through the clothing that shields you from the force of nature he is.

You follow close behind, channeling every ounce of that Seduction Division training into looking like you absolutely belong here. Time to put on the mask, become whoever these assholes need you to be.

Jeon knocks on the door—two quick taps, one long, two quick. The sound bounces off the alley walls before getting swallowed by the night.

For a moment, there's nothing but silence and your heartbeat doing this annoying thing where it won't slow the fuck down.

Then comes the click of locks, and the door swings open to reveal this absolute unit of a guy. His face is mostly shadow, but his suspicion? That's crystal clear.

He gives you both this once-over that practically screams 'I don't trust you,' but steps aside anyway.

Jeon walks in first, and you follow his lead, channeling your inner bad bitch because that's what's gonna keep you alive tonight.

The inside is like every seedy underground bar in every crime movie ever, except the smell is worse. It's this nasty cocktail of booze and something sickeningly sweet that makes your nose want to revolt. You force yourself not to react, keeping your face neutral even though your lungs are screaming.

You weave through the crowd behind Jeon, feeling eyes tracking your movement. Some look curious, others suspicious, but most are too wasted or high to give a shit. You keep your head high, shoulders back, playing the role of someone who's seen it all and isn't impressed.

Jeon posts up at the bar like he's been coming here his whole life. When the bartender comes over, Jeon pulls this smile that's all teeth and zero warmth. It's kind of terrifying how good he is at this.

"We're here to see Kaleido," he says, smooth as silk. "Tell him the traders he's been expecting have arrived."

The bartender's got a sour face on. "I don't know any Kaleido," he says, flat and cold.

But Jeon? He doesn't even blink. Just does this thing where he bites the inside of his cheek—which is not distracting at all—and pulls out two golden coins, sliding them across the counter like he's dealing cards.

"We're the new faces in town," he says, casual as fuck. "Kaleido is expecting us."

You resist the urge to smirk. Because damn, he's good at this.

The bartender snatches up the coins like they personally offended him. His eyes flick between the metal and your faces, doing that thing where he's trying real hard to catch you in a lie. You keep your face neutral even though your stomach's doing gymnastics.

After what feels like fucking forever, he gives this tiny nod that probably killed him inside and slides the coins in his pocket.

"Wait here," he grunts, disappearing through a door that's seen better days.

You fight the urge to bounce your leg or fidget with your clothes or do any of the thousand nervous tells that would blow your cover right now.

The wait is excruciating. You're about to lose your mind when the bartender finally emerges with this dude looks like he bench presses cars for fun, with a face that's all hard angles and zero emotion. He doesn't say a word, just jerks his head toward the back like you're supposed to know what that means.

Jeon pushes off the bar, and the way he straightens up is somehow both lazy and intimidating. He tilts his head slightly—your cue to follow. Your heart's going absolutely feral in your chest, but you've got your game face locked down tight.

No backing out now.

You follow Jeon and Mr. Mountain through the crowd.

The place is exactly what you'd expect from a seedy underground bar—sketchy people having sketchy conversations over even sketchier drinks.

The hallway they lead you down is grimy as fuck, and you can hear music thumping through the walls from somewhere nearby.

Muscles McGee opens a door to what has to be the most depressing room you've ever seen—dim, small, and probably hasn't seen a cleaning crew since the 90s.

"Kaleido will be with you shortly," he rumbles, and his voice matches his appearance perfectly—like gravel in a blender.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone with Jeon.

His eyes find yours in the low light, and there's this whole conversation happening without words.

You both know what's at stake here.

One wrong move and you're both d̶e̶a̶d̶ screwed.

The door swings open again, and in walks this guy who looks like he raided a rapper's closet. His suit probably costs more than your yearly salary, and he's wearing enough gold to fund a small country.

He gives you this dismissive once-over that makes your blood boil before turning to Jeon with barely concealed suspicion.

"Was told to expect the woman," he drawls, sounding bored out of his mind. "Didn't mention anything about a man crashing our little party."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Men.

Jeon's eyes narrow just a fraction, but you jump in before he can say something that'll probably piss everyone off.

"I'm the one you're here to meet," you say, keeping your voice smooth and professional. "My associate is—"

"Her husband," Jeon cuts in, voice like silk over steel.

The word rolls off his tongue like he's been saying it his whole life instead of pulling it out of his ass two seconds ago.

You shoot him a look that could curdle milk.

Husband? Really?

But Jeon's locked onto Kaleido like a sniper on his target, completely ignoring your death glare. His jaw is set in that way that means he's about to be a stubborn ass about something.

Kaleido's laugh is sharp and mocking, the kind that makes you want to punch teeth.

"Her husband?" He looks between you both like this is the funniest shit he's seen all week. "What, she needs a big scary guard dog to hold her hand during business deals?"

You watch Jeon's jaw clench, the muscle jumping under his skin. But his voice stays steady, dangerous in its calmness.

"More like insurance."

You clear your throat, loud enough to make a point.

"As I was saying"—and you put just enough emphasis on that word to let Jeon know you'll be having words about this later—"my associate and I have some opportunities that might interest you. The kind that makes serious money."

Kaleido finally tears his eyes away from Jeon to look at you, and something in his gaze makes your skin recoil.

"Well then," he drawls, dropping into his chair like a king on his throne, "let's talk business."

His eyes rake over you both, lingering a bit too long for comfort.

"Impress me."

You meet his stare head-on because fuck that—you're not some rookie who's gonna get intimidated by his wannabe mob boss act.

Time to put all that Seduction Division training to work.

You've got a whole script of lies ready to roll off your tongue, each one crafted to hook this smug bastard right where you want him.

Game fucking on.

You start laying out the deal, watching Kaleido's face shift from bored rich boy to actually interested businessman. But part of your brain is still stuck on Jeon's little improvisation. Because Jeon doesn't do random—every move is calculated, every word chosen for maximum effect.

He saw something in Kaleido that made him change the plan.

And whatever it was, it was bad enough to make him go full protective mode.

"So these new routes we've set up?" You tap the documents as you slide them across the table, keeping your voice casual but confident. "They'll keep the good shit flowing steady. Premium grade only—none of that watered-down crap."

Kaleido snatches up the papers like they're made of gold, those calculating eyes scanning every detail. His perfectly manicured finger stops at something, and his face does this thing where he's trying to look unimpressed but you can tell he's interested.

"End of next week? With customs breathing down everyone's neck lately?" He clicks his tongue. "That's a bold claim."

His eyes lock onto yours, and it feels like being dissected. You can feel the cold breeze intensify beside you, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

But you've got this. This is what you were trained for.

"Yeah, customs is a bitch lately," you say with a knowing smirk, leaning forward slightly. "Good thing we've got someone on the inside who's very invested in looking the other way."

You tap the timeline sheet with one perfectly manicured nail.

"See this? Already factored in their... cooperation. We might work outside the law, but we're not stupid about it."

Kaleido stares at the paper for what feels like forever, then his eyes snap back to you. His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and suddenly he's grinning like you just told him his favorite candy is back in store. He claps once, the sound sharp and jarring in the small room.

"Well, fuck me," he says, sounding genuinely impressed. "You actually know what you're talking about."

He stands up, straightening his ridiculous designer suit.

"There's someone else who needs to hear this. Come on."

He gestures toward a door at the back of the room like some fancy maître d' inviting you to the VIP section.

You catch Jeon's eye for a split second—just long enough to see the tension in his jaw.

Something's off about this whole thing, but you're in too deep to back out now.

You follow Kaleido down this sketchy-ass hallway.

The subvocal mic hidden in your collar is tiny but feels like it weighs a ton as you activate it.

"What the fuck was that husband shit about?" you whisper, making sure your lips barely move. "Because I know you didn't just pull that out of your ass for fun."

Jeon's voice comes through your earpiece, quiet but crystal clear.

"Guys like him?" There's a edge to his voice that makes your skin prickle. "They see single women as prey. Trust me on this one."

Oh. Well, shit.

You throw a glance over your shoulder, brows furrowed because what the actual fuck is going on in that tactical brain of his. But Jeon's already explaining through the subvocals, his voice low and steady in your ear.

"These types get off on finding weak spots they can dig their fingers into," he murmurs, and something in his tone makes your skin prickle. "A couple? That's like serving them weakness on a silver fucking platter."

You have to fight to keep your voice down. "So you just painted a giant fucking target on our backs for fun?"

"Think of it as controlled bait," he says, and you can practically hear that annoying smirk in his voice. "They see what looks like an obvious pressure point, but they also see two people who won't let the other out of their sight. Can't divide what won't separate."

Kaleido throws this look over his shoulder that's trying way too hard to be casual. You flash him your best trophy-wife smile before turning back to your hushed conversation.

"I don't like playing from behind," you breathe into the mic. "If this blows up in our faces—"

"It won't." The certainty in his voice would be irritating if you didn't know how that big brain of his works. "Guys like Kaleido? They're like snakes. They won't strike without knowing exactly where to sink their fangs. Marriage looks like an easy weak spot to exploit, but it also means they have to be real careful about how they play it. Nobody wants to poke a bear and its mate."

You chew on your bottom lip as you follow Kaleido through another door into what looks like some bougie conference room from hell.

"So what you're saying is," you whisper, working it out, "we look like an easy mark, but we're actually too much of a pain in the ass to fuck with directly?"

The tiny nod he gives is barely perceptible. "Bingo. It's all about the balance—make him think he's got leverage, but make him second-guess using it."

You take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The pieces are starting to click into place.

"Okay, yeah. I get what you're doing here."

It's actually kind of brilliant, in a fucked-up way. Present a tempting target that's also too risky to take a shot at.

Classic Jeon strategy—making someone think they've got the upper hand while he's actually ten steps ahead.

You just hope his read on Kaleido is as accurate as he thinks it is.

The new room is bigger, fancier, trying way too hard to look impressive.

But what catches your attention isn't the tacky decor—it's the guy sprawled in this throne-like chair (what's with these people and thrones?). His hair's this violent shade of red, styled up in a mohawk that screams 'look at me, I'm dangerous.'

But it's his eyes that make your stomach drop.

Yellow contacts that make him look like some kind of Boomslang sizing up its next meal.

You feel Jeon go completely still beside you, every muscle in his body coiled tight. The air around him sharpens into something deadly, and you just know this situation just went from bad to absolutely fucked.

"Where the fuck are you going?" AD's voice cuts through your earpiece, sharp and irritated.

You tilt your head slightly, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. "Kaleido brought us to meet someone else. Apparently, they're very interested in our deal."

"Who?" The way AD snaps the word makes your skin prickle.

"Red mohawk. Yellow contacts. Looks like he raided some goth's closet," you murmur, trying to keep the tension out of your voice.

There's this pause that feels heavy enough to crush your lungs.

Then AD's voice comes back, cold as ice: "That's Fervio."

"Motherfucker," Jeon mutters under his breath, and the fact that he's breaking radio silence to curse tells you everything you need to know about how deeply shit you are.

You glance between Mohawk Guy—Fervio—and Jeon, trying to piece together why everyone's suddenly acting like you're standing in front of Death himself.

Your confusion must show somehow through the comms because AD starts talking again, his voice tight with barely contained urgency.

"Listen carefully. Fervio's not just another MDF thug. He's their fucking torture specialist." There's a rustling sound, like AD's leaning closer to his mic. "We're talking serious psychological damage. The kind of shit that keeps other psychopaths up at night. Makes V look like a boy scout."

"Hey!" V's voice cuts in, sounding actually offended. "I have standards, okay? And do you know how hard it is to get blood out of designer suits?"

"Both of you, shut up," RM's voice slices through the chatter, cold and commanding. "Get out. Now. Before he decides you look interesting."

You watch Fervio rise from his chair with this fluid grace that makes your skin crawl, yellow eyes locking onto you both like a snake spotting mice.

"We can't," you breathe into the comm, keeping your face neutral even though your heart's trying to punch through your ribs. "Backing out now would be suspicious as fuck."

Great, you think. Just great.

Of all the psychos in MDF, you had to run into their resident Hannibal Lecter.

Before AD can continue with his rant, J-Hope's voice cuts in, sharp and deadly serious.

"Listen here, you little shit," he hisses, and you've never heard him sound this intense before. "That psycho in front of you? I've had to put his victims back together. Multiple fucking times. And let me tell you something—there usually isn't enough left to work with. The things he does to people? That's not normal torture. That's not even human. He's a fucking monster wearing people skin for fun."

Your stomach does this violent flip thing, but you keep your face perfectly blank. Years of Flower's training kicking in as Fervio stalks toward you.

Those yellow contacts make him look like something that crawled out of a horror movie, and that smile—fuck, that smile is all kinds of wrong.

Next to you, Jeon's whole soul has turned deadly, like the kind of storm that levels entire cities. His body is coiled so tight you can practically hear his muscles screaming, ready to launch at Fervio's throat at the smallest wrong move.

"We need to find another way," you breathe into the comm, barely moving your lips. "But if we bolt now, this place turns into a fucking slaughterhouse. We stick to the plan."

AD starts cursing in your ear, and J-Hope's protests get even more colorful, but you tune them out.

Time to put on the performance of your life.

You stretch your lips into what you hope is a convincing smile and extend your hand to Fervio.

"Pleasure to meet you," you say, voice steady despite your heart trying to punch through your ribcage. "Kaleido mentioned you might be interested in what we're offering."

Your skin crawls when Fervio takes your hand. His grip is too tight, too deliberate, and he holds on way longer than necessary as he brings your knuckles to his lips in this theatrical gesture that makes you want to g̶a̶g̶ grimace. Those yellow eyes never leave yours, gleaming with something that looks too much like hunger.

"A pleasure indeed," he practically purrs, and the way he says it makes you feel like you need a shower.

You force yourself to stay still, channeling every ounce of Seduction Division training into keeping your expression pleasant and engaged.

"The pleasure's mine. Your reputation precedes you."

Please, you think, let us get through this without anyone getting skinned alive.

Those creepy yellow contacts slide over to Jeon, and you watch Fervio size him up. "And who's the strong, silent type?"

"Her husband," Kaleido cuts in before either of you can speak, his smirk dripping with smug satisfaction. "Though he doesn't seem too keen on... friendly conversation."

Fervio's laugh is sharp and ugly, like broken glass scraping metal. "Oh, I get it. The big scary guard dog act, right? All growl, no real bite. What, they keep you on a leash, make sure no one gets too handsy with the missus?"

You feel Jeon's hurricane darken dangerously, but his voice stays deadly calm.

"Trust me, she doesn't need protection. She's perfectly capable of handling herself."

Your hand shoots out to grip his bicep—partly to stop him from doing something stupid, partly to ground yourself. When he glances at you, his tongue flicks out to play with his lip ring.

"I'm sure my husband"—and god, that word feels weird in your mouth—"would appreciate it if we skipped the implications and got down to business."

You can feel Jeon practically vibrating with tension under your grip, so you squeeze his arm just a bit harder.

Don't, you try to telegraph through the touch. He's testing us. Don't give him what he wants.

Fervio's eyes dart between you and Jeon, calculating and hungry, before settling back on you.

"Of course, my sincerest apologies," he says, in a tone that suggests he's about as sorry as a cat in a canary shop. "Let's discuss this fascinating deal of yours."

He sinks back into his chair with a loud thud, and you take the seat across from him whilst Jeon drops into the chair beside you. His presence is both comforting and terrifying—like having a loaded gun pressed against your back. Protection and danger all wrapped up in one p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ lethal package.

Fervio leans back, threading his fingers together like some b̶u̶l̶l̶s̶h̶i̶t̶ wannabe movie villain. The smile playing around his lips makes your skin crawl. It's the kind of smile that says he knows exactly how much power he holds in this room, and he can't wait to use it.

"So," Fervio drawls, and his voice makes your skin want to crawl right off your body. "Partnership's a delicate thing, isn't it? All about that... give and take."

You nod, studying his face like you're trying to read a book written in blood.

"That's right. We're always looking for deals that work out for everyone involved."

He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Everyone involved? Now that's interesting. I've always enjoyed... expanding my circle. Trying new things. Meeting new friends."

You force yourself to stay still. "Well, they do say variety keeps life interesting."

Jeon clears his throat, this tiny sound that somehow manages to carry a death threat.

Fervio's attention snaps to him like a rubber band, and fuck—those yellow eyes are practically glowing now.

"What about you, tough guy?" Fervio's words drip with mock sweetness. "You like getting your hands dirty, or do you just stand there looking pretty while the missus handles business?"

You feel Jeon's muscles coil under your touch. His jaw clenches so hard you can practically hear his teeth grinding.

"I do whatever needs doing," he says, voice cold enough to freeze hell. "And I never just stand there."

"Ooh, feisty," Fervio actually fucking giggles, and it's the most unsettling sound you've ever heard. "I like that in a man."

Your brain is going a mile a minute, mapping every possible way this could go sideways.

The clock on the wall reads 22:45.

Fifteen minutes.

Just fifteen fucking minutes until the power goes out and you can stop playing nice with this psycho.

You lean in, like you're actually interested in whatever sick shit he's suggesting.

"So what exactly did you have in mind for this partnership?"

Fervio's mouth opens, probably to say something horrifying, but you cut him off with a perfectly timed cough.

"Of course," you add quickly, matching his suggestive tone, "we'd need to explore all the possibilities first. Make sure everyone's needs are met."

"Oh, I like you," he purrs, and his smile is all teeth and zero warmth. "I have so many... creative ideas we could try. I've gotten quite good at finding that sweet spot between pleasure and screaming."

You feel Jeon tense beside you, practically vibrating with the need to put a bullet between Fervio's eyes. Your fingers dig into his arm, silently begging him to keep it together.

"We're always eager to learn new methods," you say, keeping your voice light. "As long as they get results."

His laugh sounds like gravel in a blender. "Trust me, sweetheart. My methods always get results. I've turned it into an art form."

22:50.

You maintain your flirty smile even though you want nothing more than to dump bleach on your brain to wash away this entire conversation.

Ten more minutes, you think. Just ten more minutes of not punching this creep in his stupid face.

You force yourself to lean forward, all casual interest like you're not sitting across from a literal psychopath.

"Maybe we should talk specifics first. You know—terms, guarantees, all that boring but necessary shit."

"Of course, of course." Fervio's smile promises pain. "Always good to handle business before... other matters."

He starts laying out some proposal, but you're only half listening. Your eyes keep darting to the clock while trying to look like they're not. Jeon's still beside you, watching Fervio like he's mentally cataloging all the ways he could end him.

22:55. Five more minutes of this psychological torture session.

You can practically feel AD's planned blackout humming in the air—or maybe that's just your nerves making shit up.

You keep nodding, throwing out questions designed to keep Fervio talking. The more he talks, the more he reveals just how fucked in the head he is. But you're careful—dancing on the edge of interest without actually promising anything.

"That's an... interesting approach," you say, watching his yellow eyes light up at your apparent engagement. "Very creative."

Kaleido shifts in his seat, and you catch this tiny frown crossing his face. Someone's starting to smell something fishy.

But then it happens.

23:00 hits, and everything goes black.

The darkness feels like a goddamn blessing after staring at those creepy yellow contacts.

You let out this little laugh, playing it cool. "Well, this is getting atmospheric."

"Indeed it is," Fervio practically purrs, and fuck—his voice has dropped into something that makes your skin want to crawl right off your body. "The darkness has a way of... bringing out our true natures."

You can feel Kaleido's tension from here. He's not buying this convenient timing, but Fervio's too caught up in his own twisted fantasy to notice.

"They do say the best deals happen in the dark," you drawl, channeling every ounce of Seduction Division training into your voice. "When you can't see the fine print."

Come on, you think. Just keep them distracted for a few more minutes.

The darkness is so thick you could probably drown in it, and somewhere in it, Fervio is getting way too excited about this whole situation. But you've got bigger problems than his murder boner—like making sure Kaleido doesn't put two and two together before you can complete the mission.

You feel Jeon slip away like a ghost, silent and deadly in the darkness.

Kaleido's head snaps toward the movement—fuck, he's sharp.

Time to do what you do best: be really fucking distracting.

Your hand finds Kaleido's arm, touch light enough to seem inviting rather than desperate.

"Hey now," you purr. "Don't get distracted. We were just getting to the fun part, weren't we? There's enough entertainment to keep everyone happy."

You hear Kaleido's breath hitch—gotcha. "Is that right?" His voice has that edge of interest that tells you he's taking the bait.

Hook, line, and s̶u̶c̶k̶e̶r̶ sinker.

But then Fervio's voice cuts through, a bit irritated. "Fun is an art form. It's not about how many players are in the game. It's about how thoroughly you can explore each possibility."

Something touches your hand—Fervio's fingers, cold and invasive. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, but you hold steady. Years of training kick in, and you force yourself to lean into the touch instead of breaking his fucking fingers.

"Couldn't agree more," you say, making your voice all honey and smoke. "Quality over quantity, right? Though sometimes..." You let the words hang there, suggestive. "A little variety can make things interesting."

Fervio's laugh makes your skin want to crawl right off your body and run for the hills.

"Let's keep our friend out of this particular equation," he says, and there's steel under that fake playfulness. "I prefer my entertainment more concentrated. Just us three."

You paint on a smile he can't see in the dark, grateful for small mercies.

"Whatever you say," you reply, like you're actually disappointed. "Your house, your rules."

The minutes drag by like years. Your heart's going so hard you're amazed they can't hear it, but you keep talking, keep flirting, keep Kaleido's suspicions buried under layers of innuendo and suggestion.

Every time Fervio opens his mouth, something more twisted comes out, but you dance around his sick fantasies like you're actually interested.

Come on, Jeon, you think. Hurry the fuck up.

You remind yourself that every creepy comment, every time Fervio's hand 'accidentally' brushes yours, every moment you have to pretend his psycho ass is fascinating—it's all getting you closer to bringing these bastards down.

This is what you trained for. This is what you're good at.

And when those lights come back on, you'll walk out of here without a scratch, leaving these fuckers none the wiser.

Because that's what you do. That's who you are.

You're not just some pretty distraction.

You're a goddamn professional.

This fucking hideout is a maze—that's all Jungkook can think as he tries to move through silently.

The mission weighs on his shoulders, made heavier by AD's voice crackling through his earpiece—sharp, cold, and deliberately sparse with information.

"Left. Next intersection."

His eyes scan the dim corridor, searching for any sign of the server room. Or worse—company.

The lack of proper directions makes his jaw clench. AD's being difficult on purpose, and they both know it.

A soft shuffle of footsteps echoes from around the corner. His body moves on instinct, melting into a shadowed alcove. The wall is cold against his back as some MDF grunt walks past, completely oblivious to the death that could have been waiting for them.

"Almost got made," he mutters into the comm, keeping his voice low. "Your directions are fucking useless."

The silence that follows is loaded.

"Oh no, what a tragedy that would be. What would we do without our perfect Captain America?"

The words hit exactly where AD means them to—right in that raw spot that never quite heals.

But Jungkook swallows it down, like he always does. Like he deserves to.

"Just focus on the fucking mission."

"Whatever you say." AD's voice drips acid. "Next right, straight down. Try not to die—the paperwork's a bitch, and I'd hate to waste my time processing your replacement."

His teeth grind together so hard his jaw aches. The guilt sits heavy in his chest, a constant companion these days. AD never lets him forget what happened with Sylvia, never misses a chance to twist the knife.

But that's fine. He deserves that too.

The mission is what matters. Everything else—the guilt, AD's hatred, the constant reminder of his failures—that's just background noise. He's gotten good at drowning it out.

Focus on the objective, he thinks. Nothing else matters.

(But god, some days the weight of it all feels like it might finally break him.)

"Thanks for the fucking concern," Jungkook mutters, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Not that he expects anything else from AD these days.

"Don't flatter yourself." AD's voice crackles with venom through the comm. "I'm here for the mission. You're just the unfortunate means to an end."

Each step feels heavier than the last, weighted down by years of AD's cultivated hatred.

But the mission is what matters.

That's what he keeps telling himself, anyway.

Has to keep telling himself.

The LED lights overhead cast these long, twisted shadows that remind him too much of things he'd rather forget.

Of Sylvia. Of choices he can't take back. Of the way everything went so spectacularly wrong.

"Left door," AD says, clipped and cold. "Try not to fuck this up too."

Jungkook's hand pauses over the doorknob, metal cool against his palm. He presses his ear to the door, listening for movement, for breath, for anything that might mean trouble. Nothing but silence answers back.

"You know," he breathes, slipping into the room like a ghost, "with how much you hate me, you'd think I killed her myself."

The laugh that comes through his earpiece is ugly. "Didn't you? Might as well have handed her the gun yourself."

He's right, of course. Jungkook deserves every bit of venom AD spits at him.

He simply exhales. Ignores the guilt that threatens to choke him.

"Moving on," he says quietly, both an update and a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Yeah, better hurry," AD sneers. "Clock's ticking, and we both know how good you are at getting people killed when you're running out of time."

"Crystal fucking clear," Jungkook grits out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

But pain is familiar territory these days. Almost comforting, in a twisted way.

"Door on your left, five meters." AD's voice is clinical now, professional.

Sometimes that's worse than the open hostility.

At least hatred is honest.

"Could you at least pretend not to want me dead?" Jungkook mutters.

"Maybe if you hadn't gotten Sylvia killed, I would."

It hits him like a bullet between the ribs, the name.

Sylvia.

It always comes back to her, doesn't it?

That night haunts every interaction with AD, turning what used to be friendship into this twisted thing full of barbs and old wounds.

"I know."

It's all he can say. All he's allowed to say, really. Some apologies are just fucking pointless.

The server room is exactly what he expected—all blinking lights and humming machines. Perfect place to hide a bug.

His hands move on autopilot while his mind keeps circling back to AD's words like picking at a scab.

"Focus, Jeon." AD's voice cuts through his thoughts. "Get the job done and get out."

Jungkook crouches down, finding a spot that'll give them good coverage. The familiar motions of planting surveillance gear almost feel like penance. Almost. His fingers work quickly, efficiently, working with the kind of precision his father drilled into him.

The comm line goes quiet. AD's probably stewing in his anger, replaying old memories like a fucked-up highlight reel.

Jungkook knows because he does the same thing.

"Bug's planted," he whispers, straightening up. "Moving out."

There's this pause—longer than usual. Like AD's wrestling with something.

When he finally speaks, his voice has lost some of its edge. "Watch your back."

It's not forgiveness. Not even close. But it's... something.

A tiny crack in the wall of hatred AD's built between them.

Maybe it's just muscle memory from their old friendship, or maybe AD's just too tired to maintain the rage.

Either way, it doesn't change anything.

Some mistakes can't be undone, some bridges stay burned.

And dead people always stay dead.

Jungkook heads back the way he came, knowing he needs to hurry. He can't afford any mistakes, not now—not ever again, really. Time's running out, and he can't afford to fuck this up too.

"Move your ass, Jeon. You got less than a minute."

AD's voice has faded to white noise in his ear, like a storm that's finally burned itself out.

But the urgency remains, thrumming under his skin like a fucking hornets' nest.

And his mind isn't helpful—keeps circling back to everything riding on this—the mission, the intel, the fact that you're still in that room with those psychos.

A drop of sweat slides down his temple, and he forces himself to focus.

No room for distractions. Not now.

He's almost at the final corner, freedom just fucking there, when he catches the low rumble of voices. His body reacts before his brain, pressing flat against the wall in a shadowed spot. His breath comes shallow and quiet as footsteps approach.

The seconds crawl by like years. Each heartbeat feels too loud, each breath a risk. The guards' voices drift closer, then past, then fade into nothing.

The moment the footsteps disappear, Jungkook moves.

Those last few meters might as well be a mile, but he covers them in seconds. The lights could come back any moment, and if he's not in that room when they do—

He slides into his seat beside you, forcing his breathing to stay steady even though his heart's trying to punch through his ribs.

The power surges back on immediately. The sudden brightness makes his eyes burn, but there's no time to adjust.

You turn toward him, probably to ask if he got it done, but the room's already buzzing with conversation again like nothing happened. Like he didn't just plant a bug that could bring this whole operation crashing down. Like there aren't two psychopaths sitting across from you both, one of them already suspicious.

His eyes meet yours for a split second. There's relief there, yeah, but also the weight of knowing this is just the beginning.

"Looking forward to our... partnership," Fervio then purrs, those creepy yellow contacts flicking between you and Jeon. "I'm veryinterested to see what you bring to the table."

You catch Jeon giving you this look from the corner of your eye—all confusion and barely concealed questions.

Of course he's lost, poor bastard missed the whole song and dance while he was playing spy. His dark eyes are practically screaming for some kind of explanation, any hint about what kind of mess he just walked back into.

You meet his gaze for a split second, trying to pack a whole conversation into one look.

Later, you try to telegraph. When we're not surrounded by psychos who want to wear our skin as party hats.

After a few more minutes, everyone starts getting up, chairs scraping against the floor.

Kaleido's already at the door, and you and Jeon fall in line behind him like good little lambs to the s̶l̶a̶u̶g̶h̶t̶e̶r̶ meeting.

The hallway feels weirdly normal after that pressure cooker of a room. Just the click of shoes on fancy floors and the distant mumble of voices that could almost make you forget you're in the heart of enemy territory.

Jeon slides into step beside you, and it's kind of impressive how he manages to look completely chill while also being wound tight enough to snap. His shoulders are relaxed but his eyes keep scanning everything, cataloging exits and threats like the walking weapon he is.

Your brain's working overtime, trying to figure out how to explain everything that went down while he was gone. How do you even begin to summarize that clusterfuck of a conversation?

'Hey, so while you were planting bugs, I had to flirt with two different flavors of psychopath to keep us alive. Fun times!'

He's counting on you to be his eyes and ears in there, to help him navigate whatever landmines you just agreed to. And fuck if you're going to let him down now.

God; you are in so far over your heads. But hey, at least you're drowning together.

The walk back through MDF's territory feels like it takes forever.

Kaleido leads you through this maze of hallways that all look the same—probably designed that way on purpose, the paranoid bastards.

You've got questions burning holes in your tongue, and you can tell from the way Jeon keeps glancing at you that he's got plenty of his own.

Finally, finally, you push through the exit doors and the night air hits your face like freedom.

Jeon practically deflates next to you, all that coiled tension leaving his body in one long exhale.

You get it. Being in there felt like having a knife pressed against your throat for hours.

It's weird how normal everything looks when you just spent the evening playing nice with actual monsters.

You reach up and pull out your earpiece, watching Jeon do the same.

No more voices in your head—just the ambient noise of Seoul at night and about a million questions that need answers.

The bike's waiting right where you left it, looking like the most beautiful thing you've ever seen because it means you can get the fuck out of here.

Jeon moves toward it, probably ready to bolt, but something's been nagging at you since those comms went live.

"Who's Sylvia?"

The words slip out before you can stop them.

It's probably not the best timing, but if Seduction has taught you anything is that information is power.

And right now you feel pretty fucking powerless.

You watch Jeon's shoulders lock up again, his whole body going still like you just pulled a gun on him instead of asking a simple question.

Fuck. He forgot about the comms.

In the rush to get back before the lights came on, Jungkook completely forgot the line was still open.

That you heard everything—including that name.

Sylvia.

The word sits like poison in his mind, dragging up memories he's spent years trying to bury.

His heart slams against his ribs, and it has nothing to do with almost getting caught back there.

Your question hangs in the air between you, and suddenly he can't breathe right. Can't think straight.

Because you weren't supposed to know about this. About her.

He turns to look at you, trying to read your expression in the dim light. Trying to figure out how much you heard, how much you understood.

But your face gives nothing away—you've gotten too good at that. The Seduction Division taught you well.

His features lock down on instinct, years of practice kicking in like muscle memory.

It's easier this way. Safer. Put up the walls, shut everything down, become the cold, untouchable Chief everyone expects him to be.

"Nobody you should be concerned about." His voice comes out flat, empty. The kind of tone that usually makes people back off real quick.

He watches something flicker across your face—curiosity maybe, or concern. But you don't push. Don't demand answers.

You just say "Alright" in this careful, neutral way that somehow makes everything worse.

Because you're giving him space he doesn't deserve.

Understanding he hasn't earned.

Jungkook turns back to the bike, jamming the key in with more force than necessary.

The engine roars to life, and he focuses on that sound instead of the chaos in his head. Instead of the weight of all these secrets pressing down on his chest.

You climb on behind him, and the warmth of your body against his back feels wrong.

Too close. Too real.

Too much like something he can't afford to want.

"Let's get out of here," he says, keeping his voice empty.

The city starts to blur as he accelerates, but his mind stays stuck on that name. On memories he can't outrun.

Distance, he reminds himself. Distance is survival.

goal: 550 notes !!

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© jungkoode 2025

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[generouspursethingbat]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 24

⋆｡°✩ mirrors ✩°｡⋆

"When you're dealing with Jason, who talks about literature like it matters and opens car doors, the friendship bracelet feels like something from a different version of you. One that's messier, pettier, still half-formed."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: coffee dates with intelectual men (jason derulooooo), friendship bracelet anxiety, protective!yoongi, mia aftermath discussions, tessa planning

✧ author's note ✧

Okay. Before you all start side-eyeing Jason for breathing, let's set something straight—you're biased. And you're totally valid for that.

This is a Jungkook x Reader fanfic. Obviously, we're all rooting for the emotionally constipated trauma boy who talks with his eyes and stores all his feelings behind gym towels and granola bars. I get it. I'm rooting for him too. But Jason is not here to steal your man. He's here to teach. To nudge. To trigger reflection. He's not necessarily here to stay—but he is important. For Y/N. For her growth. For us to see what it looks like when she's treated decently on surface level, so we can question what actually feels good, and what merely feels safe.

Jason, like every man I write, is not perfect. (You'd think I'd spare at least one of them but alas, I'm God here and a mean one.) Y/N is looking at him through rose-colored glasses—yes, that's intentional. But this is not your cue to dissect him like a frog and declare "something about him rubs me wrong, Kiki please kill him." Let's calm down, Hannibal. Not every man who isn't Jungkook is a villain in this story.

And speaking of bias—let's talk about Y/N. I want to gently remind you all: this story is told through her perspective. That means the narration is not omniscient. It's filtered through a lens of impulsivity, self-sabotage, and defense mechanisms. She's in her 20s and emotionally immature in ways that mirror her environment, her upbringing, her trauma. So yes—you'll read lines where she praises Jason and drags Jungkook through the mud like he owes her money. That's part of her architecture. Not mine. I don't write self-insert. I write character. And Y/N is doing what a lot of us do—projecting simplicity onto what's new and shiny, and demonizing what's familiar and complicated.

Because when you're operating from trauma, you fixate on the flaws that allow you to detach. On the safe narrative. Jungkook is socks on the couch. Jungkook is dumb. Jungkook is the roommate who yells too loudly when he's playing CoD. Not Jungkook who didn't burst into his bedroom during her panic attack because he knew she wouldn't want to be seen. Not Jungkook who's messy, perhaps not attentive when it comes to mugs in the sink—but attentive in the things that matter.

So yes. Y/N is unfair toward Jungkook in this chapter. And Jungkook is unfair toward her, too. And they will keep on being unfair and you'll want to scream and you'll say 'they're stupid' and yes they are. That's the point. That's humanity. That's how we cope—through flawed logic and messy defenses. It's ugly and real and mine.

Tessa. Let's go there. I've said it before, but I'll reiterate it loud enough for the back rows: Tessa is not the villain. She's not here to be the hot girl we all collectively throw into a fictional toilet. She's kind. She's respectful. She shares common interests with Jungkook. She's doing her thing. And that's exactly why she throws Y/N off. Because it would be easier to hate her if she were rude. If she were smug. But she's not. And that's the dissonance. That's the discomfort. Tessa would probably be a friend if the circumstances were different. But she's not. She's interested in Jungkook. And Y/N is sleeping with Jungkook. So while jealousy isn't the correct word, there's still that… gut feeling. That primal "mine" that you don't have to be in love to feel. Especially when someone's the only person who's ever made you feel wanted and safe in your body. (She did say he knows where the clit is. Let's not forget that.)

And Jungkook—again, for all his confusion and emotional hoarding—does not make fun of her for liking things. He forces her to confront her wants, to allow herself to enjoy things without guilt. Encourages them. Creates space for them. And she doesn't consciously realize that. But subconsciously? It's why she's defensive. Why she's scared of losing it.

Last thing I'll touch on: Yoongi. Because I love the way he shows up here—not loud, not meddling, but present. I made a point of explaining his schedule (beyond just plot convenience lmao) because I think it's important to portray him realistically. He's a producer. He's constantly working. And yet, when he is home, he doesn't overstep. He doesn't offer gossip. He doesn't reveal Jungkook's mess. He respects Jungkook's boundaries. He gives Y/N a branch. A little nudge. And if you know Yoongi, you know that's massive. That's someone who sees pain but respects the privacy of it. That's how love shows up in quiet friendships.

So yeah. That's Chapter 24. Not a love story. Not yet. It's a story about mirrors. About coping. About not knowing what you want until someone else tries to hand it to you, and you flinch.

Enjoy Jason while he's here. He's the first of some.

Now go read. Come back messy.

Love, Kiki (who writes enemies-to-lovers and then gets mad when they don't like each other yet) (ಥ﹏ಥ)

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Turns out seventy-something grandmothers also read vampire and werewolf books. 

Sunday shifts at Barnes & Noble are usually dead���just you, the books, and the occasional lost tourist looking for the bathroom. 

But today feels off-kilter, like everything's been shifted two inches to the left. 

You keep catching yourself touching the bracelet on your wrist, the beads spelling "ROGUE" pressed against your skin, a constant reminder of last night's decisions.

You still haven't taken it off. Haven't even considered it, really, which is weird because it's just a stupid tacky bracelet. Wearing it shouldn't mean anything. It's not like you and Jungkook are actually friends.

Are you?

…No. Definitely not. Just roommates who occasionally don't want to murder each other. Roommates who sometimes have really good sex. Roommates who made matching bracelets in a moment of insanity.

Fuck, that does sound like friendship.

"Excuse me, dear?"

The voice pulls you from your spiral, and you realize you've been staring at the same page of inventory for at least two minutes. 

The woman standing at your register is tiny, maybe five feet tall on a good day, with perfectly coiffed silver hair and pearl earrings that are definitely not fake.

"Sorry," you mutter, quickly scanning the five hardcover books she's placed on the counter. The entire Twilight saga, special edition with gold-edged pages. "Did you find everything okay?"

"Oh yes, thank you," she says, pulling out a wallet that looks expensive in that understated way rich people prefer. "My book club is doing a throwback month. We're revisiting our guilty pleasures."

You nod absently, focusing on bagging the books without making eye contact. Just get through this transaction and then you can go back to questioning your life choices in peace.

"So," she says as you process her credit card, "Team Edward or Team Jacob?"

Your head snaps up, certain you've misheard.

"I'm sorry?"

"The eternal question," she says with a wink. "Which supernatural suitor would you choose? The brooding vampire or the hot-headed werewolf?"

Is this happening? Is this actually happening right now? 

You stare at her, completely dumbfounded. 

She's got to be at least seventy, wearing a cashmere cardigan and sensible heels, asking you about fictional teen heart-throbs like you're at a middle school sleepover.

You open your mouth to give some non-committal answer, but then you remember Dora from the laundry room. How quickly you'd dismissed her as a cranky old lady, only to discover she was just a widow feeling lonely. 

Maybe this woman is the same—just looking for a moment of connection in her day.

"I'm honestly Team Alice," you say, surprising yourself with the genuine smile that forms. "She was probably a better choice than either of those two drama queens."

The woman's face lights up with delight. 

"Oh! Bold choice. I like that." She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "I'm Team Edward, myself. I guess I like old men after all."

A startled laugh escapes before you can stop it. "He is like a hundred years old in a teenager's body. Very problematic."

"Precisely why it's a guilty pleasure, my dear," she says, accepting the bag you hand her. "The best kind of fiction lets us enjoy things we'd find appalling in real life."

There's something weirdly profound about that statement coming from a pearl-wearing grandmother buying vampire romance novels on a Sunday afternoon.

"Enjoy your book club," you say, meaning it.

"I will. And you enjoy whatever team you're on," she replies with a wink, nodding toward your wrist where the friendship bracelet sits.

Before you can respond, she's walking away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. 

You stare after her, feeling like you've just had some kind of surreal encounter with a Twilight-loving fairy godmother.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur of restocking shelves and helping lost customers find the bathroom. 

By the time you clock out, the Twilight grandma feels like a fever dream—something your brain made up to break the monotony. But the conversation stays with you, an unexpected bright spot in an otherwise tedious day.

You're still thinking about it when you unlock the apartment door three hours later.

"Hello?" you call out, dropping your keys on the entry table with a clatter.

Nothing.

The apartment is empty, the silence confirming what you already knew—you've got the place to yourself. 

No Yoongi with his silent judgment. No Griffin with his judgmental silence. And no Jungkook with his... 

…

Whatever.

You check your phone. 

An hour and a half until you're supposed to meet Jason for coffee. 

Plenty of time to shower away the retail grime and maybe even put on something that doesn't scream ‘I've been folding books for eight hours.’

As if sensing your thoughts, your phone pings with a text.

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧: 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 4? 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙? 

You bite back a smile. 

He's offering to pick you up? So he remembers where he dropped you off that one time after class? 

That's... actually kind of sweet. A guy who actually pays attention to details.

It's refreshing after dealing with Jungkook, who once put an empty milk carton back in the fridge and claimed he ‘didn't notice’ it was empty. Like someone just happened to drink all the milk and then carefully put the empty container back exactly where they found it. 

Idiot.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜! 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚝 𝟺 ❤️

You don’t know why you’re using proper caps now, or why you add the heart emoji. It’s all without thinking, and you stare at it for a solid five seconds wondering if it's too much. 

But it's already sent, and honestly, it's just an emoji. Not like you're proposing marriage.

As you scroll back through your messages, another unread text catches your eye. From last night. When your phone pinged during the bracelet exchange with Jungkook.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎𝚢! 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞! 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎? 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎! 🥰

Oh.

Oh right.

Tessa from last night. The literal goddess with perfect hair who wanted your advice about dating Jungkook. The girl you told to go for it because, why not? He could do a lot worse than someone genuinely nice and put-together. 

You stare at the text for a long moment, trying to figure out what to say to that. Because it’s weird. It feels weird.

No, the weird feeling is probably just that you're not sure you want to get involved in Jungkook's love life. It's one thing to suggest Tessa make a move, but playing matchmaker? Giving ongoing advice? That's crossing into territory that feels uncomfortably personal.

Plus, you're kind of sleeping with him. Would be weird to help another girl date your fuck buddy. Not because you care who else he sleeps with—you don't. Obviously. But it would just be... awkward.

And what would you even say? ‘Hey Tessa, here's how to seduce my roommate: play hard to get, argue with him constantly, then jump his bones when he least expects it. Works for me!’

Yeah, no.

You set your phone down without replying. You'll deal with Tessa later. After your coffee with Jason. After you've had a shower and maybe some time to think about how to navigate this bizarre social situation you've somehow landed in.

As you head to the bathroom, you catch your reflection in the hallway mirror. You look tired, a little rumpled from your shift, but not terrible. Your eyes drift down to the colorful beads circling your wrist. ROGUE, spelled out in childish letter beads. 

You could take it off. Probably should, honestly. It's not like you're twelve, wearing friendship bracelets with your BFF.

But your fingers don't move toward the clasp. 

Instead, you just turn away from the mirror and continue toward the bathroom.

It's just a bracelet. It doesn't mean anything.

You'll take it off tomorrow.

Funny how a look can make you remember what it’s like to feel beautiful.

Jason’s car is clean. Not serial killer clean, but neat in a way that feels vaguely impressive for a guy who’s in grad school and not living off a diet of ramen and emotional repression. 

When you slide into the passenger seat, your dress rides up just a little, and you catch him glance—brief, polite, but definitely there. 

You don’t blame him. You look good.

Hair curled. Lip gloss strawberry-slick. Earrings you almost forgot you owned. The black dress is simple but it fits just right, hugging the curve of your waist like it was designed to hold you together when you forget how. 

You’d like to pretend you don’t care what Jason thinks, but you shaved above the knee and sprayed perfume behind your knees, so.

He smiles when he sees you, soft and almost surprised. “Hey. Wow.”

‘Wow’. Not ‘you look nice’, not ‘I like your dress’. 

Just wow, like he wasn’t prepared for this version of you.

Like he’s seeing you, not the outfit.

You kind of love that.

“Hey yourself.” 

You buckle in and feel the nerves pull tighter in your chest. You’re not used to being nervous anymore. You’ve fucked your way through worse situations than this. 

But this isn’t sex. This is coffee. 

Somehow infinitely more exposing.

The drive is short, music low—Jason puts on some indie playlist that’s equal parts folky and hipster, and you catch lyrics about moons and bones and the way someone smells in spring. He doesn’t talk much on the way, but it’s not awkward. Just quiet. Thoughtful. There’s a kind of comfort in that, in not having to fill every second with chatter.

When you arrive, you wonder if you’ve accidentally agreed to a second location with a man who might bankrupt you. 

Because this coffee shop? It is sleek and minimalist, all marble tables and matte-black finishes, the kind of place where the baristas wear aprons and pour water like they’re performing surgery.

And holy shit, it smells amazing. Not in the burnt hazelnut way you’re used to from campus cafés, but rich, deep—vanilla and cinnamon and fresh grounds that probably cost more per ounce than your soul.

Jason holds the door open for you. Doesn’t make a big deal of it. Just does it like it’s second nature. And okay, fine, you notice that. You’re not made of stone.

You order the strawberry latte on a whim, mostly because the flavor name makes you smile—‘blushberry blossom’ (c’mon that’s such a cute name)—and partly because the idea of something pink and ridiculous feels like rebellion in a place this serious. Jason, for his part, gets a cortado.

You sit by the window, where light slants in gold and sharp across the marble, catching on the rim of your cup and your collarbone. 

Here, the world outside feels very far away—no Griffin knocking shit over, no roommates stomping around the apartment like emotional hurricanes. Just soft jazz and clinking spoons and the man across from you who keeps doing this thing where he leans in slightly when you talk, like he doesn’t want to miss anything you say.

“You really think that about Bishop?” he asks, eyebrows up.

You nod. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not that I think she hated women, but there’s definitely an internalized thing going on in the way she writes about domesticity. Like she’s performing detachment because that’s the only way to survive inside it.”

Jason exhales, a quiet sound of admiration. “That’s really smart.”

You shrug, suddenly a little too warm. 

Compliments on your appearance are easy to swat away. 

This kind—the you’re actually intelligent and I’m listening to you kind—sticks in your chest like static.

Your latte arrives, delicate as hell. Pale pink with foamy swirls and a single edible flower floating on top. Instagram bait. You take a sip, expecting something syrupy and fake, but it’s…

Huh.

You pause. Purse your lips. The taste is sweet, but not in a candy way. More like… too smooth. Like it’s missing bitterness. But it’s fine. Just—off, somehow. 

Not bad, just… not what you were expecting. 

You take another sip.

Still weird. Still fine.

You say nothing. Just keep talking, keep leaning into the conversation, because Jason’s eyes are lit up and he’s asking you questions like he actually cares about the answers.

You talk about poetry, about undergrad nonsense, about that one professor who only teaches in metaphors and might actually be a tree in disguise. Jason laughs at your jokes and adds his own and it’s easy. Like, actually easy. Like your brain isn’t doing somersaults trying to predict the next emotional landmine.

Halfway through the drink, he glances down at your wrist and tilts his head.

“Is that… a friendship bracelet?”

You glance at it before you remember it’s there. 

Your hand had been resting on the table, fingers curled lightly around your cup, the ROGUE beads facing up like they want to be seen.

Shit.

You forgot you were still wearing it. In fact, haven’t you been wearing it all day? All shift. Through your shower. Through putting on perfume. Through curling your hair. Through walking out the door knowing someone might see it.

You pull your wrist back instinctively. Not fast enough to be defensive, just enough to make it clear you hadn’t meant for it to be a conversation piece.

Jason doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Just raises his eyebrows, curious but not unkind.

“Oh,” you say, pretending it’s nothing. “Yeah. It’s—stupid. A joke, kind of.”

Jason’s brow furrows. “No, it’s cool. I mean, it’s cute. Just wasn’t expecting that from you.”

You laugh, a little too fast. “Yeah, me neither.”

“It’s not a bad look,” he offers. “Very… I don’t know. Vintage, maybe?”

He says it in the tone of someone trying to offer reassurance, not judgment. 

And that’s the thing, because he hasn’t said anything bad about it. 

It’s you. 

You feel it. That quiet little itch of self-consciousness blooming under your skin. 

And suddenly you are twelve years old, and someone just caught you doodling hearts in your notebook. 

You feel… silly.

Not because it’s a dumb bracelet—it is—but because it’s on your wrist in this place, with this person. 

With Jason, who talks about literature like it matters, who picked you up on time, who smells like sandalwood and books, who looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your mouth.

The bracelet feels like something from a different version of you. One that’s messier, pettier, still half-formed. The version that knocks Jungkook’s protein powder off the counter just to watch him flinch. The one who keeps secrets in locked journals under the bed.

You press your wrist lightly against your thigh under the table, hiding it without really hiding it. Jason doesn’t press. He just sips his coffee and asks what you think about Rainer Maria Rilke.

You tell him. You talk about how Letters to a Young Poet changed the way you understood loneliness. About how writing doesn’t have to be for anyone else. About how maybe there’s something holy about solitude when it’s chosen.

He listens like the world’s on mute.

And maybe, just maybe, you start to believe the things you’re saying. Maybe you start to feel like someone worth listening to.

“You should read this essay by Gilbert and Gubar,” he says, pulling out his phone to make a note. “I’ll send you the link. It’s about the madwoman in the attic as a feminist symbol. Might give you some interesting perspectives.”

“That would be great,” you say, soft smile tugging at your lips. 

It’s been ages since you’ve had a conversation like this—someone who not only gets your academic interests but actively engages with them.

“You’re really smart, you know that?” he says suddenly, setting down his mug. “Like, genuinely insightful. You should consider applying to graduate programs.”

The compliment catches you off guard, warmth spreading through your chest. 

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit. “But it’s competitive. And expensive.”

“True,” he nods. “But there are fellowships. And based on what I’ve heard from you in class and now, I think you’d have a shot.”

You take another sip of your too-sweet latte to hide how pleased you are. It’s not that you need validation, but… okay, maybe you do, a little. Who doesn’t?

“I could help you look into programs, if you want,” he offers. “No pressure, just… I know the landscape pretty well.”

“That would be amazing, actually,” you say, meaning it.

By the time you’ve both finished your drinks, the afternoon light has shifted. You’ve been talking for over two hours, and it’s only when you check your phone that you realize how much time has passed.

“I should probably get you home,” Jason says, checking his watch reluctantly. “I’ve got a stack of papers to grade before tomorrow.”

“Right,” you nod, equally reluctant to end the afternoon. “Teaching assistant duties call.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighs, then brightens. “But I’d love to do this again. Maybe dinner next time?”

“I’d like that,” you say, and you really would.

After 10 minutes in his car, you think he’s turning toward your apartment. 

You’re wrong.

Jason’s blinker flicks left instead of right, merging smoothly into traffic like this isn’t a diversion. Like it’s part of the plan.

You glance over, raising an eyebrow. “Um. Home’s the other way.”

He smiles, eyes still on the road. “I know. I wanted to show you something first.”

Your chest flutters—nothing dramatic, just a soft little hum, like the opening notes of a song you don’t recognize but already like. You sink back into the seat and let yourself be curious.

The drive winds west, toward the river, buildings falling away into stretches of old brick warehouses and glass condo towers that look like they belong in an entirely different version of your life. One where you probably own a milk frother and know what saffron tastes like.

Jason doesn’t say much, just tunes the radio to some local jazz station and hums softly along. The golden hour light cuts sideways through the windshield, warm and syrupy, painting the world in blush and amber.

He pulls over near a quiet overlook, where the road widens into a shoulder and the guardrail curls just enough to frame the view. The Hudson stretches wide in front of you, molasses-slow and glittering under a sky that’s all pinks and orange melt, the kind of sunset you always say you’ll watch more often but never do.

He doesn’t make it a thing. Just kills the engine, unbuckles his seatbelt, and nods toward the passenger side.

“Come on.”

You follow, caught in that half-stunned, half-swoony state that makes your steps feel floaty. 

The air outside is cooler than you expect, touched with that river dampness that curls around your ankles and lifts the hair on your arms. The water looks like glass, rippling only when the wind brushes across it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping closer to the edge. 

The view is stupid. Like, actually unfair. The sky’s a cliché in real time—cotton candy pink and tangerine and just the faintest smear of lavender toward the edges. 

You pull out your phone without thinking, framing the scene like muscle memory.

One shot.

Then another.

Then one with your shoulder in the corner, just to prove you were here.

Jason stands a little off to the side, hands in the pockets of his coat. 

He’s not watching the view—he’s watching you look at the view, which somehow makes it feel even more unreal.

“I didn’t want the date to end in a parking lot,” he says quietly.

You smile down at your phone, thumbs already moving. You pick the best one, swipe through a filter, drop the saturation just a little. Caption: this sky is a lie and I’m letting it.

You post without thinking. It’s just a sunset. It’s just a moment. But it feels worth remembering.

A notification pops up a few seconds later. Like.

Then another.

Then—

35mmghost liked your photo.

You blink.

Snort.

Okay. What?

You don’t say anything, just stare at the name for a beat longer than necessary. 

35mmghost. 

That is… not what you expected Jason’s Instagram handle to be. If it is Jason’s. Which would be hilarious. And weirdly endearing.

You flick a glance toward him. He’s smiling to you, with his phone between his fingers. Like you just caught him.

He just pockets it and gazes out at the river like he’s trying to memorize it. 

You file it away. Not important. Probably. Just… cute.

Jason, apparently, has a secret artsy side. 

And a dramatic username.

Ghost, really?

You like it. Quietly. Silently. The same way he let you have the view.

He doesn’t know you noticed. Doesn’t try to impress you with it.

And for once, you don’t overanalyze. You just let yourself stand there, cheeks a little pink from the wind and the compliment still buzzing somewhere behind your ribs, watching the sky slide into dusk like it’s not even trying to be beautiful.

Like it just is.

When he finally drives you home, you find yourself feeling lighter than you have in weeks. 

There’s something refreshingly straightforward about Jason. 

No games, no cryptic comments, no emotional whiplash. 

Just a smart, mature guy who seems genuinely interested in you.

When he pulls up to your building, he gets out to open your door again—which still feels like something from a movie rather than real life.

“Thanks for today,” you say, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk. 

Is this the part where you kiss? You’re not sure what the protocol is here.

Jason solves the dilemma with a warm smile and a slight step back—respecting your space in that careful way that somehow makes him even more attractive.

"Thank you for making my Sunday exponentially better," he says.

It's such a nerdy, earnest thing to say that you can't help but smile. 

"Exponentially, huh?"

"At least by a factor of ten," he confirms with a grin. "I'll text you about dinner?"

"Sounds good."

You watch him drive away, a pleasant buzz of anticipation tingling in your chest about seeing him again. 

For once, your love life seems straightforward and uncomplicated. 

A mature guy who's exactly what he appears to be. What a fucking novelty.

When you finally make it upstairs, the apartment is still quiet. Still empty. 

You kick your shoes off at the door and shrug off your coat, fingers catching on the thin leather strap of your bag. You leave it on the couch and walk straight to your room, not bothering to turn on any lights. 

There’s enough spill from the windows to see by—blue-gray and soft, the city humming faint in the background like a lullaby that never really ends.

You catch your reflection in the mirror again. 

Dress still hugging you right, lip gloss faded but not completely gone. Your cheeks are flushed in that way that feels natural, earned. 

You look good. You feel good.

But your gaze drifts. Down to your wrist.

There it is. Bright and stupid and clunky against the sleek black of your dress. 

ROGUE.

It looks even more ridiculous now than it did in the café. Like a tacky souvenir trying to pass in a room full of doctoral candidates.

You sigh.

It’s not that you’re ashamed of it, exactly. 

Just… aware of it. 

In a way you weren’t before. 

Aware of what it signals—about you, about the you that exists in here, in this apartment. 

The one who fights over fridge space and burns frozen pizza and still hides snacks under the bed like you’re prepping for an apocalypse Jungkook might eat through.

Jason didn’t make you feel bad about it. Not at all. 

But there was that little jolt of being seen in a way you didn’t mean to be. Like wearing pajamas to class by mistake.

You run your thumb over the beads. They’re slightly warm from your skin, the elastic stretched just enough to make a faint indent on your wrist. 

It’s silly. 

So fucking silly. 

You shouldn’t have even worn it out. It doesn’t belong in cafés with marble tables and edible flowers. Doesn’t belong with guys who talk about Rilke and open your door and make you feel like your brain is the most interesting thing about you.

It belongs here. Inside these walls. In the shared chaos of mismatched mugs and territorial coffee wars and Griffin sleeping on your face. 

It belongs in the version of you that forgets to do laundry and screams at reality TV and gets off with your roommate like it’s just another way to burn through stress.

Maybe it’s time to choose. Or at least… edit.

You slide the bracelet off. Slowly. Carefully. Set it down on your dresser, next to the copy of The Bell Jar you’ve been meaning to reread and a half-burnt candle that smells like peaches and something faintly smoky.

You’ll still wear it sometimes. Just not… when you go out with Jason. Not when you want to feel sleek and composed and like maybe, just maybe, you’re building something a little more deliberate than chaos. 

Maybe that’s okay.

You leave it where it is.

And you don’t stop to think whether Jungkook is even wearing it at all.

“You’re alive?”

The words slip out before you can stop them, a bit too loud for a quiet apartment and a bit too sarcastic for someone who just walked through the front door. 

But it’s Yoongi. You’re pretty sure he came out of the womb with a glare and noise-cancelling headphones.

He gives you a flat look, keys jingling as he kicks the door shut behind him. 

No hello, no how was your day, just a flick of his eyes from your face to your bare legs stretched across the coffee table, one foot propped up like you’re posing for a toenail polish ad no one asked for.

“Didn’t expect you home,” you add, waving your freshly painted big toe in his direction. “Figured you were off ghosting the apartment all weekend like usual.”

He drops his messenger bag by the door with a soft thud, shrugs like the weight of being perceived is too much.

“Didn’t have that much work today,” he says, deadpan, already halfway to the kitchen. “Been overworking all week. Even I get tired of being productive.”

You blink. “Wait—you work on Sundays?”

“I work always,” he calls back, grabbing a mug from the cabinet like it personally offended him. “What’s your point?”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your foot on the arm of the couch so the polish doesn’t smudge. 

“My point is, maybe stop pretending you’re not a person and do something degenerate for once. Watch trash TV. Go outside.”

“I went outside,” he mutters, reaching for the coffee grounds. “Regret it.”

“You’re making coffee now?” You glance at the clock. “You’ll be awake all night.”

“Mm,” Yoongi says, which is less a response and more a vibe. “Not like I’ve slept properly in a week anyway.”

“That sounds healthy,” you sing, flicking the cap back onto the nail polish bottle. 

You don’t know when this stopped being weird—talking to him like this. 

It’s not friendship, exactly, but it’s not not that either. 

Comfortable-ish. Low maintenance. The kind of dynamic that doesn’t need checking in.

Griffin trots out from wherever he was napping, tail flicking with that ‘where the fuck is my dinner, peasants’ energy.

You lean over and scratch behind his ear. “Still no sign of your boy?”.

Yoongi shrugs —his primary form of communication—then cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “JUNGKOOK!”

The silence that follows is answer enough.

“Nah, he’s not home,” Yoongi confirms unnecessarily.

You roll your eyes, screwing the cap back on your nail polish. “Thanks for the thorough investigation.”

You go back to focusing on your second foot, tongue poking out slightly as you try not to smear the top coat. 

Then—

“Hey,” he says, casual but not. “By the way…”

You pause, brush hovering mid-air.

“…I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Your stomach drops. 

Those words never precede anything good. 

Is he kicking you out? Did you do something wrong? Is the rent going up? Did he find your secret stash of chocolate-covered pretzels hidden behind the rice?

“Okay…” you say cautiously, sitting up straighter. “What’s up?”

Yoongi takes a sip of his coffee, still not meeting your eyes. The silence stretches just long enough to make your anxiety spike before he finally speaks.

“It’s about Jungkook.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Did Jungkook complain about you? Is Yoongi about to give you some weird roommate intervention? Does he know about the… arrangement you and Jungkook have? 

God, that would be mortifying.

“What about him?” you ask, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to defensive.

Yoongi presses his lips together like he’s trying to decide if speaking is worth the effort. Spoiler: it usually isn’t.

Then—quiet, low: 

“Back at the karaoke place… you met Mia, right?”

You freeze mid-swipe, the brush hovering just above your toenail. There’s a split second where your brain tries to play dumb. Pretend you didn’t. Pretend you forgot. But your body answers before your mouth does—shoulders tensing, breath pulling tight behind your ribs.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “I remember.”

And you do. Perfectly. Chanel and Louboutins and weaponized perfume. Voice like saccharine venom and teeth too white to be trustworthy. 

You remember the grip on your arm. The way Jungkook looked—vacant, off, like someone unplugged him at the base of the spine.

Yoongi nods once, eyes fixed on his coffee like it might offer divine clarity.

“I need to know what happened.” 

His voice isn’t demanding, not exactly. Just… steady. Firm in a way you’ve never heard from him before. 

“What did she say to him?”

You shift on the couch, pulling your knees up to make room for Griffin, who hops beside you with zero regard for the wet polish on your toes. 

You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re trying to avoid it—it’s just that you’re not sure how to answer.

Yoongi doesn’t push. Just waits.

You glance toward the kitchen, then back at him. 

“I didn’t hear everything,” you start. “She was already talking to him when I found them. I didn’t even know who she was at first, just thought—some random girl, y’know?”

He nods once. Still waiting.

“She was dressed like she had three bodyguards waiting outside,” you add, because you can’t help yourself. “Total Upper East Side vibes. Like she was slumming it for the night.”

That earns a dry little huff from Yoongi. Almost a laugh. Almost.

Your fingers twitch against your thigh. 

“She knew it was his birthday,” you say, softer now. “Said it all sweet but—like. Fake sweet, you know? Like she was performing nice but wanted him to feel like shit for not inviting her.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticks as he listens. He’s still holding the coffee mug, but you can tell he’s not really drinking anymore. Just holding it like a prop.

“She said…” Your voice trails off. You swallow. “She said, ‘Try not to have too much fun without me.’ And something about his dad. I didn’t catch all of it. But her tone—it was like… she wanted to rattle him.”

Now Yoongi finally looks at you. Not full on, not probing, but enough to catch your face in his periphery. 

“She mentioned his dad?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “Just—like, she knew it’d hit a nerve. She said something about ‘not replacing her’ or whatever. I don’t know the full context, but... whatever it was, it fucked with him. He looked—”

You pause. 

The image flashes in your head: Jungkook standing in the hallway, motionless. His face locked down, shoulders tight. Like something inside him had short-circuited.

“He looked small,” you say quietly. “Scared. Not like himself.”

Yoongi takes that in. Doesn’t react right away. He just huffs out a breath through his nose and leans back against the edge of the kitchen counter.

Another pause.

Then: “She’s good at that.”

He says it flatly. No inflection. No explanation.

You tilt your head. “You know her?”

“Not much. But I know exactly what he looked like after her.”

You’re quiet, sensing the line. The invisible perimeter Yoongi keeps between what’s his to share and what isn’t.

“I’m not asking for his secrets,” you say, meaning it.

“Good,” he replies instantly. “Because they’re not mine to give.”

That makes you like him more. Irritatingly so.

You don’t push. But your gaze stays on him, curious.

Yoongi shrugs, finally setting his mug down on the counter. “I’ve only known him for a year and a half, so I wasn’t around back then. Not for most of it. But she left damage.”

You stay quiet.

“She knows his pressure points. Knows when to act like she’s joking and when to twist the knife.” He rubs the back of his neck like he hates even saying this out loud. “Jungkook’s got a... hard time with boundaries. Especially when it comes to people he used to love.”

Used to. Interesting phrasing.

Your lips part slightly, but Yoongi’s already waving a hand like he regrets going this far. “Anyway. Not my drama. Just wanted to know what she said. He didn’t tell us much.”

“Us?”

Yoongi shrugs again, folding his arms. “Me, Taehyung, Hobi. The ones that showed up when she blew everything up.”

You blink. “Blew everything up?”

He gives you a look. Not mean. Not angry. Just—measured. Like he’s deciding how much to trust you.

“I said too much already,” he mutters. “But yeah. That hallway thing? That wasn’t nothing. I just needed to hear it from someone who saw it up close.”

You nod slowly. “Makes sense.”

Silence again. Not uncomfortable exactly. But heavy.

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair and glances down at Griffin, who’s now making biscuits into a throw pillow like he pays rent. 

“He didn’t tell you anything, huh?”

“No.” The word comes out before you can stop it. Then, quieter: “He just said he needed air.”

Yoongi exhales. “Figures.”

You want to ask more. About Mia. About Jungkook. About what the hell happened that’s got Yoongi this protective over someone he’s known for less than two years. But something in his expression makes you hold your tongue.

So you just nod, brushing your fingers lightly over Griffin’s back.

After a beat, you say, “Thanks for telling me. Even if it was just a little.”

Yoongi lifts his coffee mug in a half-toast. “Don’t read into it. You were there. I needed intel. That’s all.”

You smirk. “Sure.”

But you both know that’s not all.

Not even close.

"Wait," you call out just as Yoongi's about to disappear completely. 

You're not sure why you feel compelled to say this—it's not like you owe Tessa anything—but after everything you've just learned about Mia, it feels important somehow.

Yoongi pauses, hand on his doorknob, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"That girl at the birthday party," you say, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them. "Tessa? I think she genuinely likes him. Like, in a normal way."

You don't know why you're telling him this. 

Maybe because after hearing about Mia's toxicity, the idea of someone simple and sweet being interested in Jungkook feels like information worth sharing. 

Yoongi tilts his head slightly. "The ginger one? Sat next to him?"

"Yeah," you nod, surprised he noticed. "She asked for my advice, actually. About him. She wants to get coffee with me to talk about it."

"Huh." Yoongi leans against his doorframe, considering this. "She seemed... nice."

The way he says ‘nice’ makes it sound like he's describing an alien species he's only read about in textbooks.

"She is nice," you confirm. "Like, genuinely nice. Soft. Girly.  Probably doesn't have any emotional baggage or toxic exes lurking around corners."

You're babbling now, but you can't seem to stop. 

Because you feel guilty. 

Because you told this nice beautiful girl to go for an emotionally stunted dude who apparently has way too much baggage. 

Because maybe Jungkook is not even ready for any of this.

"I told her to go for it. With Jungkook, I mean. Before I knew about... all this Mia stuff."

Yoongi's expression shifts subtly—a slight narrowing of the eyes. "You're playing matchmaker now?"

There's no judgment in his voice, just curiosity, but you feel defensive anyway.

"Not matchmaking," you clarify. "Just... I don't know. Being supportive? She asked, I answered. It's not a big deal."

"Right," Yoongi says, in a tone that suggests he thinks it might actually be a big deal. "And how does Jungkook feel about Tessa?"

You shrug, suddenly realizing you have no idea. "I don't know. They're in some classes together I think. He hasn't mentioned her."

"Jungkook doesn't mention a lot of things," Yoongi points out.

"True." You fiddle with the cap of your nail polish, avoiding his gaze. "I just thought... she’s nice. And so pretty. I just thought… maybe it could do him some good—before I even knew about this, I mean.”

Yoongi makes a noncommittal sound. "Maybe."

"You don't think so?"

He shrugs. "It's not about what I think. It's about whether Jungkook's ready for someone new. Especially someone... nice."

The way he says it makes you wonder if ‘nice’ is a liability in Jungkook's world. 

If after someone like Mia, ‘nice’ feels too foreign, too simple.

"Well, I already told her to go for it," you say, feeling suddenly uncertain. "Should I... un-tell her?"

Yoongi actually smiles at that—a small, fleeting thing, but definitely a smile. "No. Let it play out. Who knows? Maybe you're right. Maybe nice is exactly what he needs."

He doesn't sound convinced, but he doesn't sound dismissive either.

"Okay," you say, relieved. "I just... wanted you to know. Since we're apparently on Team Jungkook now."

Yoongi snorts. "I've always been on Team Jungkook. You're the new recruit."

"I didn't exactly volunteer," you point out.

"And yet here you are," he says, "worrying about his love life."

You open your mouth to protest, then close it again. 

He's not wrong.

"Anyway," Yoongi continues, "thanks for telling me about Tessa. And about what happened with Mia."

You nod, feeling like you've passed some kind of test you didn't know you were taking.

Yoongi gives you one last unreadable look before finally retreating into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sit there for a moment, processing the entire bizarre conversation. 

In the span of fifteen minutes, you've gone from painting your toenails in peaceful solitude to being drafted into some kind of Protect Jungkook squad with Yoongi, of all people.

Life in Apartment 6B just keeps getting weirder.

Thirty-seven minutes later, you're sprawled on your bed, hair still damp from the shower, staring at Tessa's unanswered text like it's a bomb you need to defuse.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎𝚢! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑����𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢? 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎? 🙂

You’re second-guessing everything after that conversation with Yoongi. 

Should you really be encouraging Tessa to pursue Jungkook when you know he's still dealing with Mia-shaped emotional shrapnel? Is it fair to either of them?

But then again, who are you to play gatekeeper to Jungkook's love life? Maybe Tessa is exactly what he needs—someone sweet and uncomplicated. Someone who doesn't have the baggage of a toxic ex or whatever the hell happened with his father.

You groan and flop back against your pillows. 

Why do you even care? 

It's not like you and Jungkook are anything to each other. You're just roommates who occasionally fuck. 

You’re barely even… friends.

The word acquires a weird shape in your mind.

You pick up your phone again, determined to respond to Tessa without overthinking it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎𝚢𝚊! 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚢. 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 2 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎. 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝?

You hit send before you can change your mind. 

It's just coffee. It's not like you're arranging a marriage.

Truth is, next week’s already packed—Yeji’s gallery prep, that shift you picked up for someone who ‘owes you one’ but never actually pays up, and whatever Jungkook’s been muttering about needing help with but refusing to ask. 

It’s easier to just skip ahead. Two weeks. Feels safer. Less chance of Tessa becoming something to manage short-term.

Her response comes almost immediately.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚊𝚑𝚑𝚑 𝚢𝚊𝚢𝚢𝚢 🥰! 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝙴. 𝟷𝚜𝚝 𝚂𝚝. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛, 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞!

You know Syrup—it's one of those Instagram-bait cafés with latte art and avocado toast that costs more than your hourly wage. Not exactly your usual haunt, but it's not too far from campus.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜! 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 2 💕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝! 𝚒’𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚞𝚙! 

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜!!!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚:𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 🤗

You stare at the message, a knot forming in your stomach. 

Because you don't ‘get’ Jungkook. Not really. 

You didn't know about his dad, or the full extent of the Mia situation, or why he disappeared to the rooftop that night. 

You know he likes John Mayer and makes good coffee and his favorite position is cowgirl.

You know he smells like rain and his hands are always warm and he secretly carries cat treats around.

But those are just details, not understanding.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒 ’𝚐𝚎𝚝’ 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚎 𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 :) 

That feels safer. 

Better to lower her expectations now than have her think you're some Jungkook whisperer with all the answers.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚊𝚑, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢! 

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕!!

Intimidated by Jungkook? 

The idea is almost laughable. 

How could you be intimidated by someone who once spent twenty minutes trying to coax Griffin out from under the couch with a piece of string cheese?

But then you remember how other people see him—the sharp jawline, the tattoos, the way he carries himself like he’s not actually dumb as hell. 

You can see how someone like Tessa might find him intimidating.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚏𝚏𝚏𝚏𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑��𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚡, 𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖

You hesitate, then add:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠

It feels important to add that caveat, even if you're not sure why. 

Maybe because of what Yoongi told you. 

Maybe because you've seen glimpses of that complication yourself.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠!!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚛 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚞𝚢

You frown at the screen. There's something about her response that doesn't sit right with you. Like she's romanticizing the very things that make Jungkook difficult—the walls he puts up, the emotional distance, the complications Yoongi hinted at.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝… 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚔? 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚕

You hit send, then immediately regret your tone. That came off way harsher than you meant it to. You're about to type a follow-up when Tessa's reply appears.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚘𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 🙈 𝚒'𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚛𝚗

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚒'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝... 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗-𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖𝚜? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚋𝚘𝚢 😣

Oh. That's actually... kind of sweet. Seems like Jungkook really does have a thing for Korean cinema.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝! 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎... 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚢𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖. 𝚒 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘!

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠/ 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎! 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚕 🙈

Your heart softens a little. There's something vulnerable about the way she just shared that personal detail, then immediately apologized for it.

It reminds you of how you sometimes overshare when you're nervous, then backpedal frantically.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎! 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚍. 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚘 :(

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 💕 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚘. 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖! 

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚒 𝚍𝚘? 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚜 😔

That actually makes a lot of sense. You can see why she'd be drawn to Jungkook if they share this interest. 

And you know from experience how rare it is to find someone who genuinely cares about the things you're passionate about.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗! 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 🙄

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?? 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚔𝚊𝚛-𝚠𝚊𝚒 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖? 

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 🥺

You can't help but smile a little. She’s clearly excited she is to have found someone who shares her interests. You remember feeling that way with Jason today, when he actually engaged with your thoughts on literature instead of just nodding along.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎! 

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚝𝚠 𝚒 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛. 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚗

Tessa takes a moment to reply, the ellipses blinking thoughtfully.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚘𝚑 :( 𝚒 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘 💕

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚎!! 𝚒'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊𝚑𝚊 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛? 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏?

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚞𝚙!! 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 🤞

Okay, that feels reasonable. She's acknowledging your concern without getting defensive, and clarifying her own expectations. 

Maybe she's more level-headed than you initially gave her credit for.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍!! 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 <3

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚒'𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚘 𝚒'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 😴

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚌 𝚞 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚢𝚛𝚞𝚙! :)

Time to bow out before you accidentally become her relationship coach.

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕!! 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐!! 🥺✨

𝐓𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚: 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊ｙ!! 💖

You put your phone down, feeling a sense of closure on that front, at least for tonight. 

Tessa seems sweet, if a little naive about the potential complications involved with Jungkook. 

But she's also genuinely interested in him for reasons that make sense, and she seems aware enough to proceed with caution.

You roll over, pulling the covers tighter. 

It's weird, offering dating advice about your roommate who you're also sleeping with to a girl you barely know. 

Weirder still that you actually kind of... like her? And want things to work out okay for her?

Maybe you're growing up. Or maybe you're just tired.

Either way, Tuesday is going to be interesting.

goal: 750 notes

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[generouspursethingbat]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 04

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, i want them to fuck already sigh, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 5.2k

notes: i actually managed to get this one out early as promised yipeee!! this was very hastily edited cuz i wanted it out by today, but tysm to j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! idk what i’d do without u pooks :’) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are very very appreciated! enjoy reading my lovies <333

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⤷ chapter four — halley’s comet

i was good at feeling nothing, now i’m hopeless / what a drag to love you like i do

Jungkook used to call you sunflower in the summer.

Not because of the flower itself — he never cared much for metaphors like that. But because every time the sun was out, you’d tilt your head back, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sky like you were trying to soak up every last drop of light. He’d tease you for it — call you predictable — then press a kiss to your forehead like it was instinct.

You tilt your head back now and the sun kisses the same spot. His lips don't.

And for some reason, it's the only thing you can think about now as the warmth bleeds across your skin, soft and steady. The boat rocks gently beneath you, the scent of salt lingering in the air. Laughter bubbles up from the other end of the deck, and you open your eyes behind your sunglasses, squinting toward the sound.

"Hyung, I still can’t believe you actually pulled this off," Namjoon says, nodding at Seokjin, who’s standing at the front of the boat.

Seokjin doesn’t even try to hide his smug grin. "Please. When have I ever let you down?"

"Should we make a list?" Yoongi mutters from his seat, but his tone is lazy, not sharp. He’s nursing something with ice in it and hasn’t moved much since boarding.

The engine hums beneath the conversation. You’re all sprawled out across the deck, sipping on melting drinks and soaking in the sunshine.

Somewhere behind you, Hoseok curses as a gust of wind nearly steals his hat. Haeun laughs too loud. Taehyung’s lying flat on his back with his eyes closed, Yasmine tracing lazy shapes on his chest with her finger.

Ari shifts beside you, adjusting the corner of the towel you’re both lying on so that it doesn’t bunch beneath her back. Her arm brushes yours, warm from the sun, and you feel her turn her head toward you even before she speaks.

“You guys okay?” she asks, soft and easy, like she’s just making conversation. Like she isn’t cracking open the air between you and Jungkook with three simple words.

Your body stiffens — not visibly, not enough to draw attention — but your fingers freeze mid-swipe against the condensation of your cup. You don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your brain rushes to catch up.

You glance toward the other end of the boat. Jungkook’s there, laughing at something Jimin just said, the wind catching at the hem of his shirt. Too far to hear you. Too busy to notice.

You look back at Ari.

“Huh?” you say, feigning light confusion, buying time. “What do you mean?”

She lifts her sunglasses slightly onto her head and looks at you more directly, less playfully now. “You and Jungkook. Did you guys have a fight or something?”

You blink at her. Then shake your head, too fast.

“No,” you say. “No, we’re fine. Why?”

Ari shrugs one shoulder, almost like she regrets asking. “I don’t know. You just feel... off. A little.”

You exhale through your nose and angle your face away from her, pretending to squint at the water. “We’re not off. We’re just... tired, I guess.”

“Okay,” she says, but it’s not full agreement.

You finally glance back at her, trying not to let anything show. “Do we really seem that weird?”

She hesitates, then gives a small, knowing smile. “Not weird. Just a little different.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Different how?”

“Dunno,” she says, settling back onto her elbows. “Usually you guys are either glued together or trying to beat each other at whatever game’s going on. Now it’s just... less of that.”

You almost laugh, but not because it’s funny.

Ari doesn’t push. She never does. She just lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a thing. It’s not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. I get it.”

She glances toward the others. Jungkook’s crouched by the drink cooler now, talking to Hoseok about something. You look away before he catches you watching.

“You know,” Ari says after a beat, “it’s not like people expect couples to be perfect all the time.”

You swallow. “We’re fine, Ari.”

She holds her hands up. “Okay. I believe you.”

And you think maybe she does. But she’s still watching you with the kind of look that says she knows something’s sitting underneath. Something you’re not saying.

She lies with you for a few more short minutes in silence before slipping away with a soft pat to your leg, joining Kiara and Haeun near the back railing.

You let your head fall back against the towel with a quiet sigh. The sun blurs through your lashes and your drink is nothing but sugar water now, flat and warm. You swirl the straw absently, trying to shake off the weight of that conversation.

It’s not like she was wrong.

You just wish she didn’t see so much.

The spot beside you shifts slightly, and you glance over just in time to see a cold can held out toward you.

“Figured you'd want something actually drinkable,” Jungkook says, nodding toward your cup as you take the drink from his hand.

You lift the can to your forehead before cracking it open. The cool metal soothes your skin. “Thanks."

"No problem." He lowers himself onto the towel next to you, close enough that your arms brush when you both move to get comfortable. You don’t move away. Neither does he.

You tap the can against your thigh, condensation already dripping down your leg.

Jungkook stretches his legs out beside you, arms behind his head, gaze on the sky like he’s trying to read something in the clouds. The silence between you is comfortable, but your chest still hums with the residue of Ari’s voice. You tap your can against your thigh again — once, twice — then let the words tumble out before you can second-guess them.

“She asked if we were okay,” you say, not looking at him.

Jungkook turns his head slightly, but doesn’t speak.

“Ari,” you clarify. “She asked if we had a fight.”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose. “What’d you say?”

“I said no.”

A pause.

“And then?”

You shrug. “I said we’re just tired.”

Another silence, thicker this time. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, steady and searching. You refuse to look at him.

“She didn’t buy it,” you add after a beat. “Not completely.”

Jungkook sits up slowly, arms resting over his knees. His tone is quieter now, more careful. “Think anyone else noticed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not. Ari’s always been... observant.” You finally glance at him. “She wasn’t pushy or anything. Just— curious," you say with a shrug.

Jungkook simply hums in response.

You watch the side of his face. There’s a faint shadow along his jawline, the kind you used to trace with your thumb when you thought no one was looking. You shake the thought loose before it sticks and take another sip of your drink.

“I mean, what do they want us to do?” you mumble. “Make out on the boat?”

Jungkook chokes on a laugh — not the soft kind, but the genuine kind that comes out sudden and loud, like it caught him off guard.

You glance at him. “I’m serious.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. “You say that like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.”

“It is,” you deadpan. “You want to traumatise Yoongi? That man hasn’t moved in an hour. You think he’s got the energy to witness that?”

That makes Jungkook laugh again, head tipping back. For a second — one small second — it’s just him, sunlight caught in the strands of his hair, smile easy and unguarded like it used to be. You look away.

He leans back beside you, bumping your arm with his in the process. “Okay,” he says. “So, no making out on the boat.”

“Glad we’re setting boundaries.”

He gives you a sidelong glance. “We just have to... I dunno, turn it up a notch.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He shrugs, still watching the clouds. “Be a little more couple-y. You know. Lean on me sometimes. Laugh at my jokes.”

You scoff. “You think me laughing at your jokes is what’s gonna sell this?”

“Absolutely,” he says, deadly serious. “That’s the most unrealistic part of our relationship now. If you start doing that, everyone’ll think we’re closer than ever.”

“Right,” you deadpan. “Because this all hinges on me fake-laughing at your stand-up routine.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

You shoot him a look, but there’s no heat behind it. “So what else? You planning on feeding me grapes next?”

“I could,” he says, suddenly thoughtful. “But someone might throw themselves overboard if I do.”

Your mouth twitches before you can stop it — not a full laugh, but close. More breath than sound. You shake your head like you’re trying to brush it off, but the smile lingers for just a second too long.

There’s a beat of silence. A shift in tone that’s almost invisible, but not quite.

“Maybe just... ease into it,” he says. “We don’t have to overdo it. Just the little things.”

“Little things like what?” you ask, suspicious.

He shrugs. A breeze moves across the deck and a strand of hair falls across your face, sticking to your lip.

Before you can reach for it, his fingers are already there — brushing it back behind your ear.

You freeze.

Not too dramatically. Not enough for anyone to notice. But inside, everything stills.

Jungkook doesn’t pull away immediately. His fingers linger for a second longer than necessary — maybe two. Then he draws his hand back like nothing happened.

“See,” he says, “this is why Ari’s catching on. You’re a terrible actress.”

You blink, caught between five different emotions. “Excuse me?”

He huffs out a laughing breath. “You didn’t even flinch the other day when Taehyung almost touched a jellyfish, but this? I tuck a little hair behind your ear and you go full statue.”

“Because it’s weird!” you protest, flustered now. “You don’t just— touch me like that anymore.”

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them, and there's a pause.

Jungkook goes still. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, and for a second, you think he might actually say something real — something raw.

But then he exhales through his nose, masking it with a crooked half-smile.

“Right,” he says, voice lighter than it should be. “My bad. Next time I’ll just let it smack you in the face.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but your mouth twitches like it wants to smile.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re trying not to laugh,” he says.

“I’m trying not to shove you off the boat,” you correct.

“Same thing.”

He lets your words hang in the air, smiling in that way he does when he knows he’s gotten to you, just a little. It’s not smug exactly. It’s softer than that. Like he’s letting himself enjoy something small, something fleeting — and trying not to ruin it by pointing it out.

You shake your head and look back toward the horizon. The water is endless, all shifting blue and gold, and the sun is starting its slow descent, softening everything it touches.

Jungkook sits up, arms resting on his knees. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the shift — the way his attention settles on you in full.

“I meant it,” he says after a moment.

You glance over. “Meant what?”

He shrugs one shoulder, careful. “That it’s the little things. That’s how people believe it.”

You arch an eyebrow, sceptical. “People? Or you?”

There's humour laced in your words, but your smile falters when he meets your gaze.

“Both.”

The breeze picks up again, brushing against your skin, tugging gently at the edge of your towel. You catch it with your elbow, more for something to do than anything else.

You’re the one who looks away first — not because you’re uneasy, but because if you don’t, you might say something you can’t take back.

The silence stretches, and eventually you lie back, arm draped over your eyes to shield them from the sun.

“I’m still not fake-laughing at your jokes,” you murmur, voice flat but quiet. “Just so we’re clear.”

Jungkook laughs, but it’s lighter this time. The warmth that usually comes with the sound isn't quite there.

“Fair,” he says. “But maybe... maybe don’t flinch like I’ve slapped you every time I touch your arm.”

“I make no promises.”

He smiles. “Didn’t expect you to.”

The room is quiet except for the occasional hiss of steam from the bathroom and the soft swish of fabric as you move. The sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the floor, and the salty breeze sneaks in through the crack in the door.

You’re barefoot, crouched beside the dresser in a black satin dress that fits cleanly at the waist and skims your frame like it was made to. It’s simple, elegant — the kind of thing that photographs well even when you don’t try. Your hair is mostly curled, but the last roller is still clipped near the crown of your head, half-forgotten.

You’ve been retracing your steps for the past ten minutes. First calmly. Now a little less so.

“Come on,” you mutter, pushing aside a pile of folded clothes with the back of your hand. “Where the hell are you…”

You wore the earrings all day. You remember clipping them in this morning before the boat ride, the pearls small and elegant, the kind that sat just right against your jaw. They’d survived volleyball, swimming in the pool, even lying half-asleep by the sea. But now, just when you're supposed to get dolled up for one of Yasmine’s “sunset glam” photoshoots, one is gone.

And of course, it's your favourite pair. A gift from your mom the day you turned twenty.

You crouch next to the bed and run your hand along the rug for the fourth time. No glint of metal. No satisfying clink. Just a couple stray bobby pins and a sock that might be yours, might be his.

The bathroom door opens behind you with a quiet click. You hear it before you see him.

“Hey,” Jungkook calls out. “Have you seen my—”

He stops.

You glance up from your crouch to see him standing just outside the doorway to the bathroom, towel-drying his hair with one hand. He’s in sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his waist, and nothing else. His skin is still damp, a faint sheen catching the last of the light. His hair sticks up in unruly spikes, and there’s a crease from the towel pressed into his shoulder.

He pauses when he sees you on the floor in your dress, face flushed with frustration, one roller still pinned in your hair.

You straighten up. “I lost my earring.”

Jungkook blinks once. Then twice.

You don’t wait for a response. “The pearl ones. I wore them all day, I definitely had them on earlier. I think I might’ve lost it on the boat or something, or maybe at the beach, I don’t know. Fuck— if I dropped it in the ocean, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You brush past him towards your bag, and start digging through the little zip pouch where you sometimes toss jewellery when you’re tired. “And Yasmine’s going to have a meltdown if I’m not ready in five minutes. I mean, not a real meltdown, but she’ll definitely give me that disappointed look. You know the one.”

You don’t know why you’re rambling. Maybe to fill the silence. Maybe to ignore how he’s still standing there, towel now slung around his neck, jaw ticking like he’s trying very hard to keep his expression neutral.

He steps back into the bathroom without saying anything. You hear the low rustle of a drawer opening. When he re-emerges a few seconds later, he’s pulling a plain black t-shirt over his head, the fabric catching slightly against damp skin. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just crosses to his side of the room and scans the floor near the nightstand.

You risk a glance at him, then look away quickly. “It’s fine,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to help. It’s probably gone.”

He crouches down anyway, lifting the corner of the rug with one hand.

He doesn’t look at you or ask any questions. Just scans the floor like if he stares hard enough, it’ll reveal something.

You sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “I just really liked those earrings.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

You glance back at him.

He’s sitting back on his heels now, hands braced on his thighs. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like he’s still somewhere else.

Then he says, without looking at you, “You look good.”

The words are soft, sincere even, but they catch you off guard.

When you don’t respond right away, he clears his throat and stands, walking over to the dresser and running his hand along the edge, like the earring might have magically perched itself there.

You swallow. “Thanks,” you say finally, voice low.

He nods once, then double taps on his phone screen to check the time. “They’re probably waiting.”

You nod too, even though you still haven’t found the earring. The one that made you feel just a little more like yourself. The one that matched.

You take one last look at the floor, then straighten slowly. You adjust the roller in your hair without thinking, but your fingers move sluggishly now.

Jungkook’s already at the door, hand resting on the knob like he’s waiting for the right moment to say something. He glances over his shoulder.

“I’ll tell them you’ll be a minute.”

"Thanks."

He shuts the door behind him softly, and you let out a quiet sigh, turning toward the small jewellery box on the nightstand.

You sift through it with practiced fingers and pull out another pair — not the ones you wanted, but good enough.

As you clip them in, your hands move on instinct, your thoughts somewhere else entirely.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the sound too sharp against the stillness of the room.

Your skin is clean, warm, dewy from the last step of your skincare routine. You pad across the floor and let your body fall onto the bed softly. The air leaves your lungs in a long, tired sigh as your legs dangle off the edge, your hair still damp from the quick rinse you took after coming back. The mattress dips beneath you, then settles.

The room smells faintly of clean cotton and the trace of your conditioner — the kind you only use for special things, because it costs a little too much and reminds you a little too much of before.

Your dress from earlier lies draped over the back of a chair, the earrings you ended up going with still sitting in your palm. You set them down on the nightstand without much care.

You’d smiled for the camera. You’d posed, you’d laughed, you’d tilted your head at just the right angle. It was fun in the moment and everything had gone well. The pictures were probably beautiful.

But you’re annoyed. And tired. And the kind of restless that only comes when something small goes wrong and you know it’s not about that small thing at all.

You sit up just enough to grab your laptop from the side table and the camera from the dresser. Yasmine had given it to you after begging you to upload the pictures onto your laptop since she didn't bring hers.

The familiar beep of it powering on is strangely comforting, and you scroll through a few thumbnails before plugging it in. A progress bar creeps across your screen as the files transfer. Slowly, of course. Nothing ever moves fast when you want it to.

You stretch out again, laptop resting on your stomach, and start clicking through the images as they load.

At first, they’re all from today.

Yasmine behind the lens, as always. The golden hour light is flattering. Everyone looks sun-kissed and effortless — mid-laugh, mid-step, mid-spin. You see yourself in frame: eyes half-lidded, wind teasing your hair, smile tugging at your lips.

There’s a shot of you and Kiara, and one of Ari piggybacking Haeun into the water. A blurry one of Jimin striking a ridiculous pose mid-jump while Taehyung points in mock horror. They'd come to join in at the end, both more than a little tipsy.

You click through them slowly, deleting a few accidental ones and some you don't think are the best.

Then, without meaning to, you scroll a little too far.

Today bleeds into yesterday, and yesterday into the last few years. One second it’s this trip, and the next it’s pictures you'd uploaded from your own crappy little camera. A party in someone’s dorm. A night spent crammed onto a too-small couch. A table cluttered with takeout boxes and half-empty cups.

You didn’t even remember some of these being taken.

Your face in mid-yawn. Jungkook blurry in the background, reaching for popcorn. Yoongi asleep on a beanbag with a party hat sliding off his head.

You find yourself smiling as you click through them all, before your finger comes to a still.

A thumbnail catches your eye. One of a video with no further label or context.

You pause, cursor hovering, before double clicking on it.

The video starts with a shaky frame — the camera shifting as you adjust it, then settling as you hold it up with both hands.

Jungkook stands in front of a claw machine, sleeves pushed up, jaw set with quiet determination. The glow of the machine paints him in soft neon blues and reds. There’s a Totoro plush front and centre, slightly tilted, half-buried under a heap of other prizes.

Your voice comes from behind the camera, already amused. “This is a lot of pressure, baby.”

“I’ve trained for this,” he says, without looking at you.

“You’ve failed three times.”

“That was just a warm-up.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

Jungkook moves the joystick with purpose, eyes narrowed like this is life or death. The claw slides left, then back, then hovers over the plush.

“This is it,” he says.

“I believe in you,” you deadpan. “I mean, statistically, you have to get it eventually.”

The claw descends. You both watch as it surprisingly manages to grip the Totoro. Not perfectly — it's a little too far to the side — but it lifts nonetheless.

“No way,” you breathe.

It swings. Wobbles. Then drops cleanly, right into the chute.

There’s a second of stunned silence from you behind the camera.

“No fucking way," you laugh, genuine disbelief laced in your voice.

Jungkook bends down, reaches into the machine, and pulls out the plush. He turns toward you, holding it out with a smug smile.

“You actually did it! Oh my god— wait, let me see— he’s so cute!”

The frame swings back up, catching you reaching out for the Totoro, turning it in your hands, squealing softly like you can’t believe it’s real.

And Jungkook — he’s looking at you.

The camera somehow manages to catch it perfectly.

He’s not laughing or gloating, just watching you. A soft smile pulls at his lips, dimples making an appearance against his cheeks. His eyes are steady but a little dazed, like he’s taking in more than just the moment. Like he can’t help it.

You don’t see it in the moment — too distracted as you hug the plush to your chest and start thinking of what to name it — but the camera does.

“Can't believe that you actually managed to get it," you say, shifting the camera to show the plushie properly.

“Course I did,” he says. “You wanted it.”

You giggle, mumbling "Cheesy fuck." But the smile is clear in your voice, and Jungkook simply laughs before the screen cuts to black.

You stare at the screen for a while, fingers still resting on the keyboard, frozen in place like even they know you’re not ready to move yet.

There’s a warmth spreading low in your chest, starting at your ribs, curling in your stomach, settling somewhere just under your collarbone.

You’re still smiling. Just a little. That soft, involuntary kind you used to get around him when he said something dumb on purpose. Like when he tried to teach you how to play some impossible game at the arcade and kept losing so dramatically you suspected he was doing it just to make you laugh.

You thought that part of you had burned out. Gone cold after the breakup. But sitting here now, wrapped in soft clothes and the hush of this room, staring at a frozen screen where his laugh used to be — you realise it didn’t.

It just went quiet.

And now it’s creeping back in through the cracks, blooming in your chest with a stubborn sort of gentleness.

Because the truth is, you remember that night. You remember how he looked, focused and determined and weirdly proud of himself over a claw machine. You remember the weight of the Totoro plush in your hands. You remember walking home with him, the two of you talking about what you’d name it and him insisting that if it was going to live in your bed, he should get visitation rights.

And you remember how easy it was to love him.

Not in a dramatic way, but through the small things. In the way he listened. In the way he noticed when your shoelace was untied before you did. In the way he always, always looked at you like that — like you were it.

And not just the way he looked at you, but the way you felt looking back. Because even after everything, even after the silence and the distance and the effort you’ve poured into pretending you’re fine, the truth is that it never really went away.

That warmth tightens in your throat, a little too full to swallow. You blink down at the laptop, like maybe it’ll help. Like maybe if you just sit still enough, breathe slow enough, you can keep the feeling contained.

The screen has gone to sleep now, casting the room in a dim glow. Outside the window, you can hear the ocean, its soft waves rolling in and out quietly.

You close your eyes, just for a second.

But the quiet moment is interrupted when the door opens with a small click.

You sit up just enough to slam the laptop shut, a little too fast, the sound echoing louder than it should in the soft hush of the room. Your pulse jumps. You don’t even know why. Reflex, maybe.

Jungkook pauses in the doorway.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and a little slurred. “Shit. Thought you were asleep.”

He’s leaning on the doorframe, one hand still on the handle like the room is swaying more than it is. His top is slightly damp around the collar, and his hair’s a mess.

You blink at him. Say nothing at first.

He squints toward the laptop on your lap. “You working on something?”

“No.” You slide it aside, shake your head once. “Just… photos.”

He nods like that’s a satisfying answer, though you’re sure he didn’t really hear it. His attention shifts to the bed, and then without warning, he pushes off the door and flops onto the mattress beside you.

Not the far side. Not right on you either. Just… close.

You instinctively scoot half an inch back.

“Whoa,” he mutters into the pillow, one arm sprawled above his head. “This mattress is nice as fuck.”

You glance down at him. He’s half on his side now, eyes on the ceiling, a faint smile tugging lazily at his mouth.

“Why didn’t you come down?” he asks, sudden but not sharp. Just curious.

“I was tired,” you say.

He hums — thoughtful, but not convinced. “Lame excuse.”

“I’m allowed to be tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

You exhale, not quite a sigh. “You’re always drunk.”

That pulls a muffled laugh from him. He turns his head toward you slightly, cheek pressed into the pillow. “Not always.”

You glance at him. “Tonight?”

“Not my fault,” he mutters. “Jimin dared me to match his shots. Dumb fuck.”

You shake your head — not at him, but at the image of it in your head. “Sounds like him.”

Jungkook shifts again, rolling fully onto his side to face you. His arm stretches out across the blanket, fingers dragging idly over the fabric between you like he’s drawing invisible lines without thinking.

The air dips quieter. Softer.

“You smell good,” he mumbles, almost absently.

You reach up, brushing your hair off your face. “Shampoo, probably.”

He hums again, eyes heavy-lidded now. “The one you always stole from me.”

���I didn’t steal it,” you say, casually.

He smiles into the pillow. “Right. Borrowed forever.”

You shake your head — more amused than you’d admit out loud — and look away, toward the open window where the breeze has picked up just enough to shift the curtains.

"You looked really good too. In that dress. I mean— not that you don't look good without it. Not like without it, without it, just— y’know, you always look… pretty."

You can't stop the quiet laugh that tumbles from your lips despite the heat spreading across your cheeks. "Go to sleep, Kook."

He hums in response, and it doesn't take long for his breathing to settle into something slower.

You pull the blanket up over your lap and lean back against the headboard, trying not to think too hard about the warmth pooling between you.

You shift slightly, pulling the blanket higher.

The laptop is still balanced on your legs, almost forgotten now. You reach over and place it on the nightstand, careful not to knock over the earrings still sitting there. One catches the light and glints for just a second before going still again.

“Can you move?” you murmur, nudging his leg with yours. “I need the blanket.”

Jungkook groans dramatically, but rolls away from you, flopping flat on his back with one arm thrown over his face. “You’re so demanding.”

“You’re in my way.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

The words slip out so fast and so soft you don’t have time to react before he’s already tugged the blanket down to your waist with one hand, helping, not thinking.

You lie back slowly, head against the pillow, trying to keep to your side. Jungkook moves around beside you — one knee bent, one leg stretched out. His foot brushes yours once, unintentionally.

His arm loosely drapes across your waist as he gets comfortable. You glance down, but say nothing. He’s already half-asleep, breath evening out, face turned toward you like he’s forgotten where he is.

You don’t move his arm, though, you don’t lean into it either.

You just let it be.

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[generouspursethingbat]

死 KKANGPAE | #18 死

† procurement †

"Waking up in his bed should feel like victory, but all you can think about are those pill bottles on his nightstand."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 9,5k

content: morning vulnerability and insomnia revelations, elevator sexual tension that goes nowhere, council meeting drama with heated arguments, mission prep with jessi's weapons expertise, undercover outfits that make jeon stare, AD's suspicious surveillance knowledge, and the calm before infiltrating mdf territory

☠ author's note ☠

As a European, I have absolutely no clue about guns so let's hope my research was decent and their weapons actually make sense ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) If any gun enthusiasts are reading this and I've somehow made a sniper rifle that shoots rainbows, just... pretend it's for the plot.

ANYWAY THE BIG DAY IS FINALLY HERE!!! Next chapter is THE MISSION and are we excited??? Because I AMMMMM!!! I've been building up to this for literal months and my chaotic little writer brain is VIBRATING with anticipation!

Jeon + motorbike = HOT AS HELL 🥵 Like sir, you're already dangerous enough, did you really need to add vehicular competence to your list of attractive qualities? RUDE.

Also Jessi is so mother mommy mama I love her! I mean, I say that about every single one of my characters, don't I? But what can I do—they're all so complex in my opinion! I have to really put myself in their position in every single scene and think genuinely about how they would react. Because one thing is how I WANT them to react, and another is how they would REALISTICALLY react, you know? Keeping those two aligned is harder than it looks, trust me!

Anyway ramble ramble ramble shut up Kiki we don't care—I KNOW BUT I'M THE AUTHOR so you're gonna read my rambling because I said so! I don't write 8k words per chapter to have my feelings dismissed! Y'all gonna put up with me whether you like it or not (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻

Thanks for reading as always, love y'all! Now buckle up because things are about to get SPICY!

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎.

The obnoxious blaring of Jeon's alarm tears through the quiet morning.

It's 6 AM—that weird time when everything feels kind of hazy and unreal, like the world hasn't quite decided if it's night or day yet.

His phone keeps buzzing against the nightstand, screen lighting up like a strobe light.

You're barely awake, caught in that fuzzy space between sleep and consciousness. Jeon's sprawled half on top of you, which should probably be uncomfortable but... isn't. His arm's thrown over your waist in this weirdly soft way that doesn't match his usual don't-touch-me vibe. You can feel his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath warm on your neck.

For a second, you think about waking him up. But he looks so p̶e̶a̶c̶e̶f̶u̶l̶ different when he's sleeping—none of that cold, distant Chief of Tactical stuff.

Just a guy who really needs some rest.

"Jeon," you try anyway, voice coming out all scratchy from sleep. "Your alarm."

He makes this grunt that might be words but definitely isn't, face pressed against your skin. Instead of getting up, he actually pulls you closer, burying his face in the pillow like if he ignores the alarm hard enough, it'll give up and go away.

"Jeon, come on. Get it." You nudge him with your elbow because that fucking alarm is driving you insane. It just keeps going and going, like some kind of electronic torture device.

He lets out this long-suffering groan that perfectly captures the eternal struggle between wanting to sleep and having actual responsibilities.

His hand flops around looking for his phone, movements all clumsy in that way people only get when they're not really awake yet. When he finally finds it, he misses the screen completely on his first try.

"Fuck off," he mumbles—definitely talking to the phone, not you. The woodsy scent of his skin mixed with mint from his breath fills your lungs.

After what feels like forever (but is probably like, ten seconds), blessed silence falls over the room.

Jeon just tosses his phone somewhere (hopefully not off the bed) and immediately curls back around you like some kind of clingy octopus. His body's radiating heat like a furnace, and he's definitely not planning on letting you go anytime soon.

His aura wraps around you like summer rain, all soft and warm, making your head spin in the best way.

(You're starting to think maybe he's not a morning person.)

"Five more minutes," he mumbles, voice all rough and sleepy like some kid who doesn't want to go to school.

You can't help but smirk.

Who would've thought the terrifying Chief of Tactical was such a baby in the morning?

"Five more minutes, and you'll be the one explaining to the Council why you're late." You poke his side. "Good luck with that."

"What council?" He sounds like he's halfway to dreamland already.

"Council of 9, dumbass. You know, that super important reunion about tonight's mission?"

His only response is this little grunt before his breathing starts evening out again.

Oh no. Not happening.

You kick him under the sheets—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be annoying. He flinches and makes this annoyed clicking sound with his tongue.

Finally, with this dramatic sigh that you can feel rumble through his chest, he gives in. His body peels away from yours like it's physically painful for him to move.

"Fine, fine," he grumbles, surrendering to reality.

When he sits up, cold air rushes in where his body heat used to be. You both kind of... linger there on the edge of his bed.

You watch him rub his face, trying to wake up properly. It's kind of fascinating, seeing him switch from s̶o̶f̶t̶ sleepy Jungkook back to Jeon, the cold and distant Chief of Tactical.

Another yawn catches you as you sit up, letting the sheets pool around your waist. You blink, trying to clear the sleep from your eyes, when something on Jeon's bedside table catches your attention.

Oh.

There's a whole fucking pharmacy there.

Your eyes scan over the labels—hypnotics, sedatives, tranquilizers, sleeping pills. The kind of cocktail someone needs when sleep doesn't come naturally anymore.

It hits different now, remembering all those times you've seen him in the cafeteria at ass o'clock in the morning. Always with that black coffee, those dark circles under his eyes that you thought were just part of his whole intimidating Chief of Tactical thing.

(Turns out even the great Jeon Jungkook has trouble sleeping.)

You can't help but wonder what keeps him up at night. What kind of memories play on repeat in his head when everything goes quiet.

Sure, being a gang leader comes with its own baggage—the violence, the paranoia, always having to watch your back.

But something tells you there's more to it. Things that left marks deeper than the little scar on his cheek. The kind of stuff that makes someone stock up on enough sedatives to knock out a horse.

Your eyes fix on this one bottle of hypnotics that's already half empty. Something in your chest tightens at the sight, but you quickly squash that feeling down.

The last thing Jeon needs is your p̶i̶t̶y̶ concern.

You know how this works. Show any weakness in Kkangpae, and you might as well paint a target on your back. The gang's full of sharks, always circling, always waiting for someone to bleed in the water.

So you bite back all the questions building up in your throat. Push down that weird urge to reach out, to try and make it better somehow.

Whatever demons Jeon's fighting, they're his to deal with.

You've got your own role to play here, and playing therapist isn't it. Some things just stay broken, and some nights just stay sleepless.

And some things are not yours to fix, even if some part of you wants to.

"You ready?" Jeon asks, already heading for the door without waiting to hear if you actually are.

You follow him out with a quiet sigh, but your mind's still stuck on all those pill bottles.

On what they might mean.

On all the nights he probably spends staring at his ceiling, fighting whatever demons keep him up.

The common areas in his wing of the Assassination Division are empty this early.

Your footsteps echo through the halls as you make your way to the elevator, where Jeon leans against the wall like he's got all day. He crosses his arms over his chest, getting lost in whatever thoughts are running through that complicated head of his.

When he doesn't move to actually do anything, you have to remind him that not everyone has his fancy Chief clearance level.

"You gonna scan your card or what?" You wave vaguely at the scanner. "You know mine won't work up here."

The corner of his mouth twitches up—just barely—like he's annoyed at himself for forgetting.

He pulls out his access card without a word and taps it against the scanner. The light blinks green, and the elevator starts moving.

While you're waiting, your brain decides to dig up this random memory from weeks ago.

That night Jeon showed up at your door out of nowhere, demanding his jacket back. You hadn't thought about it then, but now...

"Hey," you turn to look at him, "how did you get on my floor that night? To get your jacket back?" The question hits you out of nowhere. "Our cards don't work on each other's floors."

His eyes go wide for a split second—clearly not expecting that question. He just stares at you for a moment, lips parted like he's trying to figure out what to say. Then his gaze darts away and he rubs the back of his neck, which is basically a flashing neon sign that says busted.

(This should be interesting.)

"I, uh..." Jeon starts, looking at you then quickly away. He's actually struggling for words, which is new.

His fingers tap against his thigh in this nervous rhythm you've never seen before. Just when you think he's going to leave you hanging, he lets out this tiny sigh, shoulders dropping just a bit.

"I asked AD for temporary access."

Wait. What?

"And he... just gave it to you? Just like that?"

You narrow your eyes because something's not adding up here.

You've seen how these two interact—or don't interact, more like it. The way Jeon basically disappears whenever AD shows up, and how AD looks at him like he's personally offended his entire bloodline.

Sure, AD glares at everyone (especially J-Hope), but with Jeon? That's a whole different level of hate.

(Not that it's any of your business what's going on there.)

"Told him I needed my jacket back."

The elevator keeps moving down, and the silence between you gets kind of heavy. Something about how weirdly hesitant Jeon's being makes your curiosity spike. Part of you knows you should probably drop it, but...

"So, your card worked the whole night?" You try to sound casual about it, but there's definitely some skepticism bleeding through.

"Yeah." He finally meets your eyes again. "Clearance passes usually last for 24 hours."

You nod slowly, filing that information away.

"But didn't AD find it weird? The time stamp would show you came in at 3 AM and didn't leave until..." You trail off, remembering exactly why he stayed so long.

Jeon's eyes snap to yours, and something flashes across his face too quick to read before he looks away. The crease between his brows gets deeper as the silence stretches out.

"I don't think he actually checks the access logs that closely," he says finally. "At least he hasn't mentioned anything about the, uh, timeframe."

You think about that for a second. It seems weird that AD, of all people, wouldn't keep tabs on security access. But maybe Jeon's right—maybe AD doesn't actually monitor that stuff.

Then you remember something.

That day after the pool training, you saw AD in the elevator with Kazuha. He'd told you both to "be careful."

Was that his cryptic way of saying he knew exactly what went down that night?

The elevator dings, cutting through your thoughts.

Jeon pushes off the wall, giving you this little nod to go in first. You step inside, and the last thing you see is his back and this lazy wave goodbye before the doors slide shut.

Anyway, something tells you AD knows way more than he lets on.

You’d never been in The Council room until now.

And it’s… Well, it’s weird. Tense today.

Everyone's taking their usual spots around this stupidly long table, and RM's at the head of it like always, looking every bit the Supreme Commander he is.

"Thanks for coming, everyone." His voice carries that authority that makes even the most stubborn chiefs shut up and listen.

Well, almost everyone.

"I don't even see why I have to be here when you're all so set on leaving me out of it." V's practically radiating annoyance.

Moon gives him that patient look he reserves for when someone's being difficult. "This mission affects the entire gang. That's why we need the whole Council present."

"But I'm not even part of it." V throws his feet up on the table like the dramatic bitch he is, crossing his arms. "So why do I have to sit through all this bullshit?"

"You listen because shared knowledge makes us stronger." RM's eyes sweep around the table, meeting everyone's gaze—even yours. "Unity isn't just about standing together. It's about thinking as one."

V rolls his eyes so hard you're surprised they don't get stuck. "Yeah, yeah, I get the whole 'one gang' thing. But do I really need every fucking detail?"

"Details matter." Jeon's voice cuts through the tension. "MDF isn't some amateur operation. One tiny blind spot and we're fucked."

"It's a goddamn snake pit we're walking into." J-Hope waves his hands around like he's trying to grab invisible dangers out of the air. "We all need to know what kind of poison we might be dealing with."

JM leans forward, all serious despite his usually gentle demeanor. "That hideout's a maze. You two need more than just a way in—you need a solid plan to get the fuck out of there."

"Exactly." RM's sighs. "This intel could change everything. We do this right, we take out one of their major operations."

Flower, who's been watching everything with that calculating look of hers, finally speaks up. "And V, whether you like it or not, this meeting is what keeps your men at the docks from getting caught with their pants down while we're focused on this mission."

V scoffs, but you can see him actually considering her words.

Jessi stops lounging in her chair like this is some kind of casual meetup.

"Alright, cut the bullshit. What's the actual plan here, RM?" She leans forward, all business now. "And it better be good."

The room goes quiet—that heavy kind of quiet that makes your skin prickle.

RM stands up, and you can feel the weight of what's coming.

This isn't just another mission briefing. This is you and Jeon walking straight into MDF territory.

No pressure.

RM clears his throat, looking down at the stack of papers in front of him.

"Here's how it's going to work," he starts, voice authoritative. "Jeon and Y/N are going undercover. We've got IDs that'll get them through MDF's front door."

The word 'undercover' makes your stomach do this weird flip thing. Jeon shifts slightly beside you, his presence weirdly reassuring for someone who's usually about as comforting as a loaded gun.

"They'll play it as traders," RM continues, spreading out this map that looks like someone went crazy with a red marker. "Fresh faces trying to make it big enough to catch MDF's attention."

Jeon nods, watching AD's finger trace some path on the map. "What about their security? Cameras?"

"System loops every three hours," AD says, sounding bored but you know that's just his thing. "We're setting up a distraction. At 23:00, when the loop starts, they'll get a power surge. Six minutes of blind spots."

"Six minutes?" Jessi raises an eyebrow. "That's cutting it real fucking close."

"We can handle it." Jeon sounds so sure it actually makes you believe him. "Had worse timeframes before."

"That's your window to find the server room and plant the bug." RM points to some spot deep in what looks like a maze. "AD will be in your ear the whole time."

"And when shit inevitably goes sideways?" V asks, and despite how pissy he's been about being left out, you can hear actual braincells there.

"You'll be armed," RM says simply. "But this is about getting in and out quiet. No firefights."

"Right, because stealth missions should totally go to Mr. Shoot-Everything-From-A-Mile-Away instead of, oh, I don't know, the actual Chief of Stealth?" V's voice drips sarcasm.

"V." JM's cuts in. "Enough."

V grunts but actually shuts up, which is kind of impressive. You've never seen anyone else get him to back down that easily.

Flower leans forward, and the room suddenly feels a bit colder. The map spread out on the table looks like some kind of twisted treasure map, except instead of X marking the spot, there's about fifty different ways this whole thing could go wrong.

"Alright, here's the deal," she says, getting straight to the point like always. "You need to be interesting enough to catch their attention, but not so interesting they get suspicious. Think you can handle that?"

She looks right at you, and you can feel the weight of what she's asking.

"Y/N, you're our front person here. While everyone's busy watching you sweet-talk them about money and deals, Jeon's gonna be doing the actual work." Her lips curve into this knowing smile. "Keep them focused on the profit. Rich assholes love talking about money."

Great. No pressure or anything. Just gotta be charming enough to distract an entire criminal organization while your... whatever Jeon is sneaks around their base. Easy peasy.

Flower turns to Jeon next, and her expression goes all business.

"You're playing backup dancer on this one. Stay in the background, watch everything, and when AD hits them with that power surge? That's your window. Get the bug planted without anyone noticing."

The room goes quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

Everyone's thinking the same thing—one tiny mistake and this whole plan goes up in smoke.

"Remember," Flower says, voice serious, "this isn't about showing off. It's about getting in, getting it done, and getting out without anyone realizing what happened."

"And more importantly," RM cuts in, giving you and Jeon a look, "don't fucking die. The intel's not worth either of you."

"What about communication?" you ask, because there's one pretty big hole in this plan. "We can't exactly text each other in there."

"Subvocals," AD doesn't look up from his laptop, but his voice carries that bored confidence that means he knows exactly what he's talking about. "Basically fancy mics that pick up whispers. We'll hear everything, but you two can talk without anyone else noticing. Plus, we'll feed you intel as we get it. Just keep it quiet and you'll be fine."

V lets out this little laugh, eyes twinkling like he knows something no one else does. "Sure putting a lot of faith in luck here, aren't we?"

"Luck's got nothing to do with it." RM's interjects. "This is about being prepared, being skilled, and getting shit done. Don't forget who we are. What Kkangpae stands for."

The room goes quiet again. Then, he continues speaking:

"Once you get that bug planted and grab whatever intel you can, you get out. We're not starting a war. Not yet."

Then Jeon turns to look at you, all Chief-of-Tactical mode.

Stormy.

"We split up as soon as we're inside," he says, voice gone all hard and professional. "Cover more ground, draw less attention."

"Yeah, no." You don't even hesitate to shut that down. The plan's crystal clear in your head. "We stick together, follow the script. Only split when the power goes out. That's the signal."

He scoffs—actually scoffs—and crosses his arms. "You really think playing follow-the-leader's gonna work that long? We're wasting time the second we walk in. Better to improvise early."

"We're not there to improvise," you snap back, getting annoyed now. The air's starting to feel like a brewing thunderstorm. "We have a plan for a fucking reason, Jeon. The power surge is our cover. Until then, you're stuck with me."

His jaw does that tightening thing it does when someone challenges him.

Chief or not, you're not backing down on this.

"A package deal that screams 'we're obviously here to fuck shit up'." He's practically radiating frustration. "Splitting up makes more sense. It's tactical."

"It's reckless," you cut in, meeting his intensity head-on. "Since when do we pick 'making sense' over actually being smart about this? We split up before the power cut, and we're basically painting targets on our backs."

You can feel everyone in the room watching this verbal sparring match in slight disbelief.

"You're not fucking listening—" Jeon leans into your space.

"Because what you're saying is bullshit," you snap back, refusing to be intimidated even though he's practically looming over you. "We go in toge—"

"Too risky. We split up, maximize our—"

"—chances of getting our asses caught!" You talk right over him, blood rushing hot in your veins. "We stick to the fucking pla—"

"Which is basically asking to get pinched if we're joined at the hip," he fires back, and god, his voice shouldn't sound that hot when he's being this infuriating.

"Oh, and you think going rogue is the ans—"

"It's called thinking on your feet, sunshine. Maybe try it some—"

"Save the condescending shit," you cut in, sharp enough to draw blood. "We're not there to show—"

"—that we're fucking amateurs!" He's almost growling now, and the sound does things to you that you really don't want to examine.

Your voices keep rising, cutting each other off in this heated back-and-forth that's starting to feel less like an argument and more like foreplay.

"Enough." RM's voice drops like a bucket of cold water.

You and Jeon both shut up instantly, turning to face him like scolded kids.

The whole room goes dead quiet, everyone waiting to see how the Supreme Commander's going to handle this.

"Y/N's right," RM cuts in, voice carrying that don't-fuck-with-me tone whilst his eyes bounce between you and Jeon as he speaks. "We made this plan accounting for every possible fuck-up. You go in together, no improvising. The power surge is your cue. Until then, you're just a couple of traders looking to make a deal. We can't afford any slip-ups."

The way he says it leaves no room for argument. You can see Jeon's shoulders drop just a tiny bit, like he's accepting defeat but doesn't want to show it.

"Got it," you nod, trying to look all professional and shit.

Like you didn't just get into a verbal sparring match with your Chief in front of the whole Council.

Jeon takes a second, then gives this little nod that looks like it physically pains him.

"Understood," he echoes, finally looking at you.

And so there’s this weird moment where you're both just... staring at each other; as if calling a truce without actually saying anything.

As RM dismisses everyone, you feel that rush of adrenaline from arguing start to fade. Your shoulders relax, and you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Right. This whole mission is riding on you and Jeon not fucking it up by going off-script.

You can feel Jeon next to you, his whole vibe changing. He's still got that unreadable expression, but he doesn't look ready to fight anymore.

Before you can make your grand exit, Jessi's voice cuts through the room, making both of you plant your feet on the ground.

"Don't worry, you two. All that sexual tension will make for some hot angry fucking after the mission." She winks at you both like she just said something clever instead of mortifying.

"That's not—we're not—" You start sputtering like an idiot, feeling your face go red.

"Ridiculous," Jeon snaps at the same time, scowling like Jessi just insulted his sniper skills or something.

Jessi just smirks, looking way too pleased with herself. "Whatever you say, lovebirds. Just come by my division after lunch. Gotta get you kitted out for this little adventure."

You open your mouth to tell her exactly where she can shove her assumptions, but she keeps talking.

"AD's gonna set up your access, so don't be late!" And with that, she struts out of the room like she owns the place.

You take a deep breath, trying to get your shit together.

Without a word, you and Jeon turn to leave.

There's still a ton of prep to do for this mission, and you'd rather face MDF unarmed than spend another second in this room with everyone's eyes on you.

The elevator feels way too empty when it’s only you and Jeon in it.

Trapped in a metal box after whatever that disaster of a Council meeting was.

The silence feels heavy, like all that heated arguing is still buzzing in the air.

You stand there trying to look casual, watching the floor numbers tick down like they're the most interesting thing you've ever seen.

But you can't help noticing how Jeon's jaw is doing that clenching thing again, his lips pressed together so tight they're practically disappearing. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and his whole body's radiating tension like a coiled spring.

The silence is driving you insane.

So of course, before your brain can stop your mouth, you blurt out: "Just so we're clear, we are not having hot angry sex after this mission."

Great going girl. 10/10.

Jeon's head snaps toward you so fast you're worried he might get whiplash. One eyebrow shoots up in surprise, but then—oh—his expression shifts into that infuriating smirk.

"Aw, you sound disappointed," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing register that definitely doesn't make your stomach flip.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as dramatically as possible. "Yeah, like I was last night."

"Excuse me?" The look of pure indignation on his face is actually priceless. "Pretty sure I had you begging."

"Begging?" You let out a laugh. "More like pointing out how fucking slow you were being."

You're going for casual disinterest, but the memories from last night keep trying to make your face heat up.

He actually laughs at that—this sharp, sudden sound that bounces off the elevator walls.

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now? Because I remember it more like... payback. For all that teasing." His eyes drop to your ass for a second. "Bending over until I couldn't take it anymore..."

You cross your arms, leaning back against the wall like this conversation isn't affecting you at all.

"That wasn't teasing. That was strategic mission preparation." You can't help the sly smile that creeps onto your face. "Besides, you're the one who changed the sleeping arrangement to fucking."

"A strategic move, huh?" His mouth does that little twitch that means he's trying not to smile. "Well, it fucking worked."

"Yeah, you broke so easily." You roll your eyes, but you can feel yourself starting to smile too. "Just for sex"

"Pretty damn good sex, if I might add." He says it like he's stating the weather, but that smirk is getting bigger.

Before you can even process what's happening, his hand shoots out to the elevator panel. The emergency stop button makes this loud clicking sound, and the whole thing jerks to a halt with this deep rumble that you feel in your bones.

Suddenly the space feels way too small, and all you can hear is your own breathing getting heavier.

Yeah. Yeah, he’s stopped the fucking elevator.

"What the actual fuck, Jeon?" You try to sound annoyed, but the words get stuck in your throat because he's moving into your space like he owns it, like he has every right to be this close.

Then you're trapped between his arms and the cold elevator wall, and fuck—the way he's looking at you makes you feel naked already.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest, completely betraying how irritated you're pretending to be. Heat starts pooling between your legs, and it's honestly embarrassing how quickly your body responds to him.

"We can't—" Your voice comes out all breathy and pathetic. "We can't do this here."

The smile he gives you is pure sin as he leans in closer, close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin, static wrapping around you, making it hard to think straight.

"Why not?"

"Because we're in a fucking elevator—"

"No cameras." He cuts you off like he's been waiting for this excuse.

You try to swallow but your throat's gone dry. Your sling feels itchy against your skin, probably because your whole body's remembering what happened last night.

"People are gonna notice if the elevator's stuck—"

"Maintenance issue." He says it so fast you know he's thought about this before.

"Jeon—" You start to argue, but then his eyes drop to your mouth and your brain just... stops working.

You know you should push him away. That's what any sane person would do. But there's something about Jeon that makes your brain stop working right—like a magnet pulling you in no matter how hard you try to resist. Every cell in your body is screaming at you to just grab him and kiss him already.

Right when you're about to say fuck it and give in, he pulls back.

And the look in his eyes? Pure evil, like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"Sunshine," he practically purrs, voice gone all low and rough in a way that makes heat pool in your stomach, "you're too eager."

The elevator dings, saving you from doing something stupid.

He steps out onto his floor without another word, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face like he just won something.

You slump against the wall the second the doors close, letting out this huge breath you didn't even realize you were holding

As the elevator keeps moving, the whole thing feels kind of surreal—like maybe you imagined him pressing you up against the wall and looking at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

But the way your skin's still tingling tells you it definitely happened.

When the doors open on your floor, it's like stepping back into the real world.

One where you need to figure out what the hell to tell Yunjin about where you've been all night. She's way too perceptive for her own good, and she definitely noticed you didn't come to your room to sleep.

You walk to your room trying to come up with something believable.

Maybe you were up all night studying mission plans? Or got restless and went wandering around the common areas?

Your brain's still kind of fuzzy from having Jeon all up in your space, which isn't helping with the whole creative lying thing.

But when you push open your door, Yunjin spins around like she's been caught doing something wrong. Her eyes are all wide and guilty, and before you can even open your mouth to make up some excuse about where you've been, she starts talking.

"Okay, before you give me shit for not sleeping here last night—" The words come tumbling out of her like she can't get them out fast enough. "You won't believe what happened. I was just gonna have a few drinks with V, you know, just to chill..."

Well. You surely didn't expect that.

You stand there trying to process the flood of information Yunjin's dumping on you. She's so caught up in her story she doesn't even notice your brain short-circuiting.

"And I know we said to stay away from V's whole... thing, but fuck—" She's practically vibrating with excitement. "We've been dancing around each other for weeks, and last night was just—"

"Yunjin, hold up." You raise a hand to stop her word-vomit. "Are you telling me you spent the night with V? Like, you and V actually—"

You don't finish the sentence because honestly, you don't need to. The implication is heavy enough to sink a ship.

She bites her lip and nods, looking somewhere between guilty and smug.

"Yeah, we fucked..." Her voice trails off before picking right back up. "And let me tell you, it was good. Like, he's not even into all that scary shit everyone thinks he is? But his chaotic energy definitely carries over to bed, god, if you only knew—"

You can't help the snort spreading across your face.

Here you were worrying about how to explain your own night away, and Yunjin's gone and done the exact same thing.

There's something kind of poetic about both of you getting tangled up with people you definitely shouldn't be touching.

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. "Okay, spare me the details. But I'm glad you had fun with your psychopath."

"It was actually really nice?" She's got this dreamy look that would be cute if she wasn't talking about the gang's resident knife enthusiast. "I know we said getting involved with him was a bad idea, but..."

She shrugs, looking almost shy.

"Sometimes you can't help who you want to climb like a tree."

You nod because fuck—isn't that the truth? Your body's still kind of sore from climbing your own dangerous tree last night.

Quick thinking has you saying, "I had an early Council meeting about the mission."

It's not exactly a lie. You did have a meeting. The fact that you came straight from Jeon's bed to it is just... details.

Yunjin seems to buy it, but then her eyes narrow and this little smirk appears on her face.

"Speaking of details... that shirt looks a bit big on you." She eyes the obviously oversized fabric. "Almost like it belongs to someone else. Someone tall, maybe? Tattooed?"

Heat creeps up your neck as you tug at the shirt that definitely belongs to Jeon.

"It's just comfortable," you mutter, but even you don't believe that weak excuse.

"Sure it is." Yunjin's laugh is rather a sneer. "Tell Jeon I said hi."

She throws you a wink and you roll your eyes, but you can't quite fight the smile tugging at your lips.

At least you're not the only one fucking a chief.

The scanner actually flashes green when you swipe your card, which is weird.

Usually you only get access to the Seduction floor and common areas, but apparently Jessi wasn't kidding about AD setting up clearance to her realm for you.

You hit the button for the 9th floor and watch the numbers tick up.

The doors slide open to a completely different vibe from what you're used to.

Gone is all that minimalist tech stuff from AD's floor or the sterile efficiency of Assassination.

The Weapons Division looks exactly like what it is—a place that deals in death. The lights are dim, pipes running everywhere like exposed veins, and the floor's just straight-up concrete. No fancy finishes here.

You've maybe been here like, three times? And every visit feels like stepping into some alternate universe inside Kkangpae's castle. The contrast between this and your division's sleek aesthetic is wild.

"Well, well, look who we have here!"

The voice booms through the hallway, making you jump.

You turn to find this huge guy with a green mullet heading your way, covered in neck tattoos that probably tell some interesting stories. You're pretty sure his name is Jae? He's Jessi's second-in-command, but you've barely exchanged two words with him before.

Not that you'd know it from how he grins at you like you're old friends.

"Jessi's waiting on you," he says, slapping your back hard enough to make you stumble forward. (What is it with these Weapons Division people and casual violence?) "Come on, can't keep the boss lady hanging."

You follow Mullet Man through these massive double doors and holy shit—the weapons depot is huge. The ceiling's so high it's got actual walkways crisscrossing it, leading to what looks like storage units. Every table is packed with enough firepower to start a small war: rifles, handguns, knives, stuff you don't even have names for.

Jessi's off to one side, checking out this fancy-looking automatic rifle like she's shopping for groceries. Her fiery aura fills the space with heating energy.

When she spots you, those red lips curl into this knowing smirk that makes you kind of nervous.

"Right on time," she says, putting down the gun like it's no big deal. "Now we just gotta wait for lover boy to complete the set."

Jae throws up this exaggerated salute and swaggers off, leaving you perched on a nearby stool while Jessi's aura dances around like actual flames.

Jessi leans back against one of the weapon-covered tables, arms crossed and this knowing look in her eyes that makes you kind of nervous.

"That was quite the show this morning. Never seen Jeon actually engage like that before."

"What do you mean?" You frown, thinking about how often Jeon and V are at each other's throats. "He fights with V all the time."

"Nah, that's different." She shakes her head, red hair swaying. "When he fights with V, it's all explosions and death threats. Pure chaos."

Her hands make this exaggerated boom motion.

"But this morning? That was like... verbal foreplay. He was actually in there with you, giving as good as he got."

You think about that for a second.

Now that she mentions it, Jeon does usually just... shut down when other people try to argue with him. Goes all cold and distant, like he can't be bothered to even engage.

But this morning he was right there with you, matching your energy blow for blow.

"Huh." The realization hits you harder than it probably should. "He's not usually much for back-and-forth, is he?"

"That's what I'm saying!" Jessi looks way too pleased with herself. "That emotionally constipated asshole usually keeps everyone at a distance. But you?" She wiggles her eyebrows in this ridiculous way. "Something's different..."

Your face heats up because fuck—she's not wrong. But you are absolutely not having this conversation right now.

"So anyway," you say quickly, probably not as smooth as you think, "what kind of gear are we talking about here?"

Jessi's smirk says she knows exactly what you're doing, but she lets it slide.

Instead, she turns to this impressive spread of weapons and gadgets laid out on the table. Some of them look deadly enough to make you nervous just looking at them.

"Only the best for our star infiltration team," she says, sounding like a proud mom showing off her kid's artwork. "Let's talk comm units first..."

Then, you catch it.

That woodsy, pine scent that clings to him like his leather jacket.

You don’t even need to turn around to know it’s him.

Jeon appears in the doorway looking unfairly good in his all-black everything, like some kind of high-fashion assassin.

When his eyes find you and Jessi, one eyebrow goes up.

"Starting without me?" His voice is dry as desert.

"Look who finally decided to show up." Jessi's teasing, but then her expression turns into something more devious. "I was just telling your partner here how I've never seen you get so fired up before. Something about her really pushes your buttons, huh?"

You kind of want to melt into the concrete floor. Leave it to Jessi to stir shit up just because she can.

But Jeon just shrugs, cool as ever.

"Just discussing strategy." His voice gives absolutely nothing away, which is honestly impressive considering how heated he got earlier.

Jessi looks kind of disappointed that she couldn't get a reaction out of him. Classic Jeon, refusing to take the bait. She lets out this dramatic sigh and turns back to all the gear spread out on the table.

"Well, now that his highness has graced us with his presence," she says, standing up with that natural grace she has, "let's get you both looking the part. Can't have you walking into MDF territory looking like gang members, can we?"

You follow her through the rows of weapons and equipment. It's kind of amazing how she knows exactly where everything is in this massive space. Her energy is contagious—she's clearly in her element here, surrounded by all these tools of destruction.

The weapons depot starts feeling less like an armory and more like some underground fashion studio as you walk deeper in.

Because of course, procurement doesn’t only mean weapons and human resource.

Apparently, it also means Jessi has a pass to turn a room full of deadly weapons into her personal styling space.

There's this sectioned-off area that looks like a makeshift dressing room, complete with different fabrics hanging everywhere.

"Over here, Jeon." Jessi's voice has that tone that means she's already planning something. She looks him up and down like she's mentally redesigning his whole outfit.

Jeon follows her, trying to look like he's not into it, but you can see the interest in his eyes. You hang back a bit, kind of enjoying watching him get the Jessi treatment.

Jessi starts pulling stuff from these racks that look like someone couldn't decide if they were making tactical gear or runway fashion. Every piece somehow manages to be both bulletproof and stupidly stylish.

First up for Jeon: this black suit that catches the light in a way that's definitely not standard issue.

"Put this on," she tells him, shoving the suit in his hands. "It's reinforced—won't stop a bullet, but a knife won't get through."

He disappears behind this makeshift changing screen, and you're definitely not counting the seconds until he comes back out.

When he does, though... fuck.

The suit fits him like it was painted on, showing off all those muscles you're way too familiar with now. The jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, and the pants are doing criminal things to his legs. He looks like he walked straight out of some high-end assassin movie.

"You could probably kill someone just by walking into a room looking like that," you say before you can stop yourself. Your voice definitely doesn't sound as casual as you meant it to.

The smug bastard actually smirks at that. "Wouldn't be the first time."

But Jessi's not having it. She shakes her head, looking at him like an artist who's not quite happy with their work.

"Too polished. We need dangerous, not James Bond. Try this instead."

She pulls out this whole new look: leather jacket that probably costs more than anything you own (which is not much), deep maroon shirt that's somehow both simple and expensive-looking, and black jeans that you just know are going to be trouble.

When he steps out this time, his whole aura shifts.

The leather sits on his shoulders like it belongs there, and that hint of maroon under all the black just... works.

He looks like someone who could sweet-talk his way into a deal and then burn the whole place down if it goes wrong.

"Now that's more like it," Jessi says, looking satisfied. "Says 'I do business, but I also do crime' in all the right ways."

You find yourself nodding along because damn.

He looks exactly like what a high-level arms dealer should look—dangerous enough to take seriously, stylish enough to have clearly made money doing it.

Jeon catches you staring and raises an eyebrow, like he's asking what you think. You give him a small nod because what else can you do? He looks f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ good.

Really good.

Jessi rummages through another rack and pulls out this long-sleeved black shirt.

"Here, put this under the jacket. The fabric's breathable but bulletproof-adjacent. Won't stop a direct hit, but it'll give you a fighting chance."

Jeon shrugs off the leather jacket and slips the shirt on. It's thin but looks sturdy—perfect for someone who might need to move fast or fight their way out of trouble.

Jessi finally steps back, eyeing him like she's inspecting a weapon.

"Not bad. Looks casual enough that no one'll think twice, but you can actually move in it." She hands him back the leather jacket. "Try it all together."

You try to look professional while he puts the jacket back on over the maroon shirt and black base layer, but fuck—the whole ensemble is perfect.

The layers somehow make him look even more dangerous, like he could either charm you or kill you and you wouldn't know which until it was too late.

While Jeon and Jessi get into some deep discussion about fabric weights and mobility ranges, you're kind of amazed at how much thought goes into this.

It's not just picking out nice clothes—every piece has to tell the right story without saying a word.

One wrong detail and the whole cover's blown.

The attention to detail is actually impressive. Jessi knows exactly how to make someone look dangerous but approachable, wealthy but not flashy.

In this world, the wrong outfit can get you killed as quick as the wrong word.

You watch them fine-tune every detail, fascinated by how each adjustment shapes the character Jeon's going to play. And then… The final touch.This plain black watch that probably has fifteen different ways to kill someone. Jeon checks it over with that focused look he gets when he's handling weapons.

"Nice," is all he says, strapping it on.

Standing there in his perfectly crafted outfit, Jeon looks like he was born to play this role. Then Jessi turns to you with this wicked gleam in her eyes that makes your stomach drop.

"Your turn, beautiful," she says, gesturing at another rack of clothes. "Let's make you look expensive but deadly."

Something tells you this is going to be way more complicated than just picking out a nice dress.

You step forward to check out what Jessi's picked out, and damn—she really knows what she's doing. Every piece looks like it was chosen to tell a specific story about who you're supposed to be for this mission.

First up is this skin-tight dress that practically screams ‘honey trap.’ Jessi takes one look and tosses it aside with a muttered "too fucking obvious."

Then there's this whole secretary fantasy thing with a high-necked blouse and pencil skirt, but that gets vetoed too. ("Can't fight for shit in that.")

Then she hands you this black button-up that feels expensive as hell, paired with these tailored pants that feel way too nice to the touch. The fabric's got that perfect balance—soft enough to feel good but sturdy enough to take a beating if things go south.

When you slip into it, something shifts. The shirt fits in all the right places, making you feel d̶a̶n̶g̶e̶r̶o̶u̶s̶ powerful. And the pants? They let you move like you might need to throw down at any second, which, considering it's MDF territory you're heading into, isn't exactly unlikely.

You step out to get Jessi's opinion.

And catch Jeon straight-up staring at your ass.

You’re not surprised.

When you meet his eyes, he looks away so fast it's actually kind of funny, pressing his lips together like he's trying not to smile. He looks like a kid who just got caught stealing cookies, and something about that expression makes you bite back a smile of your own.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Jessi says, looking you over with that critical eye of hers. "You look like someone who could either make a deal or break some kneecaps. Perfect."

The outfit's actually making you feel kind of invincible. (The fact that it got Mr. Perfect Sniper all flustered doesn't hurt either.) You do a little turn, testing how it moves. Everything feels right—professional enough to be taken seriously, but with enough edge to remind people you're not someone to fuck with.

"Hold up," Jessi says suddenly, her eyes getting that dangerous glint that usually means trouble. "Got one more thing. Don't move."

She strides off into her weapons paradise, leaving you standing there wondering what else she could possibly have planned.

You definitely don't check if Jeon's still watching.

(Okay, that's a lie. You totally do.)

The button-up fits you like it was made for you—professional enough to command respect but with just enough something to make heads turn. You're fiddling with the collar when you notice it's buttoned kind of low. Like, maybe too low for a serious arms deal. But before you can decide whether to fix it, Jeon's suddenly right there in your space.

"Let me," he says, voice gone all low and rough (molten lava in your stomach)

His fingers brush against your skin as he does up that one button over your chest, and fuck—that tiny touch has your brain stuttering a bit.

Probably because your body remembers what those fingers can do.

When you look up at him (because of course he's using his height to loom over you like the smug bastard he is), his eyes are dark enough to drown in.

The little gleam swimming in them tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" you say, trying to sound annoyed even though you can feel yourself starting to smile.

"Immensely." He says; and his voice is pure sin wrapped in amusement.

He just keeps staring at you with this intensity that makes it hard to breathe, like he's thinking about all the ways he could mess up your perfectly put-together outfit.

Then Jessi bursts back in, completely ruining the moment.

"Found it!" She's waving around this black blazer like she just discovered buried treasure.

Jeon steps back, but not before giving you one last look that promises later. That little smirk is still playing on his lips as Jessi throws the blazer over your shoulders like she's putting the final touch on a masterpiece.

While Jessi goes over the tech specs of your gear, you sneak another look at Jeon. That heated playfulness from earlier is gone, replaced by that laser-focused look he gets when he's in Chief mode.

But there's still this... tension hanging in the air between you, like neither of you has quite forgotten what almost happened in that elevator.

Jessi then looks you both up and down with this satisfied smirk, like an artist admiring her masterpiece.

You have to admit, she knows what she's doing—the outfits are perfect for your cover, walking that line between dangerous and professional.

"Now for the fun part," she says, suddenly all business. "Let's get you two properly armed."

She leads you deeper into her weapons paradise, stopping at what looks like a plain wall. But when she presses her hand against this hidden scanner, the whole thing comes alive with soft beeps and whirs. A keypad appears, and Jessi punches in some code faster than you can follow.

The wall basically transforms, splitting open to reveal these massive hidden cabinets that look straight out of a spy movie.

Inside is enough firepower to start (or end) a small war, all arranged with the kind of precision that would make Jeon proud.

You've seen weapons before—kind of comes with the whole gang thing—but this is different.

Every gun, knife, and thing-you-don't-even-have-a-name-for gleams under the lights like they're on display in some very deadly museum.

"For when things get up close and personal," Jessi says, picking up this compact black handgun, "you'll want this beauty."

She hands you a Glock 26, and fuck—it's heavier than it looks.

"Small enough to hide, big enough to make someone regret their life choices."

Then she turns to Jeon with a different gun. "You get the Sig P226. More range, more punch. You can hang back and give her cover while she works her magic up close."

Jeon takes the gun and with a flick of his wrist, he expertly checks the chamber and magazine. You can't understand why your brain thinks that's hot, but the little nod he gives tells you Jessi picked right.

She keeps pulling out more gear—silencers that look way too professional, extra magazines, these holsters that probably cost more than your monthly pay. Then come the knives, small enough to hide pretty much anywhere but sharp enough to make you nervous just looking at them.

Jessi's whole vibe changes as she finishes arming you up. "These aren't just fancy accessories. Every time you pull one of these, you're making a choice that could end someone—maybe even yourself."

The weight of what she's saying hits different when you're actually holding deadly weapons. Her eyes lock onto yours, and you can tell she's trusting you not to fuck this up.

"One more thing," she says, pulling this fancy-looking gadget from a drawer. "Multi-tool kit. Has everything from basic lock picks to a mini torch. Trust me, you'll want options when shit hits the fan."

She hands it to Jeon, who clips it to his belt with practiced ease. (Of course he knows exactly what to do with it—guy probably has a whole collection of spy gear at home.)

Jessi takes a step back, giving you both this final once-over that feels kind of like a proud mom sending her kids off to prom.

(If prom involved infiltrating a rival gang's hideout.)

"You're good to go. Just remember—get in, do the job, get out. Don't try to be heroes."

Her words stick with you as you follow her out of the weapons room.

You walk through another set of doors to find a…

Holy shit. The garage is massive.

It's like walking into some billionaire's private car collection, except every vehicle probably has hidden gun compartments or something.

So Jessi's definitely got a thing for cars. There's everything from flashy Lamborghinis to those huge Bentleys that scream ‘I’m rich and probably dangerous.’ Motorcycles, sports cars, even some vehicles that look straight-up bulletproof—all lined up like some very deadly candy shop.

You're starting to think maybe the weapons aren't even Jessi's favorite toys.

Jessi leads you through her collection of cars like a proud mom showing off her kids' trophies. She stops at this black Lamborghini that looks expensive enough to make your eyes water. The lights bounce off its surface like it's made of pure money.

"This baby right here?" She runs her hand over the hood like she's petting a cat. "Zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds. Makes people's heads turn so fast they get whiplash."

Then she drags you over to this Bentley that screams old money.

"And this beauty? When you need people to think you've got more dollars than sense." The inside looks like someone skinned a whole herd of very expensive cows and covered it in fancy wood.

"We're taking my bike."

Jeon's voice cuts through Jessi's car tour sharply.

He says it like it's already decided, which—knowing him—it probably is.

Jessi whips around to look at him, and fuck—her fiery aura actually flares up like she's about to burst into flames.

"Are you kidding me? Look at these beauties!" She waves at her collection. "They're begging for some action!"

But Jeon just shakes his head. "Bike's more maneuverable. Better control. Makes more sense for what we need."

"Ugh, fine." Jessi throws one last longing look at the Lamborghini like she's saying goodbye to a child. "But I swear to god, one of these days I'm getting your ass in one of these cars."

The little smirk Jeon gives her actually looks kind of fond. "Keep dreaming."

So you follow him to another part of the garage where his bike's parked.

It's this sleek, black monster of a machine that somehow manages to look both subtle and dangerous—kind of like its owner. The thing practically radiates power, but in that quiet way that says it doesn't need to show off.

Jessi watches Jeon check over the bike with this resigned look.

He runs his hands over the handlebars, checking everything with the kind of attention to detail you'd expect from someone who regularly makes impossible shots from a mile away.

"At least you take care of my presents," she mutters, but there's no real heat in it.

Jeon just nods, swinging his leg over the bike like he was born to ride it. When he turns to look at you, his face has gone all serious again.

"You good?"

You nod, feeling your heart start picking up speed.

This is really happening.

Jessi steps back, smiles, and then just waves you two off, not before adding something else.

"Watch your asses out there. And remember—you need backup, we're just a call away."

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[generouspursethingbat]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 23

˗ˏˋmatching threads ˎˊ˗

"You didn’t expect Jungkook’s birthday to end with soft talks about Mayer, thunderstorms and stupid craft projects. And yet, here you are."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9.5k

content: delayed gifts, hand brushing, subtle comfort, emotional hypervigilance, miscommunication, clashing attachment styles, slow understanding, quiet intimacy, unexpected softness, bittersweet memories, trauma-informed reactions, symbolic objects, real conversations, familial grief undertones, perceptive but clueless boys, warmth in small gestures, psychological contrast, vulnerability denial, casual closeness, accidental meaning, rain metaphors.

Kiki Nation’s official discussion thread for FMU 23

✧ author's note ✧

This chapter made me feel some type of way, and not in the thirst-posting way for once (shocking, I know). There’s a softness to it that snuck up on me. Like I sat down to write what I thought would be a moment of transition, and ended up face-planting into the kind of quiet, delicate intimacy that’s so often overlooked both in fiction and real life. So here I am, feeling dumb and raw and tender over two forks.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Chapter 21, specifically that hand-touch moment—how subtle it was, and how I never explicitly addressed it in the narration because I didn’t want to. That’s the thing with psychologically driven writing: you’re not meant to be spoon-fed emotional meaning. You’re supposed to notice the tiny things. The almosts. The unspoken. The instinctive kindness that isn’t necessarily romantic, but still manages to get under your skin. That’s what that subway touch was. Not Jungkook being in love. Not a declaration. Just him, in his purest, most unaware form—being soft. Gentle. Deeply perceptive in a way that hurts because it’s so unconscious.

And that’s what this whole chapter is circling around. It’s not about a confession. It’s not even about clarity. It’s about conflict—internal, relational, unintentional conflict between people who are shaped by opposite emotional mechanisms.

Jungkook isn’t emotionally open, but he acts open because he’s thoughtful. Reader is emotionally hyperaware, but she reacts closed-off, because she’s scared and guarded. He acts without thinking deeply about it. She thinks deeply and then doesn’t act. They miss each other again and again not because they don’t care, but because their blueprints don’t match. And yet—they try. Or maybe, they accidentally try. And isn’t that so real?

One of them touches without thinking. The other flinches while overthinking. One gives a gift like it’s nothing. The other interprets it like it’s everything. They’re both right. They’re both wrong. That tension? That’s the story.

This chapter doesn’t show love blooming. It shows understanding struggling to sprout in barren soil.

They have so much ahead of them, so many versions of themselves they haven’t grown into yet. This moment is not culmination—it’s foundation. It matters. It matters more than if they’d just fucked again. Because emotional timing? Matters. And this wasn’t the time for sex. It was the time for emotionally loaded shit I can’t name because you haven’t read the chapter yet, but is now haunting me forever.

Read slow. Read deep. Look for the invisible thread. That’s where the truth is.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Walking back into the karaoke room feels like entering a different dimension—one where rooftop confessions and ex-girlfriend confrontations don't exist.

The noise hits you first, a wall of sound that's almost physical in its intensity. Hobi is mid-Mariah, belting out a note that should probably be classified as a war crime, while Ryan and Seth egg him on with increasingly chaotic dance moves. Tessa's doubled over laughing on the couch next to Diana, both of them recording the spectacle on their phones. Yeji and Irya are engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Jimin over whether Britney or Christina had the better 90s catalog. Yoongi watches it all from his corner seat, expression caught somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.

"Holy shit, he's alive!" Kevin shouts when Jungkook steps through the doorway. 

The room erupts in cheers and catcalls, like they're welcoming a returning champion rather than someone who disappeared for half an hour.

"Dude, we thought you fell in," David calls out, raising his drink in salute. "World's longest bathroom break."

"Nah, he was definitely sneaking in a Clash Royale marathon," Kevin argues, tossing an empty cup that Jungkook easily dodges. "Probably hiding in a stall like a true gamer."

"You wish your stats were as good as mine," Jungkook fires back, slipping effortlessly into the friendly banter like he wasn't just having some kind of existential crisis on the rooftop. 

It's impressive, really—the way he can flip that switch, become this version of himself that fits perfectly into the chaos around him.

While everyone's attention is focused on Jungkook's triumphant return, Taehyung makes a beeline for Yoongi and Hobi, who've gravitated toward each other in a corner of the room. 

You're not trying to eavesdrop, exactly, but you happen to be standing close enough to hear the urgent whisper:

"He was on the roof."

The effect is immediate. Both Yoongi and Hobi snap their heads toward Taehyung, their expressions shifting so quickly it's almost comical—except there's nothing funny about the naked fear that flashes across their faces.

"It wasn't like that!" Jungkook interrupts, appearing beside them with surprising speed. His voice is a harsh whisper-shout, barely audible over the music but intense enough to make all three of his friends freeze. "I just needed air. Seriously."

"Bro..." Yoongi's voice is low, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should.

"Jungkook, you know how that looks to us," Hobi says, softer but no less serious. 

"I know. I'm sorry," Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his nervous tic. "But it wasn't... that. I swear. I just went there to think."

"After seeing her?" Taehyung presses, still tense.

"Yeah," Jungkook admits, "but it wasn't—look, can we not do this right now? It's fine. I'm fine."

There's clearly more to whatever ‘it’ is—something significant enough to make three grown men look like they've seen a ghost. 

But Jungkook's expression makes it clear the discussion is over, at least for now.

You should probably stop pretending to be fascinated by the karaoke song list and move away before they realize you're listening. 

But before you can, Jungkook abruptly changes the subject, his voice rising to a cheerful pitch that sounds slightly forced.

"Alright, alright!" He claps his hands together, turning to face the room. "So... birthday gifts for the birthday boy?"

The tension shatters as the crowd erupts in excited chatter. Seth whoops loudly, and someone (Ryan, you think) starts an off-key rendition of ‘For He's A Jolly Good Fellow’ that quickly derails into chaos. Jungkook's shoulders visibly relax as the attention shifts from whatever just happened to the much safer territory of presents.

One by one, people approach with gifts—some wrapped beautifully, others clearly hastily stuffed into whatever bag was available. 

Taehyung goes first, handing over a sleek black box tied with a simple red ribbon.

"Don't make it weird," he warns as Jungkook takes it.

Inside is what appears to be a ridiculously expensive camera lens. You don't know enough about photography to identify it, but based on the way Jungkook's eyes widen and his mouth forms a perfect ‘o,’ it's something significant.

"Dude," he breathes, lifting it carefully like it might shatter. "This is—holy shit, Tae."

"Yeah, well." Taehyung shrugs, but you catch the pleased smile he tries to hide. "You've been whining about needing a better wide-angle for your urban shots, so."

Jungkook looks genuinely moved, holding the lens like it's made of gold. "I can't believe you remembered."

"I always remember," Taehyung says simply, and the way he says it that makes you think he means more than just camera preferences.

Hobi goes next, presenting a sleek box containing what looks like high-end wireless headphones. 

“For all those late-night production sessions," he explains with a grin. "So we don't have to hear your trash music taste through the walls anymore."

"You love my music, asshole," Jungkook laughs, already testing them out.

"I love peace more," Hobi retorts, but he's beaming as Jungkook gives an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Yoongi's gift is less physical—a card containing what appears to be a voucher for studio time. 

“Booked you sixteen hours at Blueline," he says with characteristic understatement. "For that soundtrack project you mentioned."

Jungkook looks up from the card, something like disbelief crossing his face. "Dude, Blueline is impossible to get into. How did you—"

"I know people," Yoongi shrugs. "Just don't waste it making crap."

"I would never disrespect the temple," Jungkook promises solemnly, pressing the card to his heart with mock reverence.

The gift-giving continues, a parade of thoughtful items that speak to genuine friendship: rare vinyl records, vintage film books, an artisan coffee setup that makes Jungkook actually bounce with excitement. 

It's sweet, really—seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know him well, who've put thought into what he'd like.

And then it hits you.

Fuck.

The Mayer vinyl. Sitting on your dresser at home, still in its brown paper wrapping from that record store in Williamsburg. 

Because okay, first of all—who brings a fragile vinyl record to MOMA and then a karaoke bar? 

You simply had no way of bringing it without raising suspicions. 

And maybe asking Yoongi for help bringing it over would’ve made it look like you cared, so.

The gifts are winding down, and Jungkook is making his rounds, thanking everyone with what seems like genuine gratitude. He looks happier now, more relaxed—whatever happened with Mia and on the rooftop temporarily forgotten in the warmth of celebration.

You're contemplating whether you should make up some excuse about your gift when suddenly he's right there, appearing in your peripheral vision like he materialized out of thin air.

"So," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans just a bit too close. "Where's my present, Pyx?"

The nickname rolls off his tongue, familiar enough now that you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he uses it. (Mostly.)

"At home," you admit, trying to sound casual and not like someone who completely failed at basic gift logistics.

"Oh?" 

His lips purse, fighting back what's clearly a smirk. 

The glint in his eye is positively dangerous. 

"At home?"

Your cheeks heat up against your will. 

“Not—I don't mean it like that," you stammer, realizing too late how your answer could be interpreted. "I mean I literally left it at the apartment. It wouldn't fit in my bag."

"Big gift, huh?" he murmurs, leaning even closer. His breath brushes your ear, warm and smelling faintly of vanilla. "I'm intrigued."

"It's just a thing," you say lamely. "Nothing special."

"I'd honestly be happy with the other interpretation, for the record," he continues like you haven't spoken, voice dropping to a register that should be illegal in public spaces. 

"In your dreams," you scoff, but it comes out weaker than intended.

"Every night," he confirms, that infuriating smirk spreading across his face now. "Detailed, technicolor dreams. Sometimes you even—"

"Boundaries, Rogue," you cut him off, pressing a finger against his lips. "We're in public."

"That didn't stop you earlier," he whispers, gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest second. "On the roof?"

"That was different."

"Different how?"

"We were alone then."

"We could be alone again," he suggests, voice casual but eyes anything but. "Plenty of dark corners in this building."

"You're incorrigible."

"You like it."

Before you can come up with a suitably cutting response, Ryan's voice cuts through the general noise of the room: "Yo, I'm gonna crash out! It's getting late!"

The announcement triggers a cascade of similar declarations. 

Suddenly people are gathering coats, exchanging final birthday wishes, making plans to meet up later in the week. The energy in the room shifts from celebration to conclusion, that particular lull that comes at the end of a good night.

As people begin filing out, Seth materializes beside you, a confident smile plastered across his face that probably works on most girls but just makes you want to step back a foot or three.

"So," he says, leaning in close enough that you can smell the tequila on his breath, "I was thinking I should get your number. You know, to hang out sometime."

"Uhhh," you stall, searching for a polite rejection. "No thanks."

His smile doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. 

“Come on, we had fun tonight, right? Just give me your number. I promise I'll only use it for emergencies." He winks, like this is some clever line that's going to change your mind.

"I said no thanks," you repeat, firmer this time.

"Don't be like that," he persists, stepping even closer. "Just your number. What's the big deal?"

You're about to tell him exactly what the big deal is when Jungkook appears at your side, his expression suddenly hard.

"Bro," he says, annoyance coloring his tone, "can't you see she ain't interested?"

Seth blinks, looking between you and Jungkook. "I'm just asking for her number, man. No harm in that."

"Except she already said no. Twice." Jungkook's tone is still light, but there's an edge to it now. "So maybe take the hint?"

For a moment, Seth looks like he might argue. Then he sighs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. 

"Fine, whatever. Your loss," he adds, with a final glance your way before merging back into the departing crowd.

"How is that your friend?" you ask once he's safely out of earshot, genuinely baffled that someone like Jungkook would hang out with such a persistent creep.

"He isn't, technically," Jungkook shrugs, watching Seth's retreating back with a slightly disgusted look. "He's Ryan's friend, who sometimes hangs out with Ryan, and so with us too. Definitely not my pick for the squad."

"Thank god for small mercies," you mutter, and he laughs, the tension from the Seth encounter dissipating as quickly as it arrived.

Jungkook steps back from you, that heated moment dissipating as he slips back into social host mode. You watch as he makes his rounds, thanking everyone for coming, accepting final hugs and handshakes. He's good at this—making each person feel individually appreciated, remembered. 

It's a side of him you are staring to recognize more and more often. 

When he reaches Tessa, you notice how his posture softens slightly. He says something that makes her laugh, tucking that perfect auburn hair behind her ear in a gesture that's both shy and flirtatious.

"You need a ride?" he asks her, and you barely manage to overhear. "I can call an Uber."

"No need," she smiles, gesturing toward Diana. "We're sharing a car. Diana lives just a few blocks from me."

"Good," he nods, looking genuinely relieved. "Text when you get home safe?"

It's sweet, the way he's concerned for her safety. Not what you'd expect from the guy who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for days and thinks changing the toilet paper roll is optional. 

But then again, tonight has been full of surprises when it comes to Jungkook.

"Will do," Tessa promises, then hesitates before leaning in to give him a quick hug. "Happy birthday, Jungkook."

You watch them, something jittery settling in your chest. 

His lucky ass might actually score someone genuinely nice and put-together, who seems to actually like him beyond just his face and body. 

Good for him. 

Good for her, even, if she can't see that she's way out of his league.

Ten minutes later, the room has mostly cleared. Only your strange merged group remains—Yeji and Irya saying their goodbyes to Jimin by the door, while Taehyung, Hobi, Yoongi, Jungkook, and you linger in a loose circle near the couches.

"Subway?" Yoongi asks, addressing both you and Jungkook with his usual economy of words.

Jungkook nods, glancing at his phone. "Still running for another hour."

"I'll walk with you guys to the station," Taehyung offers, but Jungkook shakes his head.

"Nah, you're uptown. That's the opposite direction."

"I don't mind."

"I'm fine, Tae," Jungkook says firmly, and there's a weight to the words that seems to carry a conversation from earlier. "Really."

Taehyung doesn't look convinced, but after a moment of silent communication, he relents. "Text me when you get home."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious."

"I know," Jungkook's tone softens. "I will."

The farewells are quick after that—Hobi heading uptown with Taehyung, Jimin walking Yeji and Irya to their car, and the three of you—you, Jungkook, and Yoongi—making your way toward the subway station that will take you back to your shared apartment.

It feels like you've been gone for days rather than hours—like the person who left the apartment this morning for her first day at Barnes & Noble somehow isn't quite the same one heading home now.

But that's a thought for another time, when your head isn't fuzzy with tequila and your feet aren't aching from standing half the night.

For now, you just follow your roommates through the city streets toward the subway station, the quiet between you comfortable in a way it hasn't been before.

The subway car at this hour is practically abandoned—just a few night owls and the occasional service worker scattered across the seats like human tumbleweeds. 

Yoongi claims a seat by the door, immediately slipping his AirPods exactly like someone who's perfected the art of social avoidance. Within seconds, his head is tilted back against the subway wall, eyes closed. 

Either he's fallen asleep that quickly, or he's just really committed to pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Jungkook drops into the seat beside him, legs splayed wide in that uniquely male way that screams ‘my balls need their own zip code.’ You take the spot next to him, trying to claim whatever minimal space is left.

Like seriously? There are literally twenty empty seats.

You nudge your knee pointedly against his. "Do you mind?"

"Wha?" He glances down, genuinely confused.

"The manspreading, bro," you gesture at his legs. "You're taking up enough space for three people."

He grins, completely unashamed. "I need to air out the jewels."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" You swat his arm, genuinely annoyed. "That's exactly the problem with guys like you. Public space isn't designed for your testicle ventilation system."

"Guys like me?" He raises an eyebrow, still smirking but at least looking slightly less smug.

"Yes. Guys who think their comfort is more important than the space of everyone around them." You're on a roll now, the combination of lingering tequila and genuine irritation fueling your feminist rant. "Women are literally conditioned to take up as little space as possible, to cross our legs, to fold ourselves into tiny spaces, while men just spread out like they own the world. It's literally a physical manifestation of patriarchal entitlement."

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something closer to actual consideration. 

He glances down at his legs, then at the way you've automatically tucked yours together to accommodate his sprawl.

"Shit, I sound like a TikTok right now, don't I?" you mutter.

"No, no," he says, actually shifting his legs together. "You're not wrong. I didn't really think about it that way."

Wait. What?

"You're just saying that because it's your birthday and you think you get a free pass," you say suspiciously.

"No, I actually get it," he says, looking strangely thoughtful. "My mom used to call me out for the same shit. Called it 'man space disease.' Said my dad had it too."

And now you don't know what to do with yourself. 

Because what the actual fuck? 

How are you supposed to maintain righteous irritation when he just... listens? Takes criticism? Brings up his mom in a way that makes him seem like an actual human person with a past and stuff?

Goddammit. Now you can't even properly be mad at him, which somehow makes you even more annoyed. 

"Anyway," you say, desperate to change the subject before you lose all moral high ground. "Happy birthday again or whatever."

"Thanks," he says, and then adds, "for everything. The museum was actually cool. Didn't know you had taste, Phee."

"I'm literally an English major."

"Yeah, but that just means you read boring-ass books from dead white guys."

"That's... not what English degrees are about," you sputter. "And I bet 90% of your film classes are just Scorsese and Tarantino circle jerks."

He laughs, a genuine sound that echoes in the empty subway car. "Fuck, you got me there. Though Tarantino is—"

"If you say 'ahead of his time,' I will push you onto the tracks at the next stop."

"I was gonna say overrated, actually. Everyone loses their mind over Pulp Fiction, but honestly? Mid."

You blink, genuinely surprised. "Okay, that's the most correct opinion you've ever had."

"I have tons of correct opinions. You just never ask me about them."

"Sure, like your opinion that coffee is better than tea?"

"Because it is!"

"That whole statement is a crime, is what it is."

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and leans back, conversation over because he’s clearly not arguing over this. 

So the subway rattles on, the rhythmic clacking of wheels against track filling the silence. 

Your thoughts drift to earlier tonight—to that moment on the first subway ride when his hand had brushed against yours. 

Just a whisper of contact, his pinky grazing yours on the metal bar.

Why did he do that? What was the deal with that?

The question nags at you, an itch you can't scratch. Not because it matters in any deep way—obviously it doesn't—but because puzzling out Jungkook's behavior is becoming something of a hobby. 

A frustrating, often pointless hobby, but still.

"Hey," you say before you can talk yourself out of it. "Question for you."

He turns toward you, eyebrows raised slightly. "Shoot."

"Earlier, on the subway..." You hesitate, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. "You kind of touched my hand on the bar? What was that about?"

"Huh?" He looks genuinely confused for a moment, then recognition dawns. "Oh! That."

He says it so casually, like it wasn't something worth remembering. Which it isn't. Obviously.

"I just noticed you had a panic attack this morning," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "In my room."

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended, surprise making your pulse quicken. "How did you—"

"I passed by and heard your breathing," he explains, shrugging like this is a completely normal thing to say. "But I didn't want to intrude. Since it's something very personal and knowing you..." 

He looks to the side as he gestures vaguely. 

"Well, I don't think you'd have appreciated me barging in, so I just went back to cooking my super pancakes."

You stare at him, dumbfounded. 

Who… Who the fuck is this dude? When did Jungkook develop this thoughtful, considerate side? Is he possessed? Should you be checking for pod people?

"So on the subway," he continues, oblivious to your internal crisis, "I dunno, I felt you had off vibes, and—"

"Again with the vibes?" You can't help but interject.

He laughs, the sound sharp and genuine. "Bro, you had this face like the sad hamster meme and I couldn't take it. That's why I brushed your hand. Reassurance, y'know?"

"The... sad hamster meme?" you repeat, incredulous.

He whips out his phone, types something, then shows you the screen: a round-faced hamster looking depressed as hell, its tiny eyes radiating existential despair.

"That's not—I don't look like that!" you protest.

"You literally did. One hundred percent emotional support hamster energy."

"I will actually murder you in your sleep."

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features.

"My mom—" 

He cuts himself off, suddenly looking down at his lap.

But somehow, he decides to continue.

"My mom used to do that for me, so I thought it might help. The hand thing. Not calling you a hamster," he clarifies quickly. "Just a small touch when I was stressed. Sorry if it was weird."

Oh.

"No, no, it wasn't weird," you say quickly. 

The image of a younger Jungkook, being comforted by his mother with small touches, is annoyingly humanizing. 

Couldn't he just stay a two-dimensional asshole? Would make life so much simpler.

"No?" He looks up, searching your face.

"...No." You clear your throat, trying to regain your footing. "It's kind of nice, actually. That you're this attentive." 

You clear your throat then; but it’s like the air is getting stuck in your throat at the sudden sincerity of this conversation.

So you can't help adding: "I guess. Could've apply it to the household, you know? Like maybe notice when the trash needs taking out?"

He snorts at that, the weird moment breaking; and you couldn’t be happier.

“One step at a time, Pyx. One step at a time."

"So your observational skills only work when it comes to me having panic attacks, not when the dishes need doing?" 

"I have selective observation abilities," he admits with a grin. "Like a very specific superpower."

"World's shittiest X-Man," you mutter. "'I'm Emotional Support Man. I can tell when you're sad but can't locate the broom.'"

He laughs, harder this time. "Fuck, that's actually my brand. Can I put that in my Instagram bio?"

"Only if you credit me."

"Deal."

The subway lurches around a corner, and you both sway with the movement. You catch Yoongi cracking one eye open, glancing at you both before apparently deciding you're not interesting enough to stay awake for and closing it again.

"So like, you must be psyched about the studio time from Yoongi," you say, genuinely curious about this part of Jungkook's life that you know almost nothing about.

"Dude, you have no idea. Blueline is like..." he gestures expansively, searching for the right words, "it's basically where half the top-charting albums from last year were produced. Their equipment is insane. Sixteen hours there is worth like, a month in a regular studio."

"And he just... got that for you? Just like that?"

"Yoongi knows people," Jungkook says, with a hint of pride. "He's lowkey connected as fuck in the music scene. Doesn't talk about it much, but he's got production credits on some tracks that went viral last year."

"Wait, seriously? Yoongi? Our Yoongi? The guy who speaks like four words a day?"

"That's his whole strategy," Jungkook whispers dramatically, leaning closer like he's sharing state secrets. "The less he says, the more people think he's some kind of genius."

"Is it working?" you ask, also whispering despite yourself.

He grins. "I mean, he got me sixteen hours at Blueline, so yeah, I'd say it's working pretty well."

"What are you gonna do there?"

"I'm scoring a short film by this director I know. Nothing major, just like a fifteen-minute thing, but I've been wanting to experiment with this sound for a while—like lo-fi beats but with some orchestral elements mixed in. Kind of a vibe Jonny Greenwood meets Nujabes thing, if that makes sense?"

It doesn't, really, but the way his eyes light up as he talks about it is surprisingly engaging. 

Cute.

Because that’s Jungkook when he talks about something he cares deeply about. He just… gestures as he explains, hands moving expressively, and his entire demeanor changes.

"That's actually really cool," you admit before you can stop yourself.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely pleased by your approval, which is weird. Since when does he care what you think? "You should come by sometime. Check it out."

"I didn't know you were into all that," you say, genuinely curious now. "The music stuff, I mean. I knew about the film major, but..."

"I'm a man of many talents, Phee," he says with an exaggerated wink that makes you roll your eyes.

"Okay, and we're back to you being insufferable. That was a nice five-minute break."

He laughs, not at all offended. "Can't let you get too comfortable. Gotta keep you on your toes."

The subway announcement system announces your stop is next. 

Yoongi's eyes open immediately, like he has some kind of sixth sense for exactly when to wake up. He removes his AirPods, tucking them into his pocket as he stands.

"You coming?" he asks, directing the question to both of you but somehow making it sound like he couldn't care less either way.

"Yeah, yeah," Jungkook says, already standing. 

He offers you a hand up, the gesture casual but unexpected.

You hesitate for just a second before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. His hand is warm, the calluses from guitar playing rough against your palm. And then he drops it as soon as you're standing, no lingering, no loaded moment. Just a simple courtesy.

But it’s the normal, everyday nature of the gesture that throws you. 

Like this is just what you do now—casual, friendly touches that mean nothing beyond basic human interaction.

The subway slows as it approaches your stop, and you grab the pole to steady yourself, pushing this strange new dynamic to the back of your mind to examine later. 

When you're alone. 

And preferably sober.

You've never heard Griffin meow that loudly outside of dinner time, and even then, it's not this fucking dramatic.

The elevator doors have barely slid open when the unholy feline screeching hits your ears—a sound that could only be described as a cat being simultaneously vacuumed and baptized against its will.

"What the fuck?" you mutter, already picking up your pace toward the apartment door.

Jungkook's reaction is instantaneous. One second he's trudging beside you, still talking about some obscure music producer, and the next he's bolting down the hallway like someone lit his ass on fire.

"Griffin!" His voice carries genuine panic as he fumbles with his keys, hands suddenly clumsy with urgency.

You follow right behind him, though your motivations are decidedly less noble. 

The building has a strict no-pets policy, and the last thing you need is to get evicted because Jungkook's furry contraband is having a meltdown at 1 AM.

"Jesus Christ, let me do it," you hiss, shoving at his hands. "You're gonna wake up the whole floor."

"I got it, I got it," he insists, still struggling with the lock as Griffin continues his banshee impression on the other side of the door.

"Clearly you don't got it," you argue, trying to wrestle the keys from his grip. "You're making it worse!"

"Can you just—will you just—give me a second—"

You're both so busy fighting over the keys that neither of you notices Yoongi until he's physically shoving both of you aside with surprisingly pointy elbows.

"Move," he grunts, extracting his own key and long since given up on expecting basic competence from either of you.

The lock clicks open, and the door swings wide just in time for an orange blur to come rocketing out into the hallway. 

Griffin shoots between your legs like he's auditioning for some Usain Bolt competition (but make it feline), though to no avail, because Jungkook's reflexes are impressively fast. 

Three quick strides and he's scooping the cat up, cradling him against his chest.

"Hey, hey, buddy, what's wrong?" he murmurs, immediately checking the cat for injuries. "You okay? What happened?"

Griffin, now safely ensconced in Jungkook's arms, has miraculously stopped his caterwauling and is instead purring loud enough to vibrate the hallway. 

The little shit.

"Oh my god, Jungkook, tell your cat to shut the fuck up," you hiss, glancing nervously toward neighboring doors. "You know the neighbors are gonna snitch if he keeps that up."

"No they won't," he says with the confidence of someone who's never faced consequences for anything in his life. "They all love me."

You blink. "You know all the neighbors?"

He just shrugs, already carrying Griffin back into the apartment like the entire dramatic episode never happened.

Yoongi, having completed his sole contribution to the crisis, is already disappearing into his bedroom, door clicking shut behind him with a finality that says ‘do not disturb under penalty of death.’

You stand awkwardly in the entryway, fidgeting with your keys, suddenly hyperaware that you're alone with Jungkook for the first time since... whatever that moment on the rooftop was.

He snorts, still cradling Griffin like a baby. 

"So where's my gift?"

Of course. Of course he couldn't just let it go. Had to make things weird and awkward because god forbid Jungkook let any interaction proceed without maximum discomfort.

You grunt noncommittally and trudge to your bedroom, pointedly closing the door behind you. 

There, sitting innocently on your dresser, is the crumpled paper bag from the flea market. 

Inside is the stupid vinyl record you'd impulsively bought for fifteen bucks because it had "John Mayer" on it and you vaguely remembered Jungkook had a vinyl wall with what looked like Mayer albums.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Now, you're not so sure.

But it's not like you have any alternatives, and you did promise him a gift, so...

You grab the bag and head back out, careful not to make eye contact. You have no idea why you're suddenly nervous about this. It's just a vinyl. Probably one he already has. No big deal either way.

"Here," you say, thrusting the paper bag toward him.

He quirks an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the plainness of your offering. 

What was he expecting? A fucking gift-wrapped Ferrari?

He sets Griffin down carefully on the armchair before taking the bag from you. The cat immediately curls into a perfect circle, clearly untroubled by whatever had sent him into hysterics five minutes ago.

Jungkook pulls the vinyl from the bag with deliberate slowness, like he's trying to extend the suspense. A small smile forms on his lips when he sees it's a record, but then—

His face contorts into an expression you can't begin to interpret. 

It's like watching someone cycle through all five stages of grief in under five seconds, ending on some emotion that looks like he might either laugh hysterically or have a stroke.

Your stomach drops. Fuck. You knew it. He already has it. Or worse, he hates this album. 

Great going, genius. You had one job.

"Nix," he starts, his voice strangled.

"It's fine," you interject quickly, already looking away and biting your lip. "I mean, if you already—"

"Phoenix."

Something in the way he says your nickname—your full nickname, not the shortened version—makes you reluctantly look back at him.

He's not... mad. Or disgusted. Or disappointed. 

If anything, he looks... stunned? 

His eyes are practically twinkling, like you just handed him the fucking Holy Grail instead of a dusty old record.

"Where the fuck..." he starts, then shakes his head slightly. "Where the fuck did you get this, Nix?"

You blink, caught off guard by his reaction.

"I—a girl has her secrets," you mumble, because no way in hell are you admitting you found it in a five-dollar bin at a flea market.

"This is Inside Wants Out," he says, staring at the record like it might vanish if he blinks.

"Yup. That's what it says," you confirm, pointing unnecessarily at the album title clearly printed on the cover.

Like, yeah. Thanks for confirming he can read. At least he’s not that stupid. 

"It's John Mayer, right...? I thought... I mean since your whole vinyl wall is mostly—"

"This is Inside Wants Out," he repeats, more emphatically this time, like you're not getting the significance.

You nod slowly. "Yeah... I heard you the first time."

"Do you know how hard it is to get this shit, Nix?" His eyes are still wide with disbelief. "This is a collector's item."

Oh.

Oh wow.

Oh fuck.

You didn't mean to give him something with actual significance. You were just trying to not completely fail at basic gift-giving. But now he's looking at you like you just casually handed him a winning lottery ticket, and you have no idea how to respond.

"I mean... I knew you'd appreciate it," you lie smoothly, like you totally knew what you were doing. "You seem like the type to be into the rare stuff."

His eyes narrow slightly, like he's not entirely buying your sudden expertise in John Mayer collectibles, but he's too excited about the record to push it.

"It was his first EP," he explains, still handling the vinyl like it might explode. "Self-released in '99, before he got signed. There were only like a thousand copies ever pressed, and they never reissued it on vinyl."

"Oh," you say eloquently. "Cool."

"Cool?" 

He laughs, the sound both incredulous and delighted. 

"Nix, this thing goes for like three hundred dollars on eBay if you can even find one. How did you—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head again. "You know what, never mind. I don't even want to know. Just... thank you."

Three hundred dollars? 

You almost choke. The grimy old man at the flea market had sold it to you for fifteen bucks, and even then, you'd thought you were overpaying.

Holy shit. You accidentally gave Jungkook the perfect gift.

You're still processing this bizarre turn of events when he does something even more unexpected. He steps forward and hugs you—a quick, one-armed embrace that's over almost before it begins, but still manages to short-circuit your brain for a solid three seconds.

"Seriously," he says, already stepping back. "This is... thank you."

"I—yeah, of course," you manage, still off-balance from the sudden contact. "Happy birthday or whatever."

He grins, already carefully examining the record sleeve for any damage. 

"Or whatever," he echoes, but there's no mockery in it. 

Just warmth.

A warmth that makes something in your chest twist in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

Jungkook flips the vinyl over in his hands, tracing the track listing with his finger. 

"I started collecting his stuff in high school," he says, voice softer than usual. "Everyone gives him shit, you know? Like he's this basic white dude music or whatever."

"Isn't he, though?" You can't help asking, even as you drift closer to the couch instead of retreating to your room like you'd planned.

He looks up at you, expression caught between offense and amusement. "That's what everyone thinks. But his guitar work? Seriously underrated. The guy's technically insane."

You perch on the arm of the couch, watching as he continues examining the record. 

“So you're into him for the... technical aspects?"

"Partly." Jungkook shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "But honestly? His music just hits sometimes, you know? Like when you're driving at night with the windows down, or when you just need to chill and not think for a while."

"Didn't take you for the introspective type."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Phee," he says, but it's not a challenge or a flirtation. Just a simple statement of fact.

"Like what?"

He looks surprised you asked, like he expected you to roll your eyes and walk away. 

After a moment's hesitation, he gestures toward his bedroom. 

“I've got every vinyl he's released. Started with Continuum when I was fifteen..." He trails off, then shakes his head slightly. "Anyway, been collecting ever since."

You’re not sure whether he wants you to ask, or doesn’t want to overshare. So to play it safe, you don’t dig.

Instead, you find yourself saying, "My dad's obsessed with him."

Now it's your turn to be surprised—by your own admission. Because you hadn't planned to share that.

Jungkook's eyebrows lift. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, suddenly interested in a loose thread on your sleeve. "Used to play his albums constantly during gardening weekends. My mom would pretend to hate it, but I'd catch her humming along when she thought no one was listening."

"Gardening weekends?"

"Mandatory family bonding," you explain, the memory both distant and vivid. "Every other Saturday in spring and summer. Dad would handle the heavy stuff, Mom did the flowers, and I was on weed duty."

"Weed duty," Jungkook repeats, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Like, you grew pot with your parents? Damn, Nix, I had you all wrong."

You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile too. "Garden weeds, dumbass. The actual nuisance plants."

"So what? You'd all be out there pulling weeds while John Mayer serenaded you from a boombox?"

"Something like that," you say, the mental image so accurate it catches you off guard. "How'd you know about the boombox?"

"Dads and boomboxes go together like peanut butter and jelly," he says with authority. "It's basic dad culture."

"Fair point." You hesitate, then add, "He had this super old one. Battery-operated, because the garden was too far from the house for an extension cord. The sound quality was garbage, but he refused to upgrade. Said it had 'character.'"

Jungkook smiles at that, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

"You'd hate each other," you say automatically, but then consider it. "Actually, no. You'd probably bond over guitar shit and expensive coffee, and it would be absolutely insufferable for everyone else."

"I'm great with parents," he protests. "They love me."

"That's because they don't have to live with you."

He gasps in offense. "What? Come on, living with me is the best experience ever.”

"So now ‘best experience ever’ is you eating my leftovers and folding your briefs on the entrance table?”

"And mind-blowing sex," he adds, because of course he does. "Don't forget that part."

"And we're done here," you announce, standing up from the couch arm. 

"Wait," he says, surprising you again. "What was your favorite song? From those gardening days, I mean."

You pause, considering whether to answer. It feels oddly personal, sharing music taste with Jungkook. More intimate somehow than the physical stuff you've done together.

But he's looking at you with genuine curiosity, still cradling the vinyl you gave him like it's something precious, and you find yourself responding before you can overthink it.

"'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room,'" you admit, the memory rising unbidden. "Not off that album, obviously, but it was on Continuum."

“Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for that one."

"Well, I wasn't exactly vibing with the lyrics at age ten," you say, defensive without knowing why. "It just... reminds me of my mom."

"Your mom was into songs about dysfunctional relationships?"

"No, dumbass." 

You take a breath, weighing whether to elaborate. 

Fuck it. 

“There was this one time, we were gardening, and it started raining—like, suddenly pouring. Dad ran inside with the boombox, but Mom just... stayed out there. And I did too."

Jungkook's watching you intently now, the vinyl temporarily forgotten in his hands.

"That song was playing right before the rain started," you continue, eyes fixed on that loose thread again. "And when Dad got inside, he must have put the song on again inside the house, because we could hear it through the open windows. Mom just... started dancing. In the rain. And she pulled me in, and we were spinning around like idiots, getting completely soaked, while Dad watched from the porch and pretended to be embarrassed by us."

You risk a glance at Jungkook and find him smiling softly.

"What?" you demand.

"Nothing," he says, but his smile doesn't fade. "Just... that's a really good memory. I like that it wasn't some deep angsty reason. Just your mom being cool."

"She wasn't always," you say before you can stop yourself. "Cool, I mean. But she had her moments."

A comfortable silence falls between you, the kind you didn't think was possible with Jungkook. He's still looking at you with that soft expression, and you find yourself continuing without really meaning to.

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to lighten the sudden heaviness between you. “I like sad songs and thunderstorms. Shocking revelation about the English major, I know.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s gentler than his usual smirk. 

“I know you like thunderstorms.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he nods, setting the vinyl aside with careful hands. “Remember the first time we hooked up in this apartment? There was a storm outside.”

“How do you remember that?”

He shrugs, casual, unbothered.

Like it doesn’t cost him anything at all to reveal he keeps details in mind or cares. 

“You were curled up in that bean bag by the window, watching the rain like it was telling you secrets. All broody and intense. Very on-brand.”

“I wasn’t broody,” you protest automatically.

“You were staring at a lightning storm. The only way you could’ve been broodier is if you were wearing fingerless gloves and listening to The Cure.”

You throw a decorative pillow at his head, which he catches easily. “Fuck off, I don’t even own fingerless gloves.”

“Yet,” he adds with a grin. “There’s still time, though. Hot Topic’s having a sale.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself.

“I just like storms, okay? They’re… honest.”

“Honest?” He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely curious.

You struggle to articulate something you’ve never had to put into words before. 

“Yeah, like… they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. They’re loud and chaotic and messy, and they don’t apologize for it.”

“Huh,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Never thought about it like that.”

“Plus,” you add, tone deliberately lighter, “they smell good.”

“Yeah I guess they do,” he agrees, and for some reason, this tiny point of connection feels significant.

“You smell like rain,” you say, the words slipping out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

“Huh?” he looks at you, confusion replacing his easy smile.

“I mean,” you backtrack, suddenly feeling stupid, “you’re always saying I smell like vanilla and stuff. And you really like vanilla, right? With your vanilla extract flask or whatever. Well, you smell like rain. At least to me. I really like rain. That’s all.”

There’s a moment of silence, just long enough for you to start mentally calculating how quickly you could fake your own death and flee the country.

“I smell like rain,” he repeats, expression unreadable.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say quickly. “Just an observation. Like how Yoongi smells like coffee and disappointment.”

He laughs at that, breaking the weird tension. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

“I’m very accurate,” you say with mock seriousness. “My superpower.”

And… why exactly are you quoting him? That’s exactly what he said in the subway.

And you said it without thinking. 

“Well,” he says, not catching onto that or at least not making it about that; leaning back into the couch cushions, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad I don’t smell like disappointment. Rain is definitely the better option.”

“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t say you smell good,” you lie, because of course he smells good, the bastard. “Just like rain.”

“Uh-huh.” His smile is knowing, infuriating. “You literally just said you really like rain, though.”

“I changed my mind. Rain is overrated.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

Griffin chooses that moment to stretch dramatically on the armchair, reminding you both of his presence. The cat yawns widely, showing tiny needle teeth, before resettling into an even tighter ball.

“Anyway,” you say, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, “your cat is still a menace, even if he has good timing.”

“The best timing,” Jungkook agrees, reaching over to scratch behind Griffin’s ears. “Though I still don’t know what set him off earlier.”

“Maybe he sensed a disturbance in the force.”

“Maybe he just missed me,” Jungkook suggests, and the sad thing is, he’s probably right. Griffin is ridiculously attached to him, like some kind of orange, furry shadow.

“Cats don’t miss people,” you argue, just to be contrary. “They’re cold-blooded killers who tolerate humans because we operate can openers.”

“Griffin misses me,” he insists, stroking the cat’s back. “Don’t you, buddy? Tell Phoenix how much you missed your dad.”

Griffin blinks slowly in response, which Jungkook apparently interprets as agreement. 

“See? He says he was devastated by my absence.”

“He says he’s plotting to kill us both in our sleep,” you counter.

“Nah, he only does that to people who don’t bring him treats. Speaking of which…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of cat treats, shaking a few onto his palm.

Griffin is suddenly wide awake, lunging for the offering with surprising agility for a creature that was seemingly comatose two seconds ago.

“You carry cat treats in your pocket?” you ask, incredulous. “To a club? To a karaoke bar?”

“Always be prepared,” he says solemnly, as if quoting some ancient cat-owner wisdom. “Besides, Griffin can sense when I don’t have them.”

“Your relationship with this cat is genuinely concerning.”

“Says the person who talks to him when she thinks no one’s listening.” He smirks at your surprised expression. “Yeah, I’ve heard you. ‘Who’s a little murder machine? Is it you? Yes it is.’”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You baby-talk my cat, Phoenix. Just admit it.”

“I do not baby-talk—”

Your phone chimes with a text notification, cutting off what would have undoubtedly been a brilliant denial. 

You move towards the entryway, where you'd left your purse on the table, and reach to look for your phone, when suddenly—

Oh. 

The DIY bracelets. Right.

You'd left them at the shop at first for that contribution project Ash had talked about, but then... something had pinched at you when Jungkook mentioned having one similar as a kid. 

How it reminded him of his mom.

And now that you're talking about mourning a mom that you still have alive, because the mom from your memories often differs from the one who exists now... it feels like the right moment. Like maybe these stupid friendship bracelets aren't just arts and crafts bullshit but something that might actually mean something.

Fuck, that's corny. You're being corny right now. This is what happens when you let your guard down for five seconds around Jungkook—suddenly you're having feelings and shit. Gross.

But your fingers are already closing around the bracelets. 

You're impulsive like that. Always have been. Jump first, think later. It's gotten you into trouble more times than you can count, but occasionally—very occasionally—it works out.

You slip them into your fist, hiding them behind your back as you walk slowly toward Jungkook. He's still standing there, watching you with that half-curious, half-amused expression that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and—

"Hmm? What's up, Phoenix?" he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly when he notices your hands hidden behind your back.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

His eyes narrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“What's that?" He takes a step closer, trying to peek around you. "You hiding something?"

"No," you lie, taking a step back. "Mind your business."

"You're being weird," he says, his smirk widening into a full-on grin. "What is it? A love letter? Secret diary? Embarrassing photos of you in middle school with braces?"

"I never had braces," you retort, still backing up as he advances. "And it's nothing, so back off."

"If it's nothing, why are you hiding it?" He lunges suddenly, trying to grab at your hands, but you twist away, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process.

"Jungkook, I swear to god—"

"Come on, just show me!" He's laughing now, the asshole, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "What's so secret that you can't—"

He makes another grab, and this time his fingers catch your wrist. You try to pull away, but he's stronger than you, the jerk, and before you can stop him, he's pried your fingers open.

The bracelets fall into his palm.

His laughter cuts off abruptly. 

He stares down at them, then back up at you, his expression shifting to something you can't quite read. 

His eyes go all soft and wide, like some anime character or something, and it makes your forsaken insides twist.

"How?" he asks, voice quieter than before. "I thought we left these at the shop."

You look to the side, feeling heat crawl up your neck. 

This is so fucking embarrassing. 

It's just bracelets. 

Stupid, childish bracelets that shouldn't mean anything.

"When I came back to get my phone, I..." You trail off, not sure how to explain without sounding like a complete sap. "I saw them and I just..."

You shut up, because what are you supposed to say? That you couldn't stand the thought of leaving them behind? That something about his face when he talked about his mom's bracelet made you want to give him this small piece of today?

He seems to understand anyway, nodding slowly as he looks down at the bracelets again. 

"Thanks," he says, and it's so genuine it makes you uncomfortable.

He holds them for a moment longer, then asks, "Can I?" gesturing toward your wrist.

You extend your arm automatically, then realize what he's doing as he fumbles with the clasp of the Phoenix bracelet.

"No, let me wear the Rogue one," you say quickly.

He pauses, brows furrowing. "But I am Rogue."

"Well, you said you didn't want to wear a bracelet calling you 'Rogue,'" you point out, "so... might as well wear the Rogue one myself and you wear the Phoenix one."

A slow smile spreads across his face, like what you've just said makes perfect sense instead of being the most backward logic ever. 

And with a soft, delicate breath he says:

“Deal."

His fingers brush against your skin as he fastens the Rogue bracelet around your wrist. You try not to react, but your pulse quickens traitorously beneath his fingertips.

When he's done, you take the Phoenix bracelet from him, gesturing for his wrist. He extends it without hesitation, and you're struck by how much larger his hand is than yours, how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers as you fumble with the clasp.

"There," you say, pulling away quickly once it's secured. "Now we're even."

"Even," he echoes, looking down at the bracelet on his wrist, the fiery beads catching the light. "I guess we are."

You stare at the bracelet on your wrist for a few seconds, the beads catching the dim light of your apartment living room. Your eyes flicker up to his wrist—he's doing the same thing, turning his arm slightly to inspect his newly acquired accessory like he's never seen a fucking bracelet before. 

His eyes catch yours, and you can't help asking, "You gonna wear it?"

He rotates his wrist, watching how the beads interact with the light. 

“Maybe." The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know, does it fit my vibe?"

Is he serious right now? 

You deadpan him, staring straight into his eyes without blinking.

He can't help but snort, his shoulders shaking slightly. "That's a no, then?"

"Whatever," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "You don't need to wear it. It's a silly thing anyway." 

And it is. Just a stupid arts and crafts project you made while trying to keep him busy for his birthday party. 

No big deal if he tosses it in a drawer and forgets about it. Literally could not care less.

"Nah, it's cool," he says, examining it again. "Kind of tacky, but in a fun way."

He looks back at you when you stare in silence too long. 

"What about you?"

"Huh?" You blink, caught off-guard.

"Are you gonna wear yours?" He gestures toward your wrist with his chin.

"I don't know." You twist the beads around your wrist, acting like you're still deciding. "It's not like I want people to know I have friendship bracelet gay shit with you."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right, I had forgotten what I'm gonna say when people ask what 'PHOENIX' means."

Your eyes flicker back to him, side-eyeing him suspiciously. "What would you say?"

"Maybe I should tell them it's from my roommate," he says, tapping his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Who rose from the ashes and all that. Like some kind of angry, book-obsessed firebird."

"Don't you dare talk about me like that!" You immediately shove at his shoulder, scowling. "Oh my god."

He sidesteps your attack, continuing, "—into this majestic creature who's deep down probably not plotting to murder me in my sleep—"

"I swear to god," you lunge at him again, "if you say that cringy shit about me to anyone—"

"—and who secretly loves making friendship bracelets—"

"I will end you," you threaten, trying to grab his arm while he deftly avoids your attempts. The audacity of this asshole. "I will literally smother you with a pillow."

"—and wearing them too!" He's full-on laughing now, dodging around the coffee table. "The bracelet represents how we've evolved from mortal enemies to... slightly less mortal enemies."

"That's it." You grab a throw pillow from the couch and hurl it at his head. "You're dead to me."

He catches the pillow easily, still grinning like an idiot. "Aw, come on, Nix. Embrace your phoenix identity. Like the bird, you too have emerged from—"

"If you say 'ashes' one more time," you threaten, grabbing another pillow, "I will personally ensure you become some."

"Violent," he comments, raising his eyebrows. "And after I accepted your little craft project."

"It's not a—" 

You start to protest, then stop yourself. 

What the hell would you call it?

"Whatever. It's just a bracelet."

"A bracelet of tolerance," he suggests, his eyes dancing with amusement. "At best."

"Exactly," you say, oddly annoyed that he's stolen your line. "A bracelet of 'you're still annoying as fuck but occasionally tolerable.'"

"A bracelet of 'we haven't killed each other yet, which is honestly impressive,'" he offers.

"A bracelet of 'the apartment lease says I can't legally push you off the balcony,'" you suggest.

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Cool. I'll take it."

"Don't make it weird," you mutter, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken. Why is he being almost... nice? "It's just a stupid bracelet I accidentally made while you were trying to avoid talking about your Instagram."

"Right," he nods, tapping the beads against the table. "Just like how you 'accidentally' bought me a super rare vinyl."

"Shut up."

"Never," he says, shifting Griffin to make room on the armchair. "So, this means you're warming up to me, huh? All it took was some karaoke and a rooftop heart-to-heart."

"I already told you we'll see," you remind him, rolling your eyes. "Don't push it, Rogue."

"Fine, fine," he holds up his hands in surrender. "Just saying, the evidence is mounting."

"What evidence?"

He starts counting off on his fingers. "One, you made me a bracelet. Two, you bought me a vinyl. Three, you didn't ditch me at my own birthday thing. Four, you haven't tried to poison my coffee in at least three days."

"That you know of," you counter, but you can feel the corner of your mouth twitching traitorously.

"See? You're not even denying it," he says, pointing at you triumphantly. "Face it, Phee. You tolerate me."

"The bare minimum bar for human interaction. Congratulations."

Griffin chooses that moment to let out a pathetically dramatic meow, clearly offended that he's no longer the center of attention.

"Someone's jealous," Jungkook immediately turns to scratch his cat under the chin. "Don't worry, G, you'll always be my number one roommate."

You roll your eyes. "Great, I've been demoted behind the cat."

"He doesn't leave wet teabags in the sink," Jungkook points out.

"He literally shits in a box in our bathroom."

"Yeah, but at least he covers it up."

"I'm not having this argument," you declare, standing up from the couch. It's late, you're tired, and this whole day has been weird enough already. "I'm going to bed."

"Night, Nix," he says, voice softer than his usual teasing tone.

"Night, Rogue," you reply, hesitating for just a moment too long before adding, "Happy birthday. Again."

He smiles—that same genuine smile from before. "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't get used to it," you warn, already backing toward your bedroom. "Tomorrow I go back to hating your guts."

"Looking forward to it," he calls after you, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You close your bedroom door a bit harder than necessary, but you're smiling as you do it. And if your fingers brush against the beads on your wrist as you change into your pajamas, well, that's nobody's business but yours.

It's just a bracelet. Whatever.

goal: 650 notes. can’t believe how quickly kiki nation got the goals back, you guys are amazing and unhinged. 😭❤️‍🩹

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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[generouspursethingbat]

dear me | 10

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: anxiety, emotional conflict, frustration, feelings of inadequacy, fear of failure, intense argument, self-doubt, stress, mild emotional distress

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,1k // date: 24th of May 2025

CHAPTER TEN — TETHERED THREADS happy reading my gummies...

AN: oh my god hi babies!!! dear me is back and so am i? so are we all excited or what. i don't want to spoil this chapter but it goes from 0 to 100 real quick so like. prepare yourselves. i warned you!!

now, about the note goal — plot twist — there is none. i’m currently in my ✨mystery era✨ trying to figure out a better posting system so we’re just gonna wing it for now. that does NOT mean you shouldn’t like, comment, or reblog because hello?? validation?? serotonin?? but no pressure.

if you liked the chapter and wanna scream about it, i’m here. reading. refreshing. obsessing. after all the weird energy and negativity lately, i’m really hoping we can bring back our chaotic little community — full of kindness, laughter, and just the right amount of delusion.

i love you all so much it’s actually concerning. chapter 11 will be posted on june 2nd unless the universe decides otherwise but let’s manifest consistency together, okay? okay.

The morning starts like every other.

One shot of espresso — because two makes you jittery and one feels just right — gulped down in the dim glow of your kitchen light. No breakfast, of course. You’ll eat whatever Ms. Kim requests you to make, and if it’s something boring like porridge again, well, that’s just the universe’s way of punishing you for not getting groceries. Quick shower. Music playing from your phone speaker (Today: old Arctic Monkeys. Why? Who knows, they felt like a Wednesday band). Then, one episode of Suits. Always Suits. Always one. You like the predictability, the build-up. You like the false sense of control it gives you, knowing you’ll be left on a cliffhanger but choosing to turn it off anyway.

Everything is smooth. Everything is routine. Your perfect little mental tightrope, walked with the balance of someone who’s been practicing calm like it’s a sport.

Until you sit in your car.

Crack.

Not a literal sound — no smoke, no explosion — but the kind of mental snap that jolts you right between the eyes. The one that makes your chest tighten and your hands pause on the steering wheel. You try to start the engine once. Twice. A third time, just for good measure. Nothing.

Your car is dead. Or maybe just extremely petty.

You stare at the dashboard like it just told you your childhood dog ran away. Because how did you not notice the gas light? You always notice the gas light. You’re religious about the gas light. It’s your one non-negotiable.

You bang your head lightly against the steering wheel and mutter under your breath, “I deserve this.”

Maybe it’s karma. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been so wrapped up in pretending everything’s fine that the basics — like fuel — slipped through the cracks. But now you’re sitting in your silent car, the neighborhood too quiet and you realize something dreadful.

This day has already betrayed you.

And it’s not even 9 a.m.

Your first logical solution is Yoongi.

It always is, really. Calm, capable, cursed with a heart way too big for that grumpy exterior. His work is basically around the corner from Ms. Kim’s place anyway, so in theory, it makes perfect sense. One quick call, a dramatic but well-timed sigh, maybe even a guilt trip about “doing it for your beloved bestie” — and boom, problem solved.

Except, as always, the universe has beef with you.

Because when Yoongi picks up the phone, he doesn’t greet you. He whispers. Weakly.

“I’ve been betrayed,” he croaks.

“By who?” you ask, alarmed.

“My body,” he whispers, hoarse. “Fever. I’m dying. Tell my cat I love him.”

You pause. “You don’t have a cat.”

“Then who have I been feeding?” he mumbles, and the line cuts with the faintest of coughs.

You exhale through your nose, long and tired. Of course Yoongi can’t come. He’s sick. Sick-sick. Not hungover-sick, not "I stayed up binge-watching anime and now I’m emotionally unstable" sick — actual sick. You text him a get-well-soon and a half-serious promise to bring soup and put your phone down with a sigh that echoes in your dead car.

Uber? Taxi?

You wince just thinking about it. It’s not the cost, or the inconvenience, or even the question of how many strangers' asses have occupied those seats before yours. It’s just… uncomfortable. The whole idea of being stuck in a confined space while some overly chatty middle-aged man named Bob tells you about his second divorce and favorite Coldplay album?

No thanks.

You’re not a snob. You just prefer your social anxiety from a safe distance.

So your next logical option — and by logical, you mean potentially dangerous to your mental well-being — is Jungkook.

Yeah. Jungkook.

You already feel your eye twitch at the thought.

Because asking your hot, soon-to-be-married best friend to rescue you from your own stupidity has never ended in emotional stability. Still, you unlock your phone, thumb hovering over his contact.

What’s the worst that could happen?

(You know exactly what could happen. You just choose to ignore it.)

“Hey,” Jungkook says as you practically haul yourself into the passenger seat of his car, the sharp scent of his cologne greeting you before his voice even fully lands.

“Hey, Kook,” you say, breathless, fumbling with the seatbelt. “Thank you for coming so quick. You literally saved my life. Or my job. Or both.”

He gives you a small smile, fingers still on the steering wheel. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the way for me anyway.”

You hum, settling into the leather seat, trying not to notice how put together he looks this morning. Hair styled to perfection, parted just right, not a single strand out of place. His charcoal gray suit is pressed, not a wrinkle in sight, with the cuffs of his white shirt peeking just slightly from under his blazer sleeves. There’s a navy tie around his neck, loosened just a bit — enough to make him look a little less intimidating, a little more like your Jungkook.

And it’s… a lot. It’s too much, honestly.

Because you haven’t really talked since that Sunday.

Since the night he stepped on stage and left his soul in every note of that song. Since he cradled your face with both hands and pressed his forehead to yours like he couldn’t breathe unless you were that close.

Since you felt something shift.

But after that? A few texts. A meme exchange. Some "dude, that show was crazy" type messages. Nothing heavy. Nothing about the way your chest physically ached when the music stopped and you realized how close you’d been to crossing a line neither of you were meant to approach.

And maybe it was just adrenaline.

Maybe it was a high from the performance. A beautiful, fleeting moment of blurred feelings and too much noise.

But you’re an overthinker. And even now, as he drives through the streets in his sleek black car, his hand calmly resting on the gearshift, eyes focused on the road — you wonder.

Did he feel it too?

You glance sideways at him, and it’s honestly infuriating how effortlessly attractive he looks at 8:43 in the morning. You’re here with a wrinkled hoodie and barely brushed hair, and he looks like he walked out of a Vogue editorial titled "Litigation and Lust."

Your thoughts spiral. You hate it.

Because he’s your best friend.

And he’s engaged.

And you’re supposed to be so, so far from this kind of thinking.

But your heart still clenches in your chest when you think about that Sunday. His hands on your face. His breath on your skin. That look in his eyes, like maybe he was fighting something too.

So you swallow the thoughts. Tuck them behind your ribs. You look back out the window and say nothing.

Because saying something might ruin everything.

You’re both quiet for a beat too long — not awkward, not exactly — just suspended in that weird, stretched silence that sits heavy between two people who almost talked about something important but didn’t.

Then Jungkook pulls out his phone and sets it in your lap without a word.

You glance down, confused. “What’s this?”

“Play whatever you want,” he says, eyes still on the road. “I know you hate car rides without music.”

You snort softly. “Obviously. I’m not a psychopath.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So I am one now?”

“Well…” you smirk. “For someone who lives and breathes music, it’s a little criminal that you drive around in complete silence.”

He chuckles under his breath, and it’s the first sound that feels a little like the old Jungkook. “Music distracts me when I drive.”

Your fingers freeze for a moment over his Spotify. “What is it with you and music being a distraction…”

It’s innocent — said without much thought. But the second the words leave your mouth, the memory flashes sharp in your brain.

Shit.

You remember now. The moment he told you—how Nina said that playing drums made him lose focus. How it’s an unnecessary distraction.

You swallow hard, wishing you could drag those words back down your throat.

Jungkook doesn’t respond. But his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel, just enough that you notice.

You tap at the screen, trying to play it off. Your thumb hovers over House of Balloons, because of course that would be his last played. Typical. It’s not morning music by any stretch, but you tap play anyway.

The slow, pulsing rhythm of the song fills the car like smoke — sultry, haunting, too much for the morning.

You stare ahead at the road, heart rattling a little too loud in your chest.

God, you hate how much you remember. And worse — how much you want to.

You close your eyes, pretend you didn’t see the way he clenched his jaw. Pretend you’re not hearing lyrics that have nothing to do with you, but still feel like they’re scraping something raw open inside you.

Because yeah.

This is definitely too much.

And somehow still not enough.

“Well, it is distracting,” he hisses, sharper than he means to be.

He exhales through his nose and lets his voice soften. “I just don’t like to multitask like that. Plus… I wasn’t talking about that night.”

You glance at him. “I never mentioned the night you played.”

“No, but you were thinking about it.”

Your brows lift. “How do you know that, Jungkook?”

“Because I know you.”

“And I know you too,” you shoot back, “which is exactly why I can tell you’re itching to explain yourself. Because you know I’m right.”

He rolls his eyes. “Right about what, exactly?”

“You being scared to play again.”

He blinks. “What is it with you this morning? You never even said that to me before, and now suddenly you’re Freud in the passenger seat.”

“I never said it. But you know it’s true.” You turn slightly in your seat. “Come on, Kook. We both know you weren’t scared you’d suck.”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw ticks.

“So why were you scared?” you ask gently. “Hm?”

He’s quiet.

“You were scared you’d love it. And you did.”

He scoffs under his breath, but it’s weak. “Well, not all of us get to do what we love.”

You snort. “That’s literally just an illusion toxic society and late-stage capitalism shoved down our throats.”

He throws you a look. “Okay, great. Now you’re being philosophical for no reason.”

“Am I?” you challenge. “I mean, if people did what they loved, the world would be a lot less miserable.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But that’s impossible.”

“How and why?”

“Because we’d be living in a world full of artists, musicians, basketball players, and TikTok therapists—who the hell would do the boring, dangerous, miserable jobs?”

“This might come as a shock,” you grin, “but there are people who dream of doing those jobs.”

“That’s just… incorrect. And I could elaborate.”

“Then elaborate.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re pissing me off.”

You laugh, incredulous. “For saying you should maybe do something you love again? Even just as a hobby?”

“For acting like it’s that easy,” he snaps. “Like it’s not a fucking luxury to even consider that.”

“A luxury, huh?” you scoff. “Are you insinuating something, Jungkook?”

“Come on,” he mutters, eyes on the road. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“No, seriously. I’d really like to know—why do you think like that?”

“I said it generally. I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Not directly,” you fire back. “But you meant it. So just spit it out.”

His jaw clenches. You watch him, waiting.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says tightly, “but it’s easy for you to sit up on your high horse, acting like you can’t understand why people don’t chase their dreams—when you had a net. You had support. You had parents who would catch you if you fell.”

Your stomach twists.

“And now,” he continues, bitter, “you have the audacity to judge the rest of us. To judge me—for choosing something stable. Something that won’t fall apart.”

“I have never judged you, Jungkook,” you say, voice firm now. “Not for a single second. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. But you’re too deep in your own bitterness and insecurity to see that.”

“Insecurity?” he snaps.

“No,” you tilt your head. “Jealousy.”

He laughs, harsh and humorless. “Jealous? Of what?”

“Of the people who went for it. Who chased what they wanted. Who lived their fantasy, even if it was just for a little while.”

“Oh, so now I’m jealous of you?”

“I didn’t say that,” you say quietly. “But since you did…”

“Please,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re literally screwing yourself over.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, you’re not living your dream. You lived it that one summer in high school—when you were traveling and learning and cooking and being free. Now? You’re working a glorified 9-to-5 cooking vegan meals for a neurotic rich divorcee. That wasn’t your dream.”

You blink, heart thudding. That one stung.

“Maybe not,” you say after a beat. “But by that logic? I still lived my dream. Even for a moment. Something real came from it. You never even gave yours a chance.”

His voice drops low, almost a whisper. “Because I’m not meant to.”

Your chest aches. “Then why are you so pissed?”

“Because I’m trying to reason with you!” he bursts, his voice cracking around the edges.

“And I’m trying to reason with you!”

“No, you’re not!” he snaps. “You’re trying to fix me.”

You go still.

“God, Jungkook, are you delusional or something?” you snap, voice low and tight. “I’m literally just trying to open your eyes.”

“To what, exactly?” he shoots back. “You’re talking without even trying to see it from my side. Like you always do.”

“I never act like I know everything.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah? That’s kind of your thing, though.”

“My thing?”

“You always act like you know what’s best—for everyone. Like your opinion is the only valid one, and if people don’t see it your way, then they’re just wrong.”

“That’s not true,” you bite, anger laced with hurt. “I want what’s best for you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I know that, Y/n. But maybe what you think is ‘best’ for me isn’t the same as what I want. Maybe I don’t have everything I ever dreamed of—but I’m content. I’m satisfied. I’m… happy.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Sure. You’re happy. But I still wish you had everything. Everything you wanted.”

He exhales sharply. “That’s impossible.”

“Why? Why, Kook?”

His eyes stay locked on the road, jaw tense. “Because if that were possible… we wouldn’t be sitting here having this argument.”

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

“I—” he pauses. “Nothing. Just forget it. I’ve got a hearing in an hour, and I can’t walk into that courtroom like this. Let’s drop it.”

You shake your head slowly. “Right. Of course. Now you want to drop it. That’s your real ‘thing,’ Jungkook—running. From arguments. From real conversations. From me.”

“I’m not running,” he says quietly. “I’m protecting my peace. Maybe you should try that sometime.”

“Protecting your peace doesn’t mean shutting people out the second they say something you don’t like,” you snap, heart hammering in your chest. “That’s not peace, Jungkook. That’s fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” he fires back, “I’m tired.”

“No, you’re afraid. Of feeling things too deeply. Of doing something reckless. Of being disappointed. So you built this perfect little life with a perfect little job and a perfect little routine, and you convince yourself it’s enough.”

He laughs bitterly. “And what, you want me to be like you? Burning out in someone else’s kitchen just so I can feel something?”

“At least I’m feeling something! At least I’m not numbing myself with depositions and court dates pretending I don’t miss the version of you that used to dream out loud.”

“That version of me doesn’t exist anymore!”

“Well, maybe I miss him anyway,” you say, voice quieter now. “Maybe I miss who you were before you decided being safe was more important than being happy.”

Silence fills the car, thick and heavy. The tension crackles between you like static. You want to reach for him, want to pull the words back, but it’s too late.

Jungkook exhales slowly, finally turning to look at you at the red light. His voice is low. “And maybe I miss the version of you who didn’t make me feel like shit for choosing differently.”

Your heart sinks.

“Maybe,” he says again, voice softer now, almost tender. “We just don’t know each other like we used to.”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Maybe we know each other too well. And that’s the problem.”

He doesn’t answer.

The light turns green.

He drives in silence.

And this time, you don’t reach for the music.

The silence becomes a living thing—thick, suffocating, curling around your chest like a fist. Jungkook’s grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles white, but he doesn’t say a word. You turn your face toward the window, watching the city blur past, every billboard and traffic light glowing against the tension burning behind your eyes.

You finally speak, voice quieter this time. “Why does it always have to be like this with us?”

“Because we’re both stubborn. Because we know everything about each other,” he says, his voice quiet—like the anger’s burned out and all that’s left is ash and honesty.

You hum, not in disagreement but more like a sound of recognition. You shift in your seat, knees angled slightly toward him, your spine pressing into the cool edge of the door. The city lights bleed into the car, flashing across his jawline. He looks good like this—annoyingly good—hair perfectly styled, suit neat despite the hour, but his expression? It’s all cracked open.

“I’m sorry,” he says, cutting into the silence like it’s something he has to slice through before it swallows you both whole. “I went too far with all of this. I didn’t want us to argue.”

“No, Kook… I started it,” you say, voice soft but heavy. “I’m sorry too.”

He lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “I hate fighting with you.”

“Same,” you murmur. “It sucks.”

“You know I didn’t mean most of what I said, right?” His eyes flick toward you, searching your face. “Most of the shit… it was just—heat of the moment stuff.”

You nod, hand reaching over to rest gently on his shoulder. “I know, Kook. Me neither.”

The car stills for a beat. There’s no music playing now, just the muted sound of tires on wet asphalt and the whisper of things you can’t say aloud. You let the silence linger too long, and it hangs there, taut and unspoken.

Because the truth is… some of the words you said? You did mean them. Not all. But some.

And you wonder—did he?

Did he mean it when he said you were delusional? Did he mean it when he implied you had it easier? Or was that just his bruised ego talking, scared of how deeply you still saw him?

You pull your hand back and press it to your lap, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“I meant some of it,” you admit, voice barely louder than a whisper.

He blinks. “Which parts?”

You hesitate. “The part about you being scared to play again… and how it’s easier for you to pretend you’re content than to admit you still want more.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifts his hand off the wheel and runs it through his hair—slowly, like he’s buying himself time.

“You really think I’m just pretending?” he asks finally, almost offended. But not quite.

You shrug, eyes glued to the dashboard. “I think you tell yourself you’re fine so you don’t have to want something you think you’ll never get.”

He exhales sharply. “You make it sound so fucking tragic.”

“Isn’t it?” you glance at him. “I mean, maybe not in a dramatic way. But quietly, in the way that gnaws at you slowly. You don’t realize it until it’s too late.”

He’s gripping the wheel again, jaw tight. “And what about you, huh? Are you living your big dream life?”

You pause, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I thought I was. I tell myself I am. But some nights I lie awake wondering if I’ve just built a pretty version of settling.”

He looks at you again, this time more carefully. “So we’re both full of shit.”

“Maybe that’s why we get each other so well.”

Jungkook lets out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “God, we’re a mess.”

“A beautiful one,” you tease softly.

He smiles faintly. “Speak for yourself.”

You nudge his arm. “Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not deflecting,” he mutters. “I’m deflecting with charm. There’s a difference.”

You laugh, finally, and the sound breaks the tension like a crack in glass letting in fresh air. But underneath it, something lingers. A feeling. A thought. One neither of you has dared to voice yet.

You turn to him again, serious now. “You don’t have to go back to being a musician full-time, Jungkook. But you could play again. For yourself. Just… because you want to.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes on the road ahead.

“And what if I do? What if I play again, and it lights something up inside me I can’t ignore?”

You reach over and squeeze his hand, firm and gentle all at once.

“Then we deal with that fire together.”

He looks at you, and this time, you don’t look away. Not when his eyes soften, not when his lips twitch up just a little. Not when the weight of years and unsaid things hangs between you.

Maybe this is how it’s always been between you two. Messy. Complicated. Raw.

But it’s real.

And for now, maybe that’s enough.

He doesn't let go of your hand.

Doesn’t flinch or pull away like he usually does when things get too real, too close to the bone. His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly, and it’s terrifying how natural it feels. How long you’ve both pretended this wasn’t still buried somewhere between you, under layers of arguments and half-truths and detours in life.

“I’m scared,” Jungkook says, and it’s so quiet, you almost miss it. His voice cracks on the word scared, and you’ve known him long enough to understand how rare that kind of honesty is coming from him.

You don’t say anything. You just wait.

“I’m scared that if I play again… if I really try… and I still fail…” He swallows. “Then it’s not just about life being unfair. Then it’s me. Then I’m the reason it didn’t work.”

You lean in a little, turning your body more toward him. “That’s not how it works, Kook.”

“But that’s how it feels,” he says, finally looking at you, eyes wide. “Like if I never try again, then I get to keep the dream. It stays perfect. Untouched. Still possible.”

“Untouched things don’t grow,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes, head dropping back against the headrest. “God, why do you always say things that hit me like a truck?”

“Because you drive the metaphorical car straight into denial, and someone has to steer,” you offer with a small, teasing smile.

He laughs—really laughs—and it’s so genuine that it softens the ache in your chest.

“You know, back then… in high school,” he says after a moment, voice low, “when we all thought the world was ours… I used to think I’d marry someone who got me the way you do.”

Your heart stutters. You almost don’t breathe.

“Jungkook…”

“I don’t mean it like a confession or anything,” he adds quickly, though the way he avoids your eyes tells you it is one. “I just mean… you’ve always seen through me. Even when I didn’t want you to.”

You don’t know what to say. The space between you feels electric now—like something’s about to snap or shift or fall apart in a beautiful, devastating way.

“I wish I could be braver for you,” he admits, and there’s a rawness in it that nearly breaks you. “I wish I didn’t always pull away. Didn’t always shut down when things get too close.”

“You still can be,” you say softly. “Bravery isn’t some fixed trait. You can choose it. Every day.”

He turns to you again, and for a moment, everything else fades—the world outside the car, the ticking clock, the stupid hearing he has to be at in forty-five minutes. It’s just you. And him. And this fragile truth hanging in the space between.

You inhale slowly. “Maybe we’re not meant to live perfect dreams, Kook. Maybe we’re just supposed to chase the pieces that still make us feel alive.”

He nods, eyes searching yours. “And maybe I want to start chasing again.”

Your heart thuds. But you don’t let it show. You squeeze his hand instead and whisper, “Then I’ll be here. Right behind you.”

The silence that follows is no longer heavy.

It’s filled with possibility.

A few quiet beats pass. The tension between you has shifted—softer now, but still charged, still full of words unsaid.

You clear your throat. “I meant what I said though. About wanting you to be happy. And… not judging you. I never have.”

“I know,” he says, his voice steady. “I just forget sometimes. I get in my own head and push people away. Especially the ones who know me best. Guess that’s some kind of twisted reflex.”

You shrug. “You’re not the only one. I’ve done my fair share of self-sabotaging too.”

“Yeah, well…” He laughs under his breath. “Maybe we need an actual therapist in this car.”

You smile a little, the tension in your jaw easing. “Maybe. But then again, I think we’ve been each other’s therapists for so long, we wouldn’t know what to do with a real one.”

He glances at you. “You’re not wrong.”

Another pause. Then he adds, “I want to be clear about something. About Nina.”

Your stomach clenches a bit, but you keep your voice steady. “Okay.”

“She’s important to me. And I respect her more than I know how to say. She’s been nothing but good to me—and I’m not going to mess that up.”

You nod, relieved at how firmly he says it. “I know, Jungkook. I wasn’t trying to cross a line or anything.”

“You didn’t,” he assures quickly. “It’s just… I know how our conversations can get. How intense they can feel. And I want to make sure we both remember what they aren’t.”

You nod again, your voice soft. “They’re not a doorway back.”

“Exactly,” he says, offering you a brief glance. “They’re just… two people who know each other too damn well, still figuring shit out.”

You let out a quiet chuckle. “Some things never change.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Still. I don’t like fighting with you.”

“Me neither.”

“And I don’t want this to be a cycle, you know? Us going from avoiding things to blowing up in each other’s faces.”

“Then maybe we should work on saying things before they pile up,” you offer, folding your arms.

He nods. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

You both fall quiet again. This time, it doesn’t feel tense—it feels reflective. Like two people recalibrating. Not leaning on each other like they used to, but still existing in the same gravity.

“I still think you should cook more for yourself, by the way,” Jungkook says after a moment. “Not for clients. Not because someone paid you. Just… for fun. For joy.”

You scoff. “Didn’t you just accuse me of being too idealistic twenty minutes ago?”

He smirks. “I did. But I’m allowed to change my mind.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway. “I cook enough already.”

“Not like you used to,” he says, and something about the way he says it makes your chest ache a little. “Remember that summer after high school? You were obsessed with making pasta from scratch for like three weeks.”

“It was a phase,” you say with a chuckle.

“It made you happy.”

You nod, looking down at your lap. “Yeah. It did.”

“Then maybe try it again. No pressure. No performance. Just… you and the food. That’s all.”

You glance at him, your smile small but genuine. “Maybe I will.”

A beat.

“And if you ever want someone to peel carrots for you or taste test or pretend to know the difference between béchamel and hollandaise—I’m your guy.”

You laugh, the sound breaking up the last of the tension. “Noted.”

The car grows quiet again, but this time it feels okay. Comfortable. Like something has been salvaged. Not what once was. Not what could’ve been. But what is.

The ride to your job is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. A shared stillness fills the car—like neither of you want to poke at the tender spot you've both just exposed.

Outside, the city hums to life. The early sun catches on glass windows and street signs, and your reflection in the window looks tired, but lighter somehow.

When Jungkook pulls up in front of the quaint little apartment building, tucked between a florist and a gallery, he shifts the car into park but doesn’t move to open his door.

You glance at him. “You gonna walk me in like a gentleman, or do I have to carry all my things like a peasant?”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s soft, fond. “You’re the one who always says you like to make a dramatic solo entrance.”

“Only when I’m wearing heels and carrying an attitude.”

He shakes his head, grinning faintly. Then, more seriously, “Hey. Go easy today, okay?”

You nod, hand on the door handle. “You too. Good luck with your hearing.”

“Thanks,” he says, then hesitates. “And... thanks for being honest with me. Even when it’s messy.”

You pause at the door, looking at him with something that lingers between affection and ache. “That’s the only way I know how to be with you.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just holds your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then, “Go cook something that makes you forget the world exists.”

You smile, softer this time. “You say the most poetic shit when you’re sleep-deprived.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but the corners of his mouth tug upward.

You get out, closing the door gently behind you. As you make your way to the entrance, you feel the weight of his stare on your back. You don’t turn around. You don’t need to.

The engine hums back to life just as you unlock the door and disappear inside.

And just like that, the morning swallows you both into different lives—still tethered by a thread that neither of you are ready to cut, but both are too careful to pull on.

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[generouspursethingbat]

the art of pretending - jjk | 03

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, pov switches (1), jk is an acts of service king and a pathetic simp for oc, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 5.5k

notes: i procrastinated the shit out of this chapter omfg, i’m so sorry for the wait. tysm to my bae isa @page-isa for beta-reading and providing me with concerts on call while i wrote lolol. likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated!! enjoy reading my loves <33

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⤷ chapter three — ivy

i could hate you now / it’s quite alright to hate me now / but we both know that deep down / the feeling still deep down is good

The knife makes a soft thunk against the cutting board as you slice through the last of the strawberries, bright red, juice bleeding out onto the wood. You scoop the pieces into a bowl with the others — kiwi, pineapple, blueberries, a few slices of watermelon. Colourful. Easy to share. Refreshing enough for the heat outside, you hope.

A headache throbs behind your temple. It’s been sitting there since you woke up, dull but insistent. Usually, you would've had a few painkillers in your purse for this exact situation, but you had been certain that you'd be fine on the trip.

You let out a soft sigh. If it weren’t for your own spectacular decision-making.

You tilt your head back gently, reaching up to rub your forehead with the back of your wrist, careful not to smear fruit juice across your skin. The cool tile under your bare feet helps. A little.

From the kitchen, you can just about make out the voices outside.

Laughter and chatter carries faintly. Someone shouts something you can't quite make out, and there's a burst of response.

You should be out there with them. You would be, on any other day. But you’re not risking it — not with your head pounding like this, like your brain is bruised beneath your skull. One hour under that sun, and you know you’ll spend the rest of the day curled up in the dark, miserable.

Well... at least, that’s the excuse you went with.

You haven’t talked to Jungkook since last night.

Not after you walked away, leaving him with nothing but the weight of his own words and the silence you wrapped yourself in.

'I figured… you’d be here.'

Like it was obvious. Like he still knew you. Like he hadn’t made the choice to not be part of your life anymore.

Last night, your anger had been sharp. You’d felt it in your jaw, your chest, your hands. But now, it’s dulled into something muddier.

You’d been telling yourself he’d moved on — that whatever the breakup had done to you, it hadn’t touched him the same way. That he was fine. Probably relieved. Probably already halfway into his next chapter, while you were still here, trying to rewrite your ending like it didn’t hurt. And maybe that assumption had made it easier. Easier to be mad. Easier to hate him a little.

But then last night… he said he came here for you. Like he missed you. Like you still mattered.

And that? That messed with things.

Because how are you supposed to stay angry at someone who walked away, then looked you in the eye like they never wanted to? How are you supposed to keep the space intact when he was the one reaching across it — gently, quietly, like he didn’t know he was doing it?

You’d built your resentment around the idea that he let go easily. That he wanted out more than he wanted you. But now, with the weight of his words still sitting heavy in your chest, the whole picture feels harder to hold. Blurrier.

Turns out, hate’s a lot easier when you think the other person never looked back. And you're clearly a weak link.

The sound of the sliding door pulls you out of your thoughts, and you don't have to look to know exactly who it is.

There’s a soft pad of bare feet on tile, a steady, unhurried rhythm you’ve heard a thousand times before. You keep your eyes on the bowl of fruit in front of you, pretending to rearrange a few pieces like it matters.

“Hey,” Jungkook says, his voice calm.

You don’t turn around. “Hey.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for you to feel it.

”You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” you answer, automatic. Then you exhale, conceding a little. “Just a headache.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him move closer. He’s wearing black swim shorts that cling slightly at the waist, water still darkening the edges. A loose white t-shirt hangs off his frame — a little translucent from where it’s stuck to his chest.

His hair’s damp, curls pushed back from his forehead like he ran his fingers through it and let it dry that way. He smells faintly like sunscreen and chlorine and the heat outside.

“Did you drink enough water?” he asks.

A laughing breath tumbles from your lips before you can stop yourself. You shake your head, mostly to yourself, and glance at him over your shoulder.

He raises an eyebrow, like he already knows why you're laughing.

“You say that every time,” you say.

“Because every time, it’s true,” he says, not missing a beat.

His tone is easy, but his eyes search your face like he’s still trying to make sure. You give him a look — not annoyed, just tired — and sip from the water bottle already in your hand.

“Yes,” you say. “I’ve had water. It’s probably nothing.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond right away. He just leans against the counter beside you, one hand bracing the edge. A droplet of water slides down the inside of his veiny forearm.

You pretend not to notice.

“You take anything for it?” he asks eventually.

You shake your head. “Didn’t bring any.”

He scoffs, low and amused. “Oh, so smart.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks. Really helpful.”

He grins — not wide, not smug. Just soft around the edges. Familiar. The kind of grin he probably doesn’t realise he’s making.

He reaches into the drawer next to you without asking, pulling it open with a scrape of wood on wood. You glance sideways, eyebrows pulling together.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking if this place is stocked like a normal rental or if we’re screwed,” he says, sifting through half-empty tea boxes, a roll of foil, batteries, and a mostly dead flashlight. “And… yeah. Screwed.”

You exhale through your nose, more of a puff than a laugh. “Should’ve figured.”

“You know what you need?” he says, straightening up. “Cold compress. Or a wet towel.”

“I’m not that desperate.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, stepping away and heading toward the sink. He grabs a dish towel from the rack, runs it under cool water, wrings it out with practiced ease.

He turns, holding it out to you — not pushing it into your hands, just waiting, giving you the option.

You hesitate.

You want to say no. You should. But your head throbs again, dull and pulsing behind your eyes, and maybe your pride’s not worth it right now.

You reach out, take it from him.

His fingers brush yours, just for a second. Your grip's not as steady as you’d like.

You fold the cloth once, press it to the side of your head, and close your eyes for a second. The coolness helps. Not enough, but it’s something.

When you open your eyes again, he’s still there, simply watching.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, but there's a small smile on his face. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes at him, but no further words leave your mouth.

He leans a little heavier into the counter, arms folded, eyes flicking over the kitchen like he’s killing time — like he knows you well enough to wait you out.

The kitchen settles into a soft hush, filled only by the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional burst of laughter from outside.

You keep your eyes forward, focused on nothing, the damp towel warming slowly in your hand. You can feel him looking — not staring, but thinking. Sitting on something.

He shifts his weight slightly, arms still folded across his chest. Then finally, he says, low and cautious, “Hey.”

You glance over, just barely. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to brace yourself.

“About what I said last night.”

You blink, eyes flicking back to the counter.

Jungkook keeps going anyway. “I didn’t mean to… dump that on you, or say it like that. I wasn’t trying to make things harder. I just… I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think.”

You let the silence hang a moment, long enough for the words to settle.

“It’s fine,” you say eventually, quietly. “I’d already forgotten about it.”

He nods, lips pressing together. “Still. I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer this time. Just give a small shrug, like it’s not worth talking about.

Another hush washes over the kitchen, this one heavier.

You both sit in it for a moment, like neither of you knows exactly where to go next, but he shifts slightly and clears his throat.

A beat passes. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he squints at the counter.

“So...” he says, dragging the word out just enough to be obvious. “Are you gonna tell me what’s in the bowl, or do I have to guess?”

The question is stupid. It’s clearly fruit. But it works. It’s light enough to crack the silence without pretending it wasn’t there.

You don’t say anything for a second. Just press the cloth a little firmer to your temple and exhale, slow.

“Fruit,” you say. "Strawberries, kiwi, watermelon, pineapple. Some other stuff."

Jungkook leans over to peek into the bowl, then reaches for the spoon. You slide it away before he can grab it.

He blinks at you, a beat of surprise. “Seriously?”

“I didn’t say you could have any.”

“Since when do I need permission?” he asks, brow raised.

You give him a flat look. “Since always. You just never listened.”

He grins like that’s not even close to a deterrent. “C’mon. I kept you from passing out on the kitchen floor. That’s at least worth a bite.”

You shift the spoon just slightly further out of reach, not smiling — not fully — but your mouth twitches like it’s thinking about it. “One bite.”

“I’m starving.”

“Should’ve thought of that before cannonballing off the deep end for an hour.”

He steps closer — not too close — but enough to peer over your shoulder again, dramatic and exaggerated. “You’re telling me I generously helped your migraine and you’re gonna gatekeep the fruit bowl?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine,” you mutter, sliding the spoon toward him with one finger. “You can have some. As long as you take the rest out to the others.”

He grabs the spoon like it’s a prize, already scooping a chunk of watermelon into his mouth. “Deal,” he says around it.

He chews slowly, gaze still fixed on the bowl, like he’s giving the fruit his full concentration.

Then he nods once, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s good.”

You say nothing, just shift the towel slightly against your temple, adjusting it where it’s starting to lose its chill.

He takes another bite — slower this time, as if he’s savouring the taste.

You glance over at him, just briefly. The light from the sliding door paints a soft sheen across his skin, catches in the damp ends of his hair. His profile is calm, unreadable. You know that look. He’s thinking about something he won’t say.

“You gonna take that out?” you ask eventually, nodding at the bowl.

He looks up like he forgot it was in his hands. “Yeah. Right.”

Jungkook lingers for a second longer than necessary, still holding the spoon. Then, finally, he turns toward the door.

Just before he slides it open, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

“If you still feel bad later… I can run into town, grab something.”

"I can take care of myself, Jungkook.”

"I— right. I didn't mean it like that." He lets out a sigh. "Just don't die, yeah?"

You nod, and the door slides open again, letting in a gust of sun and the very distant echo of your friends yelling over music.

You let out a slow breath and rest both elbows on the counter, head still heavy.

And even though the ache behind your eyes is still there — stubborn and dull — it’s softened now. Just a little.

Your headache is mostly gone.

Not completely — there’s still a faint buzz behind your right eye — but it’s somewhat bearable now. The dull kind of pressure you can forget about if you keep still and breathe slow.

What really helped, you think, was the nap. A quiet hour stretched out on the couch with the curtains drawn halfway closed and the cold cloth still folded gently against your forehead.

You don’t remember falling asleep. One minute, you were lying there, your arm slung over your eyes to block the light, and the next, you were waking up to the distant sound of laughter outside, the ache in your head a few degrees cooler.

The towel was still cold when you stirred. Not freezing, but fresher than it had any right to be after an hour against your skin.

You hadn’t put it back in the freezer.

You’re almost sure you didn’t move at all.

Which means… someone had to have changed it amidst your slumber.

You’re not sure how you feel about it. If it even happened. If it means anything.

It shouldn’t. You tell yourself that. It shouldn’t mean anything.

But something about it sticks in your chest.

You’d asked for space — not out loud, not exactly, but in all the ways that mattered. In how you walked away, in how you haven’t reached for him since. And yet… here you are. Picking apart the temperature of a towel like it holds any real weight.

You’re trying not to read into things.

Really, you are.

But it’s hard when the lines keep blurring.

Pretending in front of the others is one thing. A mutual act, a lie with rules and boundaries. But the quiet moments are harder — the ones where no one is looking. Those feel like the truth, leaking out in small, inconvenient ways.

And now here you are.

The beach is stretched out before you in all its sleepy, golden haze. You’ve only been out here for ten minutes; just long enough to settle on your towel and feel the sun warm the backs of your legs.

When you stepped out of the house, the last serve of a makeshift volleyball game had just hit the sand. Taehyung and Hoseok stood dramatically with their arms raised like they'd won the Olympics, while Jimin fell to his knees with an exaggerated groan, sand puffing up beneath him. Seokjin declared the whole thing rigged.

Now, the energy has dipped.

Yoongi is passed out with a bucket hat covering his face. Seokjin’s sitting near the cooler, sipping something canned and cold with his arm lazily slung around Haeun’s waist. Everyone else lies scattered across the sand

The air smells like sunscreen and salt. The ocean hums steady in the background, lapping up against the shore.

And beside it all — Jungkook is somewhere behind you.

You haven’t looked directly at him since you laid your towel down, but you can almost feel his presence.

You shift on your stomach, resting your cheek against your folded arms as you watch Ari walk toward the water, her ankles sinking into the wet sand with each step. The back of your neck is starting to warm. A little too much.

“You're gonna get sunburnt,” comes Jungkook’s voice, low and close behind you.

You don’t lift your head. Just let out a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he replies, not unkindly. “Do you really wanna deal with a migraine and a sun burn at the same time?”

You squint forward, not at anything in particular. The sun is still high, still hot. That tell tale sting is starting to spread across your shoulders, the heat clawing at your skin.

But still, you don’t move.

“I’m too comfortable,” you mumble into your arms.

Behind you, there’s a pause. A quiet snort. The soft click of a bottle opening.

“Then don’t move,” Jungkook says. “I’ve got it.”

You could say no. Could roll away, wave him off, insist on doing it yourself. But you don’t. Whether it’s the heat, the sleep still clinging to your limbs, or just the fact that resisting feels like more effort than it’s worth — you stay where you are.

You hear him kneel beside you in the sand, shifting his weight until his shadow falls across your back.

A second later, the first touch of sunscreen lands cool and smooth on your skin, right between your shoulder blades. His hands follow, spreading it across your back with steady, practiced pressure.

You tense at first, your body instinctively stiffening beneath the weight of his palms. But it’s not like you don’t know how he touches. You do. That knowledge is in your bones, no matter how much time has passed.

He’s methodical about it. No lingering, no hesitation — just slow, firm strokes. Across your shoulders. Down the curve of your spine. It doesn't feel like anything more than it is. It shouldn't.

Still, you keep your face turned away, your sunglasses hiding the part of you that can’t stop reading into this.

He’s just doing it to show the others.

His hand drags slightly higher, toward the back of your neck — just above where your bikini strap cuts across your skin — and slows.

His fingers brush lightly over the spot where your tattoo is inked into your skin: small, fine-lined, nothing dramatic. Just a single, understated flower.

His birth flower. A small tiger lily.

He’s quiet for a beat. Long enough that you notice.

It was years ago. You’d gotten them together after a night out with the group — a bit drunk and feeling impulsive. You’d been walking past a tiny tattoo studio near campus while on the way home, a place you’d both seen a hundred times but never gone into. And for some reason that night, you did.

It was an idea that made sense at the time.

He has your birth flower on the back of his neck too, low enough to hide beneath the collar of a hoodie. Yours a mirror of his, but a small bit higher.

You never talked about what they meant. Not out loud. They weren’t anything too special. Just... markers of time. Of who you were to each other then.

And now here he is, brushing sunscreen over it like he’s trying not to think about the fact that it’s still there.

You feel his fingers hesitate — just for a second — right over the ink. His thumb grazes the edge of it, subtle enough that you almost miss it. But you don’t. You feel everything.

Then he clears his throat softly and moves on, his hands smoothing down the rest of your back with the same quiet efficiency as before. Like nothing happened. Like it didn’t matter.

And maybe it doesn’t.

But the tension in your jaw says otherwise.

By the time he’s finished, your skin feels slick and protected, the burn averted. But something else lingers — not on your back, but under your ribs. Low and restless.

"Thanks," you mumble.

He lets out a small hum in response, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. For a second, you think he's going to say something, but instead, he scoots over to his own towel placed a few feet away from yours.

Minutes slip by in a blur of warmth and white noise.

You stay there, cheek pressed against the crook of your arm, letting the sun soak into your back. The sounds around you start to flatten — laughter, crashing waves, the thump of footsteps on sand — all melting together into something distant and slow. You’re not sure how long you lie there, half-awake, thoughts drifting somewhere between now and then, between what was and what isn’t anymore.

You don’t notice the shape that settles beside you until it casts a shadow across your towel.

“Wow,” Kiara says, dropping onto the sand with a dramatic exhale, “you’ve been so boring today.”

You lift your head slightly, squinting at her through your sunglasses. “Rude.”

“I’m serious,” she says, unbothered, propping herself up on her elbows. “You’re usually all over the place. But today?” She sighs. “Nothing. It’s been tragic.”

You snort, the sound muffled by your arm. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, nudging your leg lightly with hers. “You’re throwing off the group dynamic."

You laugh for real this time — small, but genuine — and lift yourself slightly off your towel. Your head feels better, the pressure dulled to a faint hum. Manageable.

"You are good though, right?"

“I’m fine,” you say, rubbing at your temple with the back of your hand. “Just needed a break.”

“Well,” she drawls, sitting upright, “if you’re feeling human again, please tell me you’ll play one more round of volleyball.”

You blink. “Volleyball?”

“Yes,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “We need even teams, and I’m tired of getting stuck with Taehyung. He's genuinely a lost cause.”

You hesitate, and she watches you closely. Then, with a tilt of her head, she adds, “If you're feeling well, that is. Jungkook said that you had a headache earlier. He told all of us to keep it down when he saw you walking out, so I figured you were dying or something.”

“Oh,” you say, voice a little thinner than you’d like. “Right.” You force a breath through your nose. “I’m okay now. The nap helped.”

“Good,” she grins, bright and unbothered. “Because I refuse to lose to Jimin and this asshole again." She glances over at Jungkook with narrowed eyes, and you hear him chuckle. "My dignity can’t handle it," she adds, voice dropping a tiny bit.

You laugh and push yourself upright, brushing sand from your arms. “Fine. But Kiara, if someone spikes the ball at my face, you'll be the one that ends up dead.”

She beams, grabbing your hand and pulling you up to your feet. “No promises, but sure.”

She lets go of your hand as soon as you’re steady, then turns and jogs toward Hoseok to try and convince him to play too.

You dust off your legs with a sigh, flexing your toes in the warm sand. The heat radiates up through your soles, grounding. The sun is relentless now, painting everything in gold and glare.

You glance sideways toward the towel a few feet away.

Jungkook is still there, stretched out on his back with one arm slung across his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun. From here, he looks peaceful. Like the ocean and the warmth and the quiet are all he needs.

You hesitate, then step closer.

“You playing?” you ask, voice light, careful.

Jungkook peeks one eye open, blinking up at you. “Nah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Too tired.”

You pause. Your first instinct is to roll your eyes. Maybe push. Maybe say something along the lines of 'Scared I'll beat you?'

But you don’t.

You open your mouth, but the words dry up before they form. Instead, you just give him a simple, “Alright.”

You turn toward the lazy line drawn into the sand (their version of a volleyball net), pretending you don’t hear the voice in your head asking why you even bothered in the first place.

It's not like you care.

You’re sitting on the edge of the pool, ankles skimming the surface, the pads of your feet just brushing cool water. There’s a half-empty glass of something fruity beside you on the tile. Hoseok’s cracking up mid-story, animated like always, throwing his arms out as he re-enacts some tragic college memory that has you clutching your stomach with laughter.

You’re glowing. Not in the cliché way — not some poetic, golden-hour kind of glow — but in that real, visceral way you used to around him. Like the air is lighter in your lungs when you’re surrounded by the people who get you. Like joy just leaks out of you without asking for permission.

And Jungkook?

He sits beside you. A little too close. Not close enough.

His legs are in the water too, knees bent, toes flexing every now and then as Namjoon speaks beside him, something low and thoughtful and typical of Namjoon — philosophy or music or that book he never shuts up about. Jungkook nods, murmurs something back, throws a quiet smile when Namjoon teases him for zoning out, but his attention never really leaves you.

You.

Laughing like you used to, shoulders shaking, head thrown back.

You reach out mid-laugh, fingers curling instinctively around Hoseok’s arm as you recover, and Jungkook’s heart does this pathetic little stutter in his chest. It shouldn’t matter. He knows that. Hoseok is family — your friend, his friend, everyone’s friend — and nothing more. But it’s the way you touch. So easy. So natural. So unguarded.

Like the version of you that still belongs to everyone else hasn’t changed.

The version of you he gets, though?

Guarded. Quiet. Careful.

And he deserves it. He knows that.

But still, it hurts.

It’s stupid, really. How he sits here, nodding along to a conversation he’s not even hearing, all while tracking your every laugh like it’s the air he breathes; like he’s parched and it’s the only thing that could quench it.

He doesn’t mean to do it. He tries to stop. But it’s been a month — just a month — and already he’s forgotten how to breathe in a world where your joy doesn’t belong to him.

Your fingers swipe at your eyes, wiping away tears from the laughter, and Jungkook can’t help but notice how your guard drops when you’re surrounded by them. How you’ve drawn a clear line around him, and only him.

You talk to everyone but him with that voice. The one that dances. The one he used to fall asleep to on long nights when sleep wouldn’t come unless your words wrapped around the edges of his mind first.

Now?

You barely look at him unless you have to.

Even now, you’re angled slightly away. Just enough to remind him that he lost access to something no one else even realises is sacred.

And he let it happen.

He chose this. And fuck, does he regret it.

It’s a strange kind of punishment — being near you like this. Close enough to hear your laughter, to count the freckles on your shoulders, to smell the sunscreen on your skin — and still feel completely shut out. He’s sitting in the middle of everything, surrounded by friends, summer heat, fading sun — and yet all he can think about is how badly he wants to reach for you, and how he can’t.

A splash breaks Jungkook out of his thoughts, followed by a sharp, familiar voice.

“Jimin, seriously, if you drop that in—”

“I’m not gonna drop it!”

He twists just slightly enough to see Jimin in the pool, chest deep, both arms stretched upward to keep Yasmine’s baby pink digital camera above the water. The strap is wrapped twice around his wrist, but he still moves like the thing’s made of glass, carefully navigating the shallow end of the pool.

He’s grinning, eyes curled into crescent moons behind the camera as he wades closer.

“Smile!” he shouts, voice echoing a little off the tile.

Jungkook barely has enough time to throw up a casual peace sign before the shutter snaps.

Jimin squints at the screen, adjusting the angle slightly before lifting the camera again.

“One more! The lighting’s really good right now.”

The sky is washed in that honey-orange haze that only happens for a few precious minutes before dusk. The pool reflects it all — golden ripples catching light, soft shadows stretching across the deck.

You sit still beside Jungkook, your laughter cooling into a smile. Your hand brushes your hair back absently, and it takes everything in him not to follow the movement.

Jimin lowers the camera again, brows lifting. “Wait, I wanna get one of just you two."

You hesitate, eyes flicking toward Jungkook for the briefest second. He meets your gaze and he can see the hesitance swimming in your mind.

But before he can open his mouth to tell Jimin that the picture isn't needed, you adjust your legs, turning slightly so your shoulder brushes his.

It’s not much. But it’s not nothing.

Jungkook lifts an arm, pausing for half a second, then lets his hand settle at your waist, fingers just grazing the curve of your side.

You lean into his touch, your shoulder slipping under his arm, your hand moving to rest on his knee, and Jungkook's heart trips. No warning, no rhythm. It just skips — sharp and stupid and immediate.

Because this feels familiar. And fuck, he’s missed this.

“Okay,” Jimin calls. “Say cheese!”

You smile.

Click.

He turns his head ever so slightly to sneak a glance at you, and his breath catches.

Your smile isn’t fake. Not forced. Not the stiff, polite kind you’ve been tossing his way when the group’s looking. It’s real — soft and bright, with your eyes crinkling at the corners and your nose doing that little scrunch it always does when you’re genuinely happy. Your eyelashes catch the light, casting faint shadows on your cheeks.

Click.

The sound barely fades before something reckless flickers in Jungkook.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, like he’s grounding himself, or maybe trying to stop himself from doing exactly what he’s about to do. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s not entitled to moments like this anymore.

But God, you’re right there. Glowing. Laughing like you used to. And it’s killing him.

He watches the way your lips part slightly after your smile, the way your eyes dart to the camera and then away again. You look happy — not with him, but still. And it’s that exact version of you he aches for. The one that used to look at him like that on purpose.

He should look away.

He should remember that you're not his anymore. That whatever you're doing right now — playing pretend, leaning into the role for the sake of everyone else — isn’t real.

He tells himself not to do it.

Tells himself to breathe. To sit still. To just let this moment exist without taking anything from it.

But he doesn’t listen.

He never could, when it comes to you.

So before he can think twice — before reason has a chance to claw its way back in — he leans in, slow and quiet and aching.

And presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s soft. A touch more than a breath, less than a second.

His lips barely linger, but it’s enough. Enough to remember. Enough to want

Click.

To his surprise, you don’t flinch or pull away.

You just… sit there. Letting it happen.

Jimin chirps something about the photo, already moving on, flipping the camera around to show Taehyung and Yasmine as they ask him to take a similar picture of them too.

But Jungkook barely hears them.

He can’t hear much over the pounding in his chest, anyway. Can’t think beyond the feel of your skin under his lips, the way your shoulder fit under his arm like it still belongs there. Like nothing’s changed.

Maybe that’s why his voice comes out quieter than he means it to.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Habit.”

You don’t look at him. But you don’t move away either. Your hand stays on his knee, almost as if you know that the second either of you move, the moment is over.

The air goes still between you. And for the first time all day, Jungkook lets himself breathe.

Not fully. Not the kind of breath that fills your lungs and clears your head. But something. Something real enough that it almost feels like hope.

Then you shift.

Just slightly.

Your hand slides off his knee, fingers brushing the fabric of his shorts as you pull away.

You stand up slowly, brushing the back of your hand across your cheek where he kissed you, like you’re wiping away sweat — or maybe just trying to reset the moment.

You don’t say anything. Just pick up your drink, half-finished and watered down by melted ice, and move toward Haeun and Ari near the deep end who welcome you with a small wave of their fingers.

Jungkook watches you go.

He should feel stupid. Regretful. Humiliated, even. But he doesn’t. Not really.

Because for one second — just one — you didn’t pull away.

You let him exist beside you. With you. Like maybe some part of you remembered, too.

And maybe that means nothing.

Maybe it was just muscle memory.

But maybe — maybe — there’s still something left to hold onto.

Even if it hurts.

Even if it’s only for one more week.

Even if all he gets now are seconds.

And he’ll take them.

Because when it comes to you, he always would.

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[generouspursethingbat]

死 KKANGPAE | #17 死

† bedroom confessions †

“His real name is the most dangerous thing he’s ever given you.”

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 7.5k

rating: explicit (18+)

content: first time in jeon’s bedroom, real name revelation, sexual tension finally exploding, dirty talk that’ll make you blush, spanking kink discovery, emotional walls starting to crack, post-sex vulnerability, and lines being crossed that can never be uncrossed.

☠ author's note ☠

Y’ALL I’M DECEASED. Just casually writing 7.5k of filth like it’s nothing. Who even am I at this point? My laptop is judging me, my FBI agent is traumatized, and I haven’t made eye contact with my roommate in three days.

So… that happened. Jungkook finally shared his real name AND his bed, and honestly? The power that man holds when he’s being all dominant and teasing is absolutely CRIMINAL. I had to take several water breaks while writing this chapter because WHEW. Is it hot in here or is it just me? (¬‿¬)

The fact that Jungkook’s idea of aftercare is literally “wanna stay connected all night?” has me HOLLERING. Sir, that is NOT how this works—but also it’s so perfectly HIM. Our emotionally stunted sniper boy doesn’t know how to process feelings unless they’re shooting through a rifle scope.

And Y/N with the attitude even DURING sex? A queen behavior. Standing ovation for not becoming a complete puddle the second he touched her (though let’s be real, it was close).

Let’s also talk about how they can’t stop BANTERING even post-orgasm. These two idiots calling it “charity work” when they’re both equally obsessed with each other? THE DELUSION. I love them so much it physically hurts my face.

I know I promised slow burn but uh… Listen. LISTEN. It’s an EMOTIONALLLL slow burn. The fuck buddies tag is there for a reason. Sometimes characters just take over and you have to let them bang it out, you know? It’s for their mental health or whatever.

Don’t get too comfortable though! We all know what happens in this universe when people get too happy… the universe (aka me, their cruel god) decides to throw a wrench in everything. ⌒(o＾▽＾o)ノ

Next chapter will give us a little morning-after situation and maybe even some actual plot development if I can stop writing smut for five seconds!

Love ya, trauma vultures! Keep those comments coming, they fuel my sleep-deprived writing sessions!

xoxo 💋

P.S. Also, for the hate comment I deleted 5 seconds after it was posted (you tried though)… here's an even longer author's note, since yk, like you said, nobody reads them… More for me to yap without consequences, I guess.

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're in Jeon's room. 

Jeon's fucking room. 

When he'd texted you to come to the shooting range earlier, you'd figured it was just another one of his typical late-night training sessions. 

But now? Now you're here, on his bed , with him standing over you like he’s already decided you’re his next target.

Like you’re already dead and just haven’t figured it out yet.

Okay, maybe a tiny part of you had hoped for this. (Shut up , horny brain.)

But you'd only agreed to be fuck buddies like, what, some hours ago?

And here you are already, sprawled across his sheets, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.

Talk about moving fast.

Except it isn't simple. Not when you're already spread out across his bed like you fucking live here. Not when your heart's kicking like a scared rabbit in your chest.

Your fingers curl into his sheets on reflex. Satin. Dark. Smells like pine and something sharper—pine. Him. God, that should not do things to you but it does.

You fight the dumb grin twitching at the corner of your mouth.

Because here's the thing.

He's just as gone for it.

Jeon's staring down at you like he hasn't eaten in days. Dark eyes locked on you like you're dinner and dessert and every guilty pleasure combined. There's no hesitation. No second-guessing. No going slow. Just that razor-focused, dangerous glint he always gets before pulling the trigger on a mark.

And Jesus Christ, you're the mark.

Your breath catches.

That stormy energy of his? It's fucking alive. Wrapping around you. Crawling over your skin. You feel it. You taste it. Static in the air—sharp, biting, almost buzzing in your goddamn teeth.

His fingers graze your thigh and oh. 

That's nice. Really nice. 

But before you can really enjoy it, he pulls his hand away. Plants it on the mattress by your head, making the bed creak under his weight.

You snap your head up in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Your voice cracks. Great. Love that for you.

But then his other hand comes up—slides along your jaw like he owns you. Fingers rough. Callused. Deadly. And all you can do is stare like a fucking idiot as his thumb presses against your bottom lip. Tugging. Testing.

You go pliant before you even process it. Lips parting on instinct.

His mouth opens just a little—like he's picturing it. Like he wants to taste you. Swallow you whole.

And goddamn it, you want that too.

So bad it hurts.

Is he imagining what it'd be like to kiss you? 'Cause you sure as hell are.

"You sure you can handle the kind of tension relief I'm talking about?" he asks, voice low and gravelly. 

You almost laugh. As if you haven't been thinking about this exact scenario for weeks. 

"Guess you'll have to show me so I can decide, huh?"

That does it. 

He moves. Fast.

You barely register it before he's already there—mouth crashing into yours like he's starving. Teeth. Tongue. Fucking warzone.

There's no slow build-up. No teasing. Just pure, raw take.

Your breath punches out of you as you grab for him. Instinct. Desperation. Your fingers slip into his hair—damp, messy, soft as hell. You tug. Hard.

He groans into your mouth. Loud. Deep. Way too fucking hot. It rips down your spine like lightning.

You bite his lip just to feel him suck in air through his teeth. God, that sound—that sound—shoots straight to your core. Your legs twitch under him, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache.

It doesn't work. Makes it worse.

Jeon doesn't let you off easy either. He dives back in. Deeper this time. Tongue claiming, swallowing every shaky breath you give him like he owns them now.

His body shifts—presses down harder—pinning you to the mattress without saying a single word. Your back arches up like a fucking reflex. Can't help it.

And then, just as fast, he pulls back.

Forehead against yours. Breath ragged. Lips slick and swollen.

His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile.

You're no better. Gasping. Throat dry. Pulse wrecked.

"We doing this?" he asks. 

Not really a question. He knows. You both know. Still—he waits.

And maybe it's stupid how much that makes your throat go tight.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. "Yes."

One word. That's all it takes for Jeon's eyes to darken further.

His mouth finds yours again, but only for a moment. Then he's moving—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. When his teeth graze below your ear, a small gasp leaves your throat.

Fuck.

The sound does something to him. You can tell by the way his fingers dig into your hip, how his breath comes out just a bit harsher against your skin.

His other hand slides down your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to touch as much of you as possible. The shirt bunches up with the movement. 

More skin exposed to the cool air of his room. More of you for him to explore.

You can barely breathe right. Every inhale is shallow, desperate. A whine builds in your throat, needy and embarrassing, but you're too far gone to care. You want more. More of his hands on you, more of his mouth, more of the way he's practically caging you in with his body.

He makes this sound—low and satisfied, almost like a growl—that has heat pooling between your legs.

"Jeon," you breathe out. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. 

"Jungkook," he corrects, voice rough with want. "My real name is Jungkook. Say it like that again."

Your breath catches. Using real names in Kkangpae isn't something you take lightly. It's intimate. Personal. A sign of trust that goes beyond the physical.

"Jungkook," you say again, louder this time. Testing how it feels on your tongue. 

The way his eyes darken tells you everything you need to know about how it sounds to him.

He growls—actually growls, okay paw patrol?—at that, like your voice saying his name is doing things to him. Like he can't get enough of it.

God. The way he's looking at you right now.

"Turn over for me," he murmurs like a command, but there's something patient in his voice. "I need to see that ass."

Your whole body feels like jelly as you move. The mattress dips beneath you, and fuck—you realize how exposed you are right now, laid out for him like this. How vulnerable. 

How wanted.

"Ass up, sunshine," he says, voice raspy.

You push yourself up on your elbows, lifting your hips. The position makes you feel s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, but it also feels slightly intoxicating, being on display like this, knowing exactly what it's doing to him.

The sharp intake of his breath is worth it.

His hands hover over you for a moment—those same hands that can take a life from a mile away with a sniper rifle now ghosting across your skin. The anticipation has your stomach in knots, has you fighting the urge to push back against him.

When he finally touches you, it's almost reverent. Like he's mapping out territory he plans to claim.

"Fuck," he breathes out; and the way he says it—like a prayer, like worship—makes your face burn. "You have no idea what your ass does to me."

His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, kneading with the kind of expertise that makes you wonder h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ if he's thought about this before. 

You have to press your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape your throat. 

Because if you start, you're not sure you'll be able to stop.

He takes his time, methodical in a way that's driving you insane. His thumbs spread you open, then let you fall back together. His hands work their way, massaging and squeezing. The heat under your skin builds until you feel like you might combust. Like you might actually catch fire right here in his bed.

"Such a perfect ass," he groans, and then—oh—his lips are pressing against one cheek, then the other. Soft kisses that feel somehow filthier than anything else he's done. "Fucking beautiful."

The praise hits different when it's coming from him. When it's Jungkook—cold, distant, perfectionist Jungkook—telling you how perfect you are.

When he pulls back, the loss of contact hits different. Like someone just yanked a warm blanket off you.

"I want to try something," he says, and okay, when his voice sounds like that you'd say yes to almost anything he'd say. 

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy, but at this point you're too curious (too turned on) to give a single fuck.

His hand traces up your spine, gentle in a way that doesn't match how intensely he's staring at you. The contrast makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"I want to spank that gorgeous ass of yours." 

It comes out like a confession, like he's been thinking about this for a while. There's a question mark hanging at the end of it though, waiting for your permission.

Oh.

Something hot and electric zips through you at the suggestion. Your brain staggers for a second, but your body's already made up its mind. You're nodding before you can even process what this means.

"Let's do it," you say, maybe too eagerly, but the thought of his hand coming down on your ass has lit something up inside you that you didn't even know was there.

"Remember our safe word?"

Even in the middle of this is, he's making sure you're both on the same page.

"Black tape," you confirm immediately. 

Having that word there, knowing you can use it anytime—it's like a safety net. Makes everything else feel okay.

"Good."

He positions himself behind you again, and the anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you crazy. His hand hovers over your skin, making you feel every inch of exposed flesh. 

Then, the first spank lands.

It's almost gentle—like he's testing the waters, seeing how you'll react.

The sound it makes in the quiet room has your face burning.

Sharp. Clean. Loud. 

Your skin blooms with heat where his palm connected, and fuck—it's not exactly painful, but it sends this electric feeling through your whole body that has you gasping. The sting melts into something warmer, spreading under your skin until you feel like you're floating.

Your face burns. 

And... It's not from pain.

Obviously, he's watching you like a hawk, trying to read your reaction. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and intense.

"How was that?" His voice comes out rough, like he's the one who just got spanked.

You have to take a second to remember how words work.

"Good," you manage to get out, barely above a whisper. "Really good."

He gives you time to process, to just feel it. Then his palm is back on your ass, but this time he's not spanking. He's just... touching. Soothing the heated skin with gentle strokes that somehow feel more intimate than the spank itself.

It's messing with your head—how he can switch from rough to gentle so fast. One second he's spanking you, the next he's treating you like you're made of glass.

The air feels exactly like right before a storm hits. 

Jungkook's presence behind you is overwhelming in the best way, and when his hand moves away, you actually have to bite back a whine.

Every second he makes you wait feels like torture. You arch your back a little, trying to be s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ subtle about asking for more. You can't see his face, but you know he's smirking. 

You've seen that look enough times to picture it perfectly—that cocky little quirk of his lips, the way his eyes get all dark and intense.

"Ready for another?" he asks, voice gone all gravelly; and it shouldn't be hot, but it is.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest when you nod. "Yes."

Waiting has has your skin tingling, has you holding your breath without even meaning to.

You can feel him shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he draws his arm back. 

When his palm connects this time, it's not a question—it's a statement. 

The smack echoes off the walls, louder than before, and holy shit.

"Fuck," you gasp out. 

It stings more this time, sharp and intense, but in a way that makes everything feel unfairly good.

"How does that feel?" His words drip with arousal, but there's still that undercurrent of concern. 

Always checking, always making sure.

"Nice," you hear yourself say, and you're surprised by how eager you sound. Like you can't get enough. "Keep going."

There's a pause, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"As you wish," he finally says, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smirking.

He pulls back again, and like the asshole he is, he makes you wait a little bit.

Not for long though, because clearly, the fucker is enjoying this too.

When the third spank lands, it's like a lightning bolt straight to your core. It's stronger, more controlled, and the pleasure that rips through you is so intense it steals your breath. 

You cry out—not from pain, but from how good it feels. 

How it makes your whole body sing.

This time, his hand stays put. You can feel the heat of his palm against your stinging skin, and it's grounding in a way you didn't know you needed.

"Beautiful," he breathes out, like you're some kind of work of art.

You hadn't pegged Jungkook as the type to be into this kind of thing. But the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hand as it rests on your ass—it's like he's discovering something about himself right along with you.

Maybe it's a spanking thing. Or maybe it's just a you thing.

Or your ass thing. 

Either way, the realization that you're affecting him this much? 

Heady. Bargaining material. 

His fingers start tracing patterns on your heated skin, soothing the sting. Again with the contrast, from the spanking to this. Like he's not quite sure himself where he stands.

"You okay?"

You nod into the pillow, not trusting your voice right now. 

Because how do you tell someone that you're more than okay? That you're floating on some kind of pleasure high you didn't even know existed?

And honestly, this whole situation is simply making it hard to think straight. 

But then, Jungkook moves, slowly, creates some distance and—oh? 

A soft thud. His towel hitting the floor. 

He steps closer once more, bare skin against yours, and it's hot. He's hot. His skin is hot.

His body is all hard lines pressed up against your softer curves, and when his cock presses against your panties, you actually have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

You push back against him without thinking. 

S̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ Needy.

"You're driving me fucking crazy," he makes this sound you can't quite classify.

The raw want in his voice does things to you. But before you can even think of responding, his hand comes down on your ass again. 

Hard.

The sound echoes through his room, and you can't help the moan that slips out.

(Anyone walking past his door would definitely hear that one.)

"Tell me you felt that," he demands.

"I felt it," you manage to get out between breaths. "I felt all of it."

Then his free hand wraps around your waist, fingers spreading wide like he's trying to conquer as much of your body as possible. He pulls you closer, and god—you can feel every inch of his cock pressed against you through the thin fabric of your panties. 

The contrast between his rough skin and the smooth material is driving you insane.

"You want more?" 

He's trying to sound teasing, but you can hear how affected he is. His voice is multiple octaves deeper than his usual 'whatever' tone.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out wrecked. "Don't stop."

He laughs—this low, dangerous sound that makes your toes curl. "God, I love how eager you are."

His hand comes down hard—harder than before—and the sound echoes through his room like a gunshot. You can't help the groan that rips from your throat. It's embarrassingly loud, but who cares at this point?

The sting burns hot across your skin, sharp and biting, sinking deeper until it melts into that aching pulse you can’t get enough of. You can feel exactly where his palm landed, the heat of it sinking deep into your flesh.

"Christ, you take it so well," he says, and his fingers dig into the spot he just spanked, pressure making you bite your lip. "I can see the shape of my hand on your ass, turning red. It's fucking sexy."

You're breathing like you just ran a marathon, each exhale coming out kind of whiny and desperate. Your brain’s mush. All you can register is his hands and the heat of him grinding against you.

"Jungkook, please." The way you say his name is straight-up pathetic, way too needy. 

You push back against him, wanting to feel him without these stupid panties in the way.

His fingers trail down your spine, so slow it’s infuriating. They dance over the curve of your ass before playing with the edge of your underwear. When his fingers finally hook into the fabric, you freeze, chest tightening as he pulls the fabric aside.

Your face is pressed into his mattress, ass up in the air like some kind of offering. You should feel exposed, but something about it just feels right.

"You're already so wet for me..." You can hear the smirk in his voice. What an asshole. "How can I resist?"

But he does resist, the bastard.

His touch goes all gentle, fingers just barely exploring your folds like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's trying to memorize every little detail—how wet you are, how warm, the way you can't help but tremble. 

He then makes this approving sound deep in his throat and you've had enough.

"Jungkook," you whine, dragging out his name like some kind of desperate prayer. "Stop teasing."

"But I want to watch you squirm," he says, and fuck—you can tell he means it. 

He wants to see you fall apart, wants to watch you beg.

What a bitch. 

His sadistic little game only gets worse when you complain. You can feel his finger right there, barely touching where you need him most, just collecting evidence of how embarrassingly wet you are. The anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you insane as he slides that finger up and down, parting you without actually giving you what you want. Using your own arousal to make the glide easier.

You try to push back against him, to get his finger inside you—anything. But his other hand is pressed firm against your lower back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me already," you can't help but groan, frustrated. 

But Jungkook—because he's a bastard—just keeps playing his little game.

"I'll fuck you when you're ready to break from wanting it so bad," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. 

He loves it. 

His finger circles your entrance, the touch so light it's actually torture. Every time he passes over that spot, you clench around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you.

When he finally pushes just the tip of his finger in, you actually sigh out loud—half relief, half frustration. Your whole body's shaking with how bad you need more, but he keeps holding back. Adding pressure so slowly it should be illegal, pushing in just to pull back out again.

He's drawing this out just because he can, the power-tripping dickhead.

The pressure builds just a tiny bit as he shows you the smallest amount of mercy, sliding that one finger in entirely so slow you think you might actually lose your mind. 

It's not enough—nowhere near enough—and he knows it. 

You want him to stop being so careful, to just take what you're offering.

Despite how frustrated you are (or maybe because of it), you can't help but smirk. 

"What, you got no condoms this time either?"

The words come out all breathy between your gritted teeth—and honestly? Not your brightest idea, bringing up that particular memory from the tent.

The response is immediate—his hand comes down hard on your ass, sting spreading across your skin like wildfire.

"Aw, what the fuck—?" 

You yelp, caught between the sharp pain and how embarrassingly turned on it makes you feel—like your body can't decide if it wants to flinch away or push back for more.

"You should know better than to sass me right now."

Then his hand is smoothing over the spot he just spanked, gentle in a way that feels almost worse than the hit itself.

"You're such an asshole," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it. 

You both know you don't mean it, not when you're bent over his bed with his finger inside you.

"Mhm, but you fucking love it, don't you?" 

He says it like it's just a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and you get off on him being a dick.

(The worst part is he's not wrong.)

You can't help but grown more impatient when you feel his ring finger press up against your entrance, right next to where his middle finger is already buried inside you. He pauses there, just letting you feel the pressure.

"For fuck's sake, just do it." Your voice cracks embarrassingly, giving away just how bad you want it.

He laughs, low and rough. "Patience, I want you to feel every single inch."

Can he die? Genuinely. 

Then the pressure builds as he starts working his ring finger in alongside the other one. He's being so fucking methodical about it, pushing deeper into you at a pace that's making you lose your mind. 

Every inch feels like it takes forever.

"You feel so fucking tight, you sure you can handle both?"

The teasing note in his voice makes you want to bite him. He already knows the answer, the smug bastard.

"I can take more than you can give," you get out between breaths, because fuck him.

And it's meant to be cocky, but it comes out sounding more desperate than anything.

"We'll see about that."

His fingers stop moving for a second—just long enough to make you whine—before he starts pushing in even slower. Like he's trying to make you feel every single movement, every stretch, every slide.

And at this point your body's on fucking fire. But can you be to blame, when he's been nothing but an infuriating tease?

Little pleading sounds keep escaping your throat without permission. You're practically chanting 'please's as you try to push back against his hand. But he's got you pinned, keeping that torturously slow pace.

"Fucking... jerk," you mutter—because he absolutely is. 

"Yeah," he agrees. "I am."

When both his fingers finally—finally—bottom out inside you, you actually gasp. Your body clenches around them greedily, trying to get any kind of movement, and the grunt he lets out sounds s̶e̶x̶y̶ pleased.

"Tell me how much you want it."

It's not a request. His voice has that edge to it that makes it very clear.

"I want it more than my next breath." The words tumble out raw and honest.

"Good girl," he says, and even though it's rough around the edges, the praise makes you stutter.

His fingers curl inside you, making you moan embarrassingly loud. Then the bastard just... stops. Stays completely still, letting you feel exactly how deep his fingers are, how they're stretching you open.

You're actually going to lose your mind if he doesn't start moving soon. But you refuse to beg—you won't give him the satisfaction.

"I think listening to you beg is my new favorite sound," he says, like he can read your thoughts.

"Fuck off—" The words die in your throat when his fingers pull back just a tiny bit before pushing deep again, and yup, the sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up pathetic.

"You're driving me insane," you tell him, trying to sound angry.

"That's the idea." He says, but it's all dark and pleased. "I want you out of your mind with need, so when I finally give you what you're begging for, you'll remember who put you there."

Fuck.

His fingers are still buried deep inside you, not moving, and you can feel every single knuckle. It's like a preview of what's coming later—a promise that this is just the start, and he's planning to take his sweet time getting there.

The seconds drag by like hours. You're stuck in this weird space between pleasure and frustration, where his fingers feel so good but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough. The heat of his body against yours isn't helping either. Having him this close but not getting what you want is actually torture.

"Are you planning on moving anytime this century?"

And yeah. It sounds bitchy. 

Exactly how you want it.

"In due time."

You can barely breathe right, desperation clawing at your throat. Then—oh—his finger brushes against your clit, so light you almost think you imagined it. Your hips jerk without permission, chasing that barely-there touch.

"Jungkook," you warn, half-growl, half-whine.

He chuckles. "No patience at all, huh?"

"Just fucking touch me already." The snark in your voice is falling apart, giving way to pure need.

"Ahh, I love it when you get all feisty."

You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove that smugness, but then his finger is back on your clit. 

Just ghosting over it, barely any pressure at all. 

But your whole body lights up anyway, every nerve ending suddenly wide awake.

"This is torture," you accuse, though the breathiness in your voice kind of ruins the effect.

"Not torture. Appreciation." He hums. "I'm just enjoying all those pretty sounds you make. The way you shake. How desperate you get."

Bastard.

His finger starts moving in slow circles around your clit, adding just a tiny bit more pressure. It's enough to make your back arch, trying to get more friction, but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough.

"Please," you whine, past caring how needy you sound. "Just—a little harder, please, Jungkook."

He gives you what you asked for—barely. 

Just a fraction more pressure, but combined with his fingers still buried inside you, it's enough to make your body clench around him. 

He's got you trapped between pleasure and frustration, keeping you right on that edge.

"This what you want?" he asks, mocking. "This pace good for you, hmm?"

You know exactly what he's doing—getting off on your impatience, on how desperate he can make you with just his fingers and that stubborn w̶i̶l̶l̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶ control of his. 

The pressure on your clit keeps changing, going from barely-there touches that make you want to scream to just enough to have you chasing more.

"Jungkook, I fucking swear—" 

The words die in your throat when his finger suddenly presses harder.

"What?" His voice drops even lower, hitting that dangerous note that usually means he's about to stop playing nice. "What exactly are you swearing?"

"That I'll rip your fucking hair out if you don't stop messing around." You have to grit your teeth to get the words out, trying to sound threatening even though you're literally shaking with need.

He laughs—this deep, dark sound that vibrates through you—and rewards your threat with a firm stroke that has heat coiling in your stomach.

"That's not very nice," he says, but he sounds more amused than anything. Like your empty threats are entertaining him.

His finger goes back to those slow, torturous circles around your clit. Each pass builds the pressure a little more, but it's never quite enough to get you there.

The most f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ messed up part? You're kind of into it. 

This whole power play thing you've got going—how you push and he pulls, how you threaten and he teases. 

It's addictive. 

Because in truth, there is something powerful about knowing you can make Jeon Jungkook, Kkangpae's perfect soldier, want to hear you say his name.

Suddenly his whole rhythm changes. 

No more of that torturously slow pace—his fingers start moving with actual purpose, curling inside you in a way that has your toes curling. Like he's finally done playing around and just wants to make you genuinely cum.

Hallelujah.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up filthy. You have to press your face into the mattress to muffle it, which only makes you more aware of how heavily you're breathing, each gasp basically fucking advertising how good his fingers feel.

"Come on, sunshine," he teases. "You don't have to be quiet. These walls are soundproof."

But you just press your face harder into the mattress. 

It's become a matter of pride now—you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing exactly what he's doing to you. 

You're right there, so close you can taste it—

And then the fucker stops.

A pathetic whimper leaves your throat as you squirm beneath him, feeling weirdly empty. The loss of sensation has you actually wanting to cry.

When you turn your head to glare at him, he's got this insufferably satisfied look on his face. 

He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer like he's got all the time in the world. The foil packet he holds up catches the light, and the victorious look he gives you makes you want to bite him.

"See, I do have condoms this time, you smart mouth." The smirk on his face should be illegal.

"Oh wow, look who's being a semi-functional adult for once." You narrow your eyes at him."Want a fucking gold star or something?"

He laughs whilst tearing the foil packet and for some reason, it is weirdly hot—how focused he looks while rolling the condom on.

"Maybe after this you'll want to give me one," he says, still sounding way too amused.

He settles back on his knees, raising an eyebrow at you like he's waiting for something. You huff, pretending to be all put out even though you're literally dying from how bad you want him. When you press your cheek against his cool sheets again, you make sure to arch your back just right.

You know exactly what that view does to him.

Feeling extra b̶r̶a̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, you wiggle your hips a little. Just a tiny movement, but it's basically saying 'come and get it' without words.

And bingo. 

His hand comes down on your ass hard—but despite that, you feel weirdly victorious. 

Then he's right there, lining himself up. 

His tip brushes against your entrance, teasing to the point of madness, because at this point you just want him inside already.

You bite down on the sheets, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again. But your body's giving you away anyway—the way you're trembling, how desperately you're trying to push back against him.

He takes his sweet time, just watching you. His eyes trail down your spine to where his handprints are probably turning your ass red. 

After what feels like forever, he finally pushes in, one smooth stroke that rips the air from your lungs.

And it's impossible to muffle yourself; even with your face squashed against the mattress, when he bottoms out completely. 

You feel every single inch of him, filling you up so completely it's genuinely insane. And he just stays there, buried deep inside you. 

"So fucking tight," he growls, sound vibrating through you, making your toes curl.

Your body moves on its own, pushing back against him, desperate for more. You need him to move, need that relentless pace you know he can give you. But the bastard just holds you there, completely still, making you feel every single detail of how he's splitting you open.

His fingers dig into your hips—not hard enough to leave marks (yet), but firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. And the slight bite of pain just adds to the pleasure, kind of welcome honestly. 

When he finally pulls back, you almost whine at the loss—but then he slams back in, hard and deep, and your brain melts. Everything gets kind of blurry after that.

Your skin feels like it's on fire everywhere he touches. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through his room (thank god these walls are actually soundproof), getting louder with each thrust. His pace is brutal, punishing, but it's exactly what you've been dying for.

"That's it, take all of it."

And there's just this thing in how he says it—that has you pushing back against him like you're desperate for it. 

(Maybe you are.)

Every thrust feels like getting hit by a natural disaster; like a fucking hurricane. It's hard to breathe, hard to think about anything except how he's driving you into the mattress.

He's fucking you like he's got something to prove, hips snapping forward so hard it's just obscene, has you clutching at his sheets like they're the only thing keeping you grounded.

Then his hand slides underneath you, looking for your clit. Like he knows exactly what you need without you voicing it out. 

The second he finds it and starts rubbing circles against it, electricity zips through your whole body. It's almost too much, the dual sensation of his cock stretching you open and his fingers working your clit.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you moan, and you barely recognize your own voice. "Don't stop."

He lets out this grunt that gets lost in the sound of him pounding into you. 

But he listens, thank god, keeping up that relentless pace with both his cock and his fingers.

It's not gentle. He's fucking you like he wants to break you, like he wants to hear every embarrassing sound he can wring out of your throat.

"Just like that, sunshine," he pants. "Fucking take it."

Each thrust builds something wild inside you, like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. The pressure coils tighter and tighter until you think you might actually lose your mind. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.

Your senses go into overdrive—the obscene sound of skin hitting skin, the heavy scent of sex filling his room, the salt of sweat on your tongue. You're drowning in pleasure, and Jungkook's the one holding you under with his relentless pace.

Then it hits.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, drawing these embarrassingly loud sounds from your throat—whimpers, growls, straight-up begging. Your body clamps down around his cock like it's trying to keep him there forever, fingers still working your clit through it all. Pleasure zips through every nerve ending until you can barely breathe.

"Jungkook—" His name rips from your throat when you come, sounding absolutely wrecked. 

The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts.

He falters for just a second before picking the pace back up, fucking you through your orgasm until you're seeing stars. Each stroke sets off these little aftershocks that have you questioning your sanity. His groans get louder, deeper, mixing with the sounds you can't help but make.

Every thrust hits exactly where you need it, precise and commanding in that way only he can manage.

You can feel how tense he is, how close he is to losing it.

His breathing comes out all rough and uneven, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks, using the grip to pull you back onto his cock like he can't get deep enough. 

It's feral, is what it is— how he's moving now—like he's completely lost in it, chasing his own pleasure.

"Shit, I'm close," he groans against your neck, chest pressed tight against your back, skin burning everywhere you touch.

Then he goes rigid as it hits him. 

You can feel every twitch of his cock, every pulse as he fills the condom.

He makes this plethora of sounds—deep, rough groans combined with some high pitched ones; all stripped away until he's just raw need and pleasure.

"Ah— fuck—"

Every curse that falls from his lips sounds snatched from him, desperate.

His hips stutter against yours, losing his rhythm as he rides it all out. His grip on your hips is tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he falls apart. Each thrust gets slower, like he's trying to make it last.

When he starts coming down from it, his hands go gentle where they were rough before. 

He's still panting hard against your neck, little aftershocks making his cock twitch inside you. His heart's hammering so hard you can feel it against your back.

Jungkook collapses against your back, his legs apparently giving out after how hard he just came. His chest is slick with sweat where it presses against you, and his breath fans hot across your neck. He's still buried inside you, cock softening but still making you feel so full. 

The sound he makes—this low, satisfied groan—is almost cute. Like a big cat after a good meal.

The afterglow starts to settle, leaving this heavy kind of quiet between you. Your breathing starts evening out, going from desperate gasping to something more normal. 

You both just... stay there for a minute, too worn out to move.

Then he just... drops his full weight on you. Like his arms finally give out or something.

The heat of his body wraps around you completely, and maybe it'd be nice if he wasn't crushing your lungs. 

His whole body is radiating exhaustion, and yeah—you get it. That was intense. 

"Jeon, move... you're heavy," you grunt into his pillow. 

Your voice comes out all rough from how loud you were being earlier.

"Give me a second," he mumbles against your skin, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. "You can't expect me to move after fucking you like that." 

He sounds half-joking, half-serious, nuzzling into your neck like he's planning to just stay there forever.

You can't help but laugh at that. Something about seeing Kkangpae's perfect soldier brought down by an orgasm is kind of hilarious. 

You shove at his side, trying to get him to budge.

He doesn't move an inch, the bastard. 

Instead, he has the audacity to suggest something so wild it's weirdly very him.

"How 'bout we fall asleep just like this, me still inside you?" His voice comes out all lazy and satisfied. 

You can tell he's half-joking, but there's this note in his voice that says he's actually considering it.

You reach back to smack him, caught between being annoyed and kind of endeared by how shameless he is. 

"Fat chance, thundercloud," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it. 

He laughs—this deep, warm sound that tells you he's smiling even though you can't see his face.

But you really can't breathe with him crushing you, so you push at him again, harder this time. "Seriously, off. You're heavy as fuck."

He makes this exaggerated groan like you're asking him to run a marathon or something, but finally rolls off you and onto his side. 

His cock slips out (and fuck, that's a weird feeling), and then he sprawls out next to you, throwing one arm over his face as he catches his breath. 

The sight of him like this—all tatted up and muscled, skin still kind of shiny with sweat—is doing things to your brain that you really don't want to examine too closely.

After a few more deep breaths, he sits up with this little sigh like moving is the worst thing ever. You watch him from the corner of your eye as he deals with the condom. 

There's something almost gentle about how he handles it, which is kind of funny considering how rough he w being just a minute ago. He ties it off and tosses it in the trash with this practiced little flick that says he's definitely done this before.

"So, you wanna cuddle?" The teasing in his voice is obvious. 

It's a callback to your conversation earlier, when you were both pretending this was just going to be sleeping.

"Seems like I'm not the one wanting to cuddle after all," you shoot back, matching his tone.

Jungkook gives you that smug little grin.

"Just doing some charity work," he says, voice all teasing and challenging, daring you to argue.

You can't help but scoff. The audacity of this man.

"Charity work? Please. If anyone's being charitable here, it's me."

He laughs—this deep, satisfied sound that fills his room. "Ha. Don't act like you didn't enjoy that just as much as I did."

Well. He's got you there, but you're not about to admit it out loud. Not when he's being this smug about it.

You tilt your head, feeling a crooked smile tug at your lips. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Guess we'll never know."

He shifts closer to you, and fuck—even after everything you just did, your body still reacts to his proximity.

"Maybe I need to fuck you again to find out," he says, voice dropping low enough to make heat pool in your stomach.

"Oh? You sure you can handle another round, tough guy?"

The smirk he gives you is absolutely criminal.

"Sunshine, I've got stamina for days." He says it like he's joking, but something tells you he's not exaggerating.

"For days, huh?" You raise an eyebrow. "Someone's confident."

"Because I know you," he says softly, words ghosting across your skin.

That makes you pause.

Know you? 

He doesn't know you any more than you know him. 

Sure, your bodies seem to speak the same language—the way you fit together, how you respond to each other's touch. 

But that's all this is. 

All it can be. 

Nothing more complicated than pure physical attraction.

But you don't feel like getting into that right now. Not when you're both still riding the high of what just happened.

"Tempting," you say instead, drawing the word out. "But we've got a long night ahead, and I'd rather spend it actually sleeping."

He narrows his eyes at you, looking way too pleased with himself. 

"My bed seems to be the only place you're actually honest," he says, and how does he always have a comeback ready?

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Was that supposed to be a compliment, Jeon? Getting soft on me already?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, putting on this fake serious face. "Can't have you thinking I actually enjoy your company or something."

"Oh, please. Soft is literally the last word I'd use to describe you." You can't help but smirk at the double meaning.

A yawn catches you off guard—not because you're tired (okay, maybe a little), but because you're actually kind of... comfortable?

Weird. 

"Anyway, time for sleep. That's what we said we'd do, remember?

He literally snorts. "Sleep? After what we just did? You're fucking with me."

"Not anymore, I'm not," you shoot back, and the look on his face is actually priceless.

"Come on," he tries again. "Round two? I promise it'll be worth staying up for."

But you're already settling into his stupidly comfortable bed. "Nope. Some of us need actual sleep, thundercloud."

"Fine," he sighs, all dramatic about it. "But just so we're clear—this isn't me giving up. It's a tactical retreat."

You actually snort at that. "A tactical retreat? Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yeah, well." He pulls the covers up, finally accepting defeat. "Pushy ain't sexy."

You both settle comfortably in the quietness of his room.

And you can't help but ponder.

It's weird how easy this feels—being here with him, joking around after what you just did. 

Like you're not just teammates or gang members or even fuck buddies.

That thought's definitely more scary than it should be.

goal: 480 notes (also lil reminder to go vote fmu 21 and 22 on wattpad after the mass unvoting to restore them, if you enjoy that story as well! (●’◡’●)ﾉ)

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[generouspursethingbat]

GUYS PLEASE HELP ME OUT! I had been reading this Jungkook fic and it was about jungkook being like the dukes son and OC also being someone with powerful parents, so they hate each other since childhood and Jungkook is actually courting OC’s sister but her sister rejects him because she loves his Cousin. So yea it’s kinda enemies to lovers but idk. SOOO PLEASE HELP ME OUT