littlegochu

[littlegochu]

"just friends" part 7 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

-

“another one, another!”

mira’s uncle slams his shot glass down, some auntie shoves a lime wedge into my palm— i’m already halfway drunk with the burn of the last shot still sitting hot in my chest.

its been a few hours since we had dinner, but the night just started. the air smells like charred meat and the folding tables covered in red solo cups and torn napkins.

mira’s cheeks are pink, her lip gloss smudged, eyes shiny. she’s laughing so hard she has to hold onto the back of a chair, her whole body shaking as she yells something at leon across the lawn.

jimin’s lounging in a deck chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, he’s watching the chaos unfold with a lazy smirk on his lips, eyes flicking between me and the tequila bottle in my hand. he lifts a shot glass toward me, eyebrows raised, taunting.

“y/n’s up again!” someone calls.

mira's family is fun to be around, they love playing with out alcohol tolerances and testing our limits, finding entertainment in our sanity.

i down the tequila, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth and laughing through the burn, my cheeks aching.

i turn to see him.

jungkook.

leaning in the porch doorway, just watching.

black hoodie pulled halfway over his hair, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. his hands are tucked under his arms, his tattoos piercing in the porch light.

there’s a line between his brows, his lips definitely not relaxed.

the only calm thing in a room full of chaos.

and suddenly, i feel stupid and loud.

his eyes meet mine for a second, he looks away before i can figure out what’s in them.

i look down.

he just leans there, quiet, looking out over the yard. i step up onto the wooden stair, and it creaks under my weight. he doesn’t speak.

“you’re not drinking?” i ask, voice too soft.

he doesn’t look at me. “no.”

“why not?”

“don’t want to.”

“…lame,” i mumble, hugging the hoodie sleeves over my palms.

his voice is low, barely audible over the music in the distance. “you look like you’re having enough fun for the both of us.”

i narrow my eyes. “was that sarcasm?”

he shrugs, then walks inside.

i scoff, "dickhead."

-

i don’t even remember how i get here.

the night is calm and everyone's outside sleeping, they've insisted on taking a quick nap before going back to drinking. meanwhile me, i'm too tired from this, mentally and physically.

my head feels full of static, my feet are bare and cold on the hardwood floor.

i stop outside his door.

the light underneath is still on.

i don’t knock.

i just… stare, long enough to hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

but then the door creaks open, he's in a loose white shirt that clings slightly at the collarbones, hangs soft over the waistband of his sweats. his expression’s hard to read—but it’s not angry, not confused, unreadable.

i blink up at him.

“hey,” i whisper.

he doesn’t say anything at first.

then, quietly—“you’re drunk.”

“a little.”

“y/n,” he says, firmer this time, low and steady, like he’s warning me.

“i just…” i trail off. suddenly too aware of how close we are. i notice how his room smells faintly like that same woodsy scent that was wrapped around me those past nights. “i didn’t wanna be in there.”

his brow furrows. “why?”

i shrug. “everyone’s passed out. mira’s snoring. leon’s face-planted into a bag of chips. i didn’t feel like being alone.”

he doesn’t answer.

so i do something stupid.

i reach for him.

arms going up, trying to curl around his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. (used to be.)

but i don’t get far.

his hands are suddenly on my upper arms—firm, steady, stopping me in place. his grip isn’t rough, but it’s not soft either.

his voice drops. “don’t.”

my heart kicks hard in my chest. “what?”

“you’re drunk,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter, thicker.

“so?”

he swallows, his eyes flick to my mouth for a second.

“so... don’t do that.”

we stay like that—me half-reaching, him half-holding me away—until i drop my arms slowly and step back.

i nod. try not to let my face fall.

“okay,” i mumble. “sorry. that was—stupid.”

i turn like i’m gonna walk away, but his hand doesn’t drop, it stays curled lightly around my arm, and i stop again.

his thumb brushes the inside of my elbow.

“you can stay,” he says, finally.

i blink.

“but behave.”

i almost laugh. “you think i’m gonna jump you or something?”

his eyes meet mine—dark, unreadable.

he doesn’t answer.

instead, he steps aside and holds the door open.

i step past him into the room, it’s dim, only one warm lamp on by the dresser. his bed’s half made, his cologne’s in the air, subtle but strong—spice, wood, something low and smoky.

he shuts the door behind us.

i crawl under the blanket, hoodie sleeves still swallowing my hands.

i curl into my side facing the wall, pretending i’m not holding my breath.

the bed dips.

he lies down beside me, i can feel the heat from his body.

and then—

i think i dream it.

his hand. slow. hesitant. finding my hip through the blanket.

but then he moves, gliding up over my waist, careful and light, like he’s afraid of breaking me.

i blink at the wall.

my breath hitches.

his palm presses warm between my shoulder blades, fingers flexing.

his thumb brushes the back of my hoodie.

i let out a slow, shaky breath and sink further into the mattress. maybe into him. maybe into nothing at all. i'm too drunk to notice.

his hand keeps moving up, then down. slow, careful strokes like he’s trying to soothe me.

my eyes flutter.

his chest is behind me now. close. almost. maybe. i can’t tell.

everything’s foggy. soft.

his nose brushes the back of my hair.

i press back instinctively — into the heat, the scent of him.

he doesn’t pull away.

his arm tightens around my waist. not possessive.

his thumb moves against my side again. slow circles.

my lashes flutter. my mind stutters.

i think i hear him whisper something.

my fingers curl around the hem of the hoodie, tucking it tighter into my chest.

the room tilts again, gently this time.

and then i let go.

of the ache, the weight, the questions.

of everything but the warmth wrapped around me.

because whether it’s real or not? whether he means it or not?

tonight, he’s holding me.

and right now, that’s enough.

-

until it isn’t.

i blink once. twice.

everything feels warm. too warm.

my mouth’s dry. my face is half-buried in the pillow. and something — someone — is wrapped around me.

but somewhere in the middle of the night, i stir.

my stomach twists. like it’s pressing down on my ribs. the kind of pressure that makes your mouth water in the worst way.

i hold my breath as i peel the blanket back and untangle myself. my head spins a little when i sit up, vision soft around the edges.

my knees hit the floor in front of the toilet.

i barely manage to tie my hair up before it hits.

everything comes up in one miserable rush.

alcohol. bad decisions. shame.

i squeeze my eyes shut, until—

“hey.”

his voice is soft. barely audible.

he crouches beside me, i feel his hand brush against the back of my neck, gentle as he gathers my hair and holds it out of the way.

i’m still catching my breath when he speaks again.

“you okay?”

i nod. lying.

i rest my cheek on my arm, still folded across the toilet seat. i feel disgusting, and yet he’s still here.

still holding my hair.

“you didn’t have to do this,” i whisper, eyes half-lidded.

he doesn’t answer right away, he just runs his hand down my back once, slow and soothing.

“someone had to,” he says.

i turn my head slightly, enough to glance at him over my shoulder.

he looks tired, his lips parted like he was about to say something else, hair messy from sleep.

he’s too pretty for a night like this.

“why are you doing this?” i ask.

his eyes flick to mine, his voice is low when he answers.

“you’re done. come here.”

he stands up with a slight smirk, he looks toward the bed in his room.

i blink slowly at him.

“get in bed before i carry you.”

...

“last chance.”

i roll my eyes but take his hand.

he hauls me up like i weigh nothing, his palm finding my lower back to keep me steady.

he walks me to the bed — slow, patient, fingers brushing my wrist in the most annoyingly gentle way.

i crawl in like a kid and he pulls the blanket over me and clicks the bathroom light off.

the air feels warmer now, heavier. or maybe that’s just me—heart still thudding from being so close to him, from letting him see me like that.

jungkook walks back around the bed, wordless, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows again. his forearm veins flex a little when he runs a hand through his hair. he sits on the edge of the mattress, sighs, then leans over to grab something from the nightstand.

he holds it out a bottle of water wordlessly.

i sip without sitting up, lips brushing the rim. his fingers graze mine when i hand it back.

“you’re not as mean as you pretend to be,” i mumble.

he glances over his shoulder and raises a brow. “don’t start.”

“you offered to carry me, sweet."

he gives me a long, unreadable look, then leans back on one hand beside me, eyes dragging over my face.

“you’re chatty when you’re tipsy.”

i blink at him. “you’re warm when you’re not pretending.”

his mouth curves, barely. “don’t do that,” he murmurs.

“what?”

“say things like that.”

i pause. the air stills.

my mouth opens. then closes.

he exhales. starts to pull back—

but i reach for his sleeve.

“jungkook.”

he pauses.

i tug gently. “can you just… shut up for a second?”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak.

so i sit up, hoodie swallowing my hands, and I lean in a little closer.

he watches me carefully—still unreadable. his scent makes my head spin more than the tequila.

i reach up slowly, careful, fingers brushing the side of his neck.

he stares at me.

he leans in.

his hand finds my jaw, thumb gentle under my cheek. his lips brush mine once, slow, like he's testing if he can keep going.

i breathe him in.

and then he kisses me again.

slower this time. deeper.

his fingers slide behind my neck, his other hand curling around my hip, pulling me toward him like it’s instinct. like he’s been waiting to.

i shift into his lap, knees tucked beside his thighs. our foreheads press together for a moment between kisses—breathing heavy, breaths mingling.

he exhales shakily against my mouth. “you’re gonna regret this.”

“don't we always do this?”

do we? i'm not really sure anymore.

for something that happened so often during the school year suddenly disappeared the same time we walked out of our last exam.

but was that the whole plan?

i kiss him again before he can answer.

he doesn’t stop me.

authors note: hey im back! just lost some motivation since the engagement of my posts have gone down, id really love to hear some requests from you guys! also I've been busy with work and everything but trust me i wont disappear without finishing this ff!

[littlegochu]

even with this small platform i have, i wanna spread this message ❤️

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[littlegochu]

Can we get a big one shot or a series, of single daddy JK and reader is an assistant at HYBE daycare while she temporarily figures her life out (she’s an artist trying to make means meet). She also bartends on the weekend and runs into JK one of the nights he is out with the boys.

I feel like you’ll be incredible in writing this

after hours│ jjk 18+

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: single dad jungkook, slow burn

rating: 18+ (explicit content — sexual themes)

synopsis: y/n juggles quiet days at a daycare and late nights bartending, never expecting her life to shift when jungha — a soft-spoken kid — walks in with his ridiculously attractive, unreadable dad.

between shared coffees, late-night drives, and silent promises, y/n learns that love doesn’t always arrive loudly. sometimes it shows up in small, steady ways — and maybe this time, it’s hers to keep.

-

i really hope this is applesauce.

it’s barely 10 am and my jeans are dotted in glitter glue and something sticky.

"gina," i murmur, crouching beside the low table where a few kids are coloring. "we can get you a new one, okay?"

i try to console her as she's having a full-body meltdown because her juice box exploded.

beside her, haru’s chewing on a blue crayon like it’s a snack. again.

surprisingly not the worst morning i’ve had.

i've been working here for about 6 months now, as a daycare assistant with my bestfriend. unlike her, i never aspired to work anything in child care industry.

but life doesn’t really ask what you want.

it's been hard to keep myself up recently, not after my mom's passing. i dedicated the last 2 years of my life as her caregiver, cutting my own dreams short to tend to her illness and keep us afloat.

i would do it again in a heartbeat, its just funny to think that i wasted my time just to see her go.

after she left i've just been trying to survive, i work at the daycare in the mornings, bartending at night.

my real dream? probably to be an artist.

i was always obsessed with painting, color palettes were my own way of expressing myself—

"miss y/n, how do you draw a sunset?"

jiwon holds up a paper with orange scribbles and a sun in the top corner.

i crouch down beside him, resting my chin in my hand. “well… sunsets aren’t perfect circles. they kind of melt into the sky, right? like when your ice cream melts.”

he blinks. “so i draw a puddle?”

“a pretty puddle,” i say, smiling, and he giggles.

i help him blend red and orange together with his stubby fingers, showing him how to smudge the lines just a little.

“can i put it on the wall?”

-

“alright, clean up time!” i call, clapping my hands twice. “parents are on the way!"

i help the kids line up their drawings on the little gallery wall we made near the door with their names are signed at the bottom.

"say bye to miss y/n and miss kyla!" summer's mom smilies as she carries her toddler between her arms, holding her lunch bag in the other.

"bye bye!"

i wave, already turning back toward the cubbies when i hear someone crying over a missing sock.

"look who’s here, y/n," kyla says behind me.

i glance over my shoulder.

she’s holding a sleeping haru on her shoulder, smirking. her head tilts toward the front door.

i follow her gaze and stop.

standing in the doorway, all black casual business attire and silver rings, hair slightly messy.

mr. jeon.

he's one of those quieter parents, always on time. he's been bringing his 3 year old here for about 2 months and its always been him picking him up.

and never once have i heard jungha bring up his mom.

proabably a busy woman, i cringe at myself everytime i think i have a chance.

seriously? finding your student's dad attractive? you're sick y/n.

but he's such a dilffffffffffffffffffff—

"i'm here for jungha?"

i snap back into reality as i scan for jungha, my eyes land on a small figure by the gallery wall, quietly adjusting his drawing. when he sees his dad, he doesn’t run. doesn’t yell. he just walks over and tugs the edge of mr. jeon's sleeve.

“ready?” he says softly.

he crouches down, pulling him into a one-armed hug. his hand rests gently over jungha’s back, a subtle kind of affection.

“he was good today,” i say, stepping forward. “still quiet.”

mr. jeon looks at me. dark eyes, unreadable. “he usually is.”

i nod, offering a small smile. “he drew a rocket for you.”

jungha glances up at me. not a smile, exactly — just a blink, a flicker of acknowledgment.

he stands, adjusting the strap of jungha's bag. “thanks.”

he doesn’t linger. never does.

-

i slowly close up the bar as the clock hits 12am.

we don’t shut down until 2am but the rush is over. the shift’s been steady, not as wild as it got earlier during the basketball game, but a few stragglers here and there.

yoongi (he’s a newer face), is here — tucked into the end of the bar, sipping a belgian moon. he's been coming around more often, doesn’t talk much, doesn’t cause trouble, he tips well and waits quietly usually.

“refill?” i ask, wiping down the bar in front of him.

he lifts his glass slightly.

i pour a new pint and slide it back to him. “you waiting on someone?”

he glances at the door. “yeah. friend of mine.”

the door chimes.

i look up.

and stop breathing.

in a black shirt button up shirt, silver chain around his neck, the same messy-styled hair this morning.

mr. jeon.

he doesn’t notice me right away, more focused on yoongi, walking toward him with a nod.

they do that half hug — a quick clasp of hands and a shoulder tap before settling into the bar stools beside each other. mr. jeon mutters something low, and yoongi huffs a tired laugh in response.

i’m frozen in place behind the bar, turning away and crouching down pretending to find the bottle opener.

"congrats on your cousins gallery, man, you built that?"

“a bit,” yoongi answers. “been working on it since two years ago. happy to see it up.”

another soft chuckle. mr. jeon's voice is sounds lower, quieter, more relaxed than during his pickups. i peek up from behind the bar, just enough to catch him resting his forearms against the counter, silver rings catching the low light.

he looks good.

they talk about some mutual friend i don’t know, then mr. jeon finally glances toward the drink menu on the bar.

“you got tequila?” he asks, not looking at me yet.

i don’t move. just grab the bottle automatically and start pouring. “silver or gold?”

his head tilts. “gold.”

i slide the shot across the bar without thinking.

he reaches for it, fingers brushing the base and finally looks up.

his eyes meet mine.

and he freezes.

there’s a beat of silence where even yoongi seems to notice something shift. he blinks, eyebrows just barely lifting.

“…miss y/n?”

i raise a brow. “mr. jeon.”

yoongi turns, looking between us with a slow blink. “…wait.”

mr. jeon exhales like he’s trying not to laugh. “you work here?”

“four nights a week,” i say casually, resting one arm on the bar.

yoongi stares at his drink like it’s suddenly gotten way too interesting.

mr. jeon glances at him, then back at me. “she’s a teacher at jungha’s daycare,” he says, lips tugging into the smallest smirk. “interesting seeing you here.”

yoongi clears his throat like he’s trying not to get dragged in. “small world.”

“too small,” i mutter, pouring another round for someone down the bar.

-

yoongi finishes his beer, checks his phone, and lets out a sigh.

“alright. i’m calling it. see you?”

“depends if you call me first,” mr. jeon says, not looking up from his drink.

yoongi stands, gives me a small nod. “goodnight, y/n.”

“night, yoongi.” i manage, offering a small smile.

yoongi turns to mr. jeon. “you staying?”

“for a bit.”

yoongi just shrugs and claps a hand to his shoulder. “don’t bother her too much.”

“wasn’t planning to.”

once the door shuts behind him, the silence shifts.

mr. jeon doesn’t say anything. just sips from his shot glass and scrolls through his phone while i work my way around the bar, wiping down tables and stacking chairs.

-

by the time i flip the lights behind the bar, it’s just the two of us left.

he stretches slightly, standing as i pull on my jacket.

“you can call me jungkook, by the way,” he says suddenly, voice low.

i glance over. “oh?”

“i figured since yoongi’s throwing your first name around like that...”

i smirk. “y/n.” tilting my head a little—“you sure? ‘mr. jeon’ has such a nice ring to it.”

he laughs softly, a bit breathier this time. “only during pick-up hours.”

i zip up my jacket and sling my bag over my shoulder.

he doesn’t move right away, just watches me from where he’s standing, hands in his pockets, eyes following every small movement.

i head toward the front door and flick off the last neon sign in the window. silence wraps around us.

“where’s your car?” he asks.

i hesitate. “a couple blocks down.”

he nods once. no hesitation. “i’ll walk you.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.”

he says it so simply. i look at him for a second longer than necessary, then push the door open.

outside, the street is quiet. the sky’s clear, streetlights humming. my boots hit the pavement, his strides just slightly heavier beside mine.

we don’t talk for a while, just walk. his hands are in his coat pockets, mine gripping the strap of my bag.

after a minute, he glances over. “do you usually get off this late?”

“mm. depends on the crowd. tonight was mild.”

he hums in acknowledgment. “do you walk to your car alone every time?”

“i don’t really think about it.”

“you should.”

he’s not looking at me. just ahead, eyes calm, jaw clenched.

my car comes into view, we slow to a stop beside it.

“thanks,” i say, turning to unlock the door.

he nods. “you get home safe, y/n.”

it’s the way he says it; like it’s a request and a promise at the same time. its makes my chest feel strangely full.

i open the door, one foot inside, then glance back at him.

“see you tomorrow?”

his eyes flicker to mine, a corner of his mouth barely tugging up. “yeah. see you tomorrow.”

i get in.

he doesn’t walk away until i’ve closed the door, engine rumbling to life. hands in his pockets. watching.

-

ugh, its the morning.

i’m half-running on fumes when i open the daycare doors at 7:20.

my hairs tied up, coffee half-spilled on my hoodie, and a stack of paper stars tucked under my arm for today’s “space explorer” theme.

i kneel by the cubbies, taping up names for coat hooks when the bell above the door chimes.

i don’t look right away. just call, “morning!”

small footsteps patter across the floor.

a quiet thud against my leg.

i freeze.

then look down.

jungha.

his little arms wrap around my shin, his cheek smushed into my knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

i blink.

"morning jungha,”

his face stays buried for a second, then he pulls back just enough to hold up something clutched in his fist.

a folded paper rocket with red scribbles, my name in shaky letters on the side.

“you forgot this,” he mumbles.

my chest squeezes unexpectedly.

i take it, kneeling down. “thank you, astronaut jungha. i’ll keep it safe.”

his lips twitch upward, just barely—before he scurries off toward the coloring table.

then i glance up.

and there he is.

mr. jeon. leaning in the doorway, dressed in black slacks and a slate grey crewneck. same silver chain, one hand in his pocket, the other resting against the doorframe.

his gaze is steady.

not cold, not unreadable, just… watching.

something flickers between us then—small, unspoken.

“you get home okay the other night?”

my breath catches a little.

i nod. “yeah. thanks again.”

his mouth curves, subtle. “see you.”

“see you.”

and then he’s gone.

but i’m still standing there.

paper rocket in hand.

“...you good?” kyla’s voice floats in from the other side of the room, casual, but i know her too well.

i turn, slowly.

she’s leaning against the play kitchen with a plastic banana in one hand, eyebrows raised.

i clear my throat, shove the rocket into my hoodie pocket. “yep. great. just.. tired.”

“mhm.." she hums, biting back a grin. “tired from working late… or from walking to your car with mr. jeon?”

i blink. “how—”

“you had that look.” she shrugs.

“kyla.”

“he walked you to your car, didn’t he?”

i press my lips together. silence is apparently confession enough.

she whistles. “girl. i’ve been saying. the way he watches you at pick-up like he’s trying not to cross a line? but also might be imagining you in nothing but one of those tiny daycare aprons?”

i groan, dragging a hand over my face. “stop.”

“what? i’m just saying. he’s quiet. hot. good dad. you’re single. he’s single. jungha likes you. the universe is doing its job.”

“he’s a parent.”

“and?”

i narrow my eyes. “you’re impossible.”

she winks, already turning back to the kids. “just don’t be surprised when he shows up with a second paper rocket and a coffee.”

-

aaaaaaaaand.. what the fuck.

jungkook walks in at pickup with a coffee in his hand.

i dont even need to look back at kyla to hear her snickering behind me.

i pretend i don’t notice. pretend i’m completely focused on taping up the last few drawings from this morning — crooked crayon suns and glittery stick people — even as i feel him walk closer.

“you’re early,” i say, not turning.

“got off work early.”

i glance over, finally.

he holds the coffee out toward me. “thought you might want this.”

i blink. “…for me?”

he nods, a little too casual. “you looked tired the other night.”

i take it, slowly. the cup’s warm against my palm, and for a second i forget how to hold eye contact properly.

“…thanks.”

his mouth twitches. “cream, no sugar. that okay?”

“how did you—?”

“jungha says you like it like that. said you told him it was ‘adult coffee.’”

i blink again.

kyla cackles from across the room. i don’t even try to hide my glare.

“you have spies,” i mutter.

“i have a very observant kid,” jungkook replies smoothly.

i turn to see jungha run toward him at full speed, backpack swinging wildly. jungkook crouches and catches him effortlessly with one arm, pulling him in.

“did you draw another rocket today?” he asks softly.

jungha nods and glances at me. “this one’s for miss y/n.”

he digs around in his cubby and hands me a folded piece of construction paper. the rocket is lopsided, the stars are pink, and my name is spelled wrong.

i feel my chest actually ache.

“thank you, jungha,” i say, kneeling down. “i’ll put this right next to the one from this morning.”

he just nods again and slips his hand into his dad’s.

jungkook meets my eyes as he adjusts the strap on his son’s backpack. “see you around, y/n.”

“you too… jungkook.”

as they walk out, kyla sidles up next to me.

“you’re so fucked,” she sings.

i sip the coffee. it’s perfect.

“…yeah,” i whisper. “i know.”

-

it’s sunday night and the bar is slow — the kind of slow that makes you count bottle caps and restack coasters just to feel like time’s passing.

the overhead lights buzz louder without a crowd. the tv murmurs with a baseball game no one’s watching. it’s been like this all shift. mellow. forgettable.

and i was kinda hoping it wouldn’t be.

friday came and went.

so did saturday.

no jungkook.

no black button-up, no tequila order, no silent glances from across the bar that made my chest feel like it couldn’t settle.

i told myself it wasn’t a big deal. how he probably got busy or had plans or maybe walking a daycare teacher to her car once at 2am wasn’t as memorable for him as it was for me.

i mean… maybe i looked into it too much.

maybe it was just a one-time thing.

he was being polite, protective. like any decent guy would. i’ve just been tired, maybe the attention felt warmer than it actually was.

maybe i wanted it to mean something.

i lean on the bar, drag my rag across the same spot again.

“you’re spiraling,” kyla says from behind me, not even looking up as she restocks the glasses.

“i’m not.”

“you are. your face does that thing.”

i frown. “what thing?”

“the pouty one. where you’re convinced you read a guy wrong and now you’re punishing the countertop for it.”

i roll my eyes. “very specific.”

she shrugs. “very accurate.”

before i can argue, the door chimes.

i glance up automatically.

a group of three walks in. not him.

i swallow the twist of disappointment and straighten my posture. “booth or bar?”

kyla nudges my shoulder as she passes. “he’ll show.”

i don’t say anything.

but i hope she’s right, not just because it would mean he cares —

but because i think i really, really want him to.

-

the bar’s mostly clean. the register's closed, and i’m reaching under the counter for my bag when i hear kyla’s voice from the front.

“i’m heading out. you good to lock up?”

“yep,” i call back, pulling my coat on.

she swings the door open with her jacket already half-zipped, she turns to glance at me over her shoulder. “text me when you're home. don’t get kidnapped.”

“i'll try.”

the door clicks shut behind her, and then—

a knock.

i pause, slowly leaning to peek out the side window.

and there he is.

leaned up against the brick wall just outside the door. he’s scrolling his phone like he’s been there a while or like he only just got here and makes it look good.

i crack the door open. “we’re closed, you know.”

his eyes flick up from his screen, the corner of his mouth curves. “figured.”

“then what are you doing here, mr. jeon?”

he shrugs. “sunday’s slow. thought maybe you’d need a walk home.”

i blink. “you stalking my schedule now?”

“maybe.” he shifts off the wall. “or maybe your friend told me you usually bus it on sunday nights.”

kyla.

“and you waited out here?”

“you’re not the only one with good timing.”

i step out and lock the door behind me, shoulders hunching slightly against the chill. he walks beside me, casual, hands stuffed into his pocket.

“you missed friday and saturday,” i say after a beat.

“wasn’t avoiding you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“who said i was thinking that?”

he laughs under his breath. “were you?”

“if i was mistaken,” i murmur, “i’d think you have a crush on me, mr. jeon.”

his steps slow just a little.

“you’re not mistaken.”

my breath catches.

“but if it makes you feel better,” he adds, a slight curve tugging at his mouth, “i’m trying to be subtle about it.”

“this is you being subtle?”

he finally lets out a low laugh. “you should see me when i’m obvious.”

he says it like a joke, but there’s a flicker in his eyes when he looks at me that makes my pulse stutter.

i try to ignore it.

“so,” i say, clearing my throat, “do you do this for all your kid’s teachers?”

“just the pretty ones that make my kid smile,” he says, no pause.

i stop in my tracks.

he doesn’t.

just keeps walking a few steps ahead, like he didn’t just casually drop that into the night air and walk away from it.

“…wow,” i mutter, catching up. “bold.”

we fall into step again, quieter now. the wind rustles through a tree nearby.

the breeze gets there first, curling under my coat sleeve. i shiver.

he notices.

“cold?” he asks.

“a little.”

without a word, he tugs the jacket over his shoulders and holds it out. it smells like clean laundry and faint cologne. i hesitate, but he gives me a look.

i pull it over my head.

“you look warm,” he says, flicking his keys from his pocket. “come on. i’ll drive you.”

“you don’t have to—”

“i know,” he says again, unlocking the car. “but i want to.”

the inside of his car smells like pine and something faintly sweet. the passenger seat’s already warm from the heater. i buckle in, tucking my hands into the sleeves.

he glances over as he pulls out onto the road. “comfortable?”

i nod.

a small smirk pulls at his mouth. we fall into a silence, the city blurs with amber lights and red signals, windshield wipers wiping the early drizzle.

i swallow. “you know this is weird, right?”

“what is?”

“you. me. this.”

authors note: i kinda liked writing this, it was a very new trope for me but ill have part 2 soon!

[littlegochu]

military wife │ jjk 18+

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: established couple

-

jungkook: Baby, I’m so sorry. I just found out… they’re keeping us another month. I’ll call when I can. I love you more than anything.

i stare at the screen, a small part of me waiting for it to change. hoping another test saying just kidding.

i just sit there, in his old hoodie around me letting my head fall back against the pillow.

i thought i could make it. i really did. but the way it feels to read that—like my chest is being pressed in from all sides—it breaks something small and quiet inside me.

i don’t cry.

i just close my eyes and pretend he’s beside me, imagining his fingers brushing my cheek like he used to.

-

four days later.

the apartment is still, sun barely creeping through the curtains.

"its just another month, i survived for 18, why am i acting like this?" i scoff at myself.

i’m staring out the kitchen window when i hear a knock.

he’s there.

jungkook. in his uniform. the look in his eyes is as i’m the only thing in the world he recognizes.

he looks… different. sharper. stronger. but also softer.

his smile is small. sad. full of love. “i lied.”

i don’t think. i just move.

i throw myself into his arms, legs wrapping around him as he stumbles back with a small chuckle, "hi baby."

his hands are on my back, caressing my hair. my face is pressed into his neck, and i sob—ugly, shaking sobs.

“i missed you,” i cry, fingers clutching his shirt like i’ll die if i let go. “i missed you so much.”

“i know,” he breathes, his voice breaking too. “i counted every day. every second. you don’t even know—”

i pull back, just enough to see him.

his eyes are glassy. his lip’s trembling.

“you’re really here?” i whisper.

he nods. “i wanted to surprise you.”

i press my hands to his face and kiss him like i’ve been drowning without him. like his mouth is the first breath i’ve had in months.

he kisses me like he’s trying to memorize me all over again.

we don’t pull away for a long time.

and when we do, our foreheads stay pressed together, breaths shared in the stillness between us.

“i love you,” he whispers, so gently it shatters me. “so fucking much.”

authors note: just a little quickiee

[littlegochu]

off limits │ jjk 18+

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: mafia au, forbidden love, slow burn

rating: 18+ (explicit content — sexual themes)

synopsis: he wasn’t supposed to touch her. she wasn't supposed to fall for him.

he protects her. but starts craving her, falling for her. and y/n? she looks at him like she sees something good beneath the dirt on his hands.

-

“this is so stupid,” i mutter under my breath, feet hitting the hardwood harder than necessary.

the hallway is too quiet. the kind of quiet that makes your own breathing sound dramatic.

namjoon doesn’t say a word. he walks behind me, hands in the pockets of his perfectly pressed slacks, face unreadable like always.

that 'composed older brother' thing he does—like if he stays calm enough, he wins by default.

“you’re seriously not even gonna pretend to be on my side?” i say louder, glancing over my shoulder.

his sigh is soft but loaded. the kind of sigh that says, don’t do this right now.

“like actually,” i go on, ignoring it. “why do i need a personal bodyguard? why just me? taehyung doesn’t have one. you don’t. if this is you guys trying to restrict me from having a boyfrien—”

“you’re the only girl,” namjoon says, voice even. too even.

i stare at him, scoffing. “so what? that means i get punished for it?”

all three of us were raised the same way—trained to handle ourselves, born into chaos and taught how to survive it. skilled with knives, guns, strategy, silence. we were bred for survival, for power, for protection.

he shifts, weight moving from one foot to the other, jaw tightening slightly. “you’re not being punished.”

“then what would you call being tailed by some dude who reports everything i do to dad? i don’t even know his name."

his eyes narrow just slightly. he doesn’t raise his voice. namjoon never does. that’s what makes it worse—he doesn’t yell, doesn’t argue, just stays calm and logical until you start questioning your own sanity.

“you know why he’s doing this,” he says quietly.

“yeah,” i shoot back. “because he doesn’t trust me. and clearly, neither do you.”

a flicker of something passes through his expression. guilt? annoyance? i can’t tell. he swallows it fast.

“that’s not fair.”

“neither is this,” i say, voice low. “i didn’t ask to be treated like a liability. i didn’t ask to be kept behind walls while the rest of you get to live.”

his mouth presses into a thin line. he’s still composed, still quiet, but his tone softens just a little when he finally says, “he just wants you safe. we all do.”

taehyung steps in, all boots, leather, and that messy hair he pretends he didn’t spend time on. his rings catch the light as he shuts the door behind him, eyes darting between me and namjoon like he already knows he’s interrupting something.

“so,” he starts, tone light but eyes sharp, “heard dad was looking for bodyguards, figured y/n would be here complaining.”

i shoot him a look. “don’t start.”

“too late,” he says, walking over and leaning against the edge of namjoon’s desk like he owns it. “security just flagged a tracker in your car. and no, before you ask, this isn’t a drill.”

namjoon’s jaw tightens. “when?”

“maybe ten minutes ago. could be longer depending on how long it was riding with her.” taehyung glances my way, and his smirk fades. “they’re already circling the area. we triggered lockdown five minutes ago.”

my stomach flips. something cold settles in the pit of it.

“was it targeted?” namjoon asks.

taehyung shrugs one shoulder. “could be random surveillance. could be intentional. either way, someone tracked her here.”

i feel every pair of eyes in the room land on me.

“this is exactly why you need a bodyguard,”

-

“is he cute at least?”

that’s the first thing out of my mouth when i walk into the kitchen.

three heads turn.

namjoon stares over his mug. taehyung freezes mid-chew. dad lowers his paper like he must’ve misheard me.

“what?” i say, completely unbothered, pulling out a chair and flopping into it. “i’m the one who has to be stuck with him twenty-four-seven. might as well know if i’m being stalked by someone hot.”

“he’s not there to flirt with you,” namjoon says dryly.

“and you’re not my dad.”

“i am,” dad chimes in, setting the paper down. “and no, you’re not allowed to date your bodyguard.”

“i didn’t say anything about dating,” i mutter, grabbing a piece of toast from the plate in the center. “can’t a girl just ask if she’s being followed around by someone ugly or not?”

“he’s fine,” taehyung says around a bite of toast. “quiet. tall. emotionally repressed. your type.”

i blink. “you don’t know my type.”

he smirks. “baby, you are my twin. i know everything.”

“gross,” i mutter.

before anyone can throw another comment, the front hallway creaks, and two of the house guards step in. they part slightly to let someone else enter.

i glance up mid-chew.

he walks in without saying a word. tall, sharp frame, black clothes, jaw tight. his hands are clasped behind his back like he’s reporting for duty. eyes dark and unreadable — not cold, just… still.

my new shadow.

dad stands. “you’ll follow her schedule starting today. stay in her line of sight. report directly to me or to namjoon. understood?”

“yes, sir.”

his voice is low, even. it doesn’t crack or waver. it’s obedient. sharp. like he’s used to this — being told where to stand, when to speak, who to protect.

his eyes flicker to me once. just once.

i lift my toast halfway to my mouth and give him a look that probably says, well? you gonna blink or what?

he doesn’t.

taehyung lets out a breathy laugh and stands, grabbing his mug. “he’s perfect for her.”

“quiet and armed,” namjoon adds, pushing out his chair. “she can’t flirt if he doesn’t talk.”

“you underestimate me,” i mutter.

they both exit without another word, like they’ve done their job by breathing down his neck for a full ten seconds.

dad clears his throat. “your day starts in ten. if she goes, you go. don’t engage unless necessary, but don’t hesitate either. we clear?”

“yes, sir,” jungkook says again.

his voice doesn’t change. not once. like he’s memorized every rule before he even walked in.

i take a slow sip of coffee, eyeing him from across the table.

“well,” i mumble. “this should be fun.”

-

that was a year ago. back then he couldn't even meet my eyes — just another shadow in dad's house.

i don’t remember the exact moment things changed. maybe it was the routine of seeing him every day — morning after morning, night after night. maybe it was how he never complained, even when i was being difficult on purpose. maybe it was seeing his cold side chip away little by little — the way he started holding the door open longer, letting his eyes linger, answering me with something more than just a nod.

he never said much. still doesn’t. but somewhere along the way, the silence stopped feeling awkward. it started feeling safe. comfortable. like he wasn’t following orders anymore—

“you haven’t typed anything in the last ten minutes.”

i snap out of my daze, jungkook’s voice breaking the quiet — soft but firm.

i’m slouched in my chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, a pen spinning uselessly between my fingers.

he’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, black long sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

that same unreadable stare. like he’s trying to look annoyed, but the corner of his mouth keeps twitching.

god. he’s so annoyingly handsome. like, rude handsome.

sharp jaw, sleeves hugging his forearms, a vein peeking down his wrist like it knows it’s being stared at.

his eyes flick up and catch mine.

“come on,” he says, nodding toward the desk. “twenty minutes. then you can slack off.”

“i don’t want to,” i whine, dragging my feet dramatically as i stand.

“i know.”

“you don’t even care about this stuff.”

he shrugs. “your dad does.”

i collapse onto my desk instead, arms folded like a pillow, cheek pressed against them with an exaggerated groan.

“you really gonna just stare at me all day?”

he blinks. once. then walks over.

slowly, he reaches out — fingers curling around the back of my chair, spinning it gently so i’m facing him. his hand lingers for a second on the top rail. not pushing. not pulling.

“it’s my job.”

“your job is to protect me,” i mutter, turning back to my screen.

he pauses. then adds, a little softer, “your dad asked me to keep you on schedule today.”

“traitor,” i whisper.

he exhales like he’s hiding a laugh. i glance back over my shoulder.

“five minutes,” i say. “then i’ll start.”

he raises a brow. “you said that ten minutes ago.”

instead of arguing, i stand halfway — collapsing into him, arms wrapping around his middle as my cheek lands against his chest.

he stiffens for a second.

“this isn’t working,” i mumble into his shirt.

his hands hover awkwardly for a beat before settling lightly on my back. not pulling me in, not pushing me away. just... there.

“come on, before someone comes in-”

the door creaks open.

“y/n.”

i freeze.

jungkook moves, his hands fall from my back immediately, and he takes a step away.

namjoon stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, his gaze flicking between the two of us.

he doesn’t say anything for a second.

finally, he exhales through his nose. “my dad wants to see you,” he says to jungkook. “it won’t take long.”

jungkook straightens. “yes, sir.”

i hate how fast he falls back into that tone as if he’s never touched me, never let me rest my cheek against him.

namjoon glances at me again, “you,” he says, tilting his head, “get your work done.”

“i was getting there.”

“right. you always get there... eventually.” he pushes off the doorframe. “don’t make me come back.”

jungkook doesn’t meet my eyes as he passes. the door shuts gently behind them, leaving me in silence.

-

the door to mr. kim’s office shuts with a soft click behind them.

jungkook stands tall, hands clasped behind his back, tension in his shoulders.

mr. kim doesn’t look up from the files in front of him as he speaks.

“we’re pulling the trigger on the han shipment. two nights from now.”

jungkook nods once. “understood.”

“you’ll be part of the external escort,” mr. kim continues, voice steady. “but your main priority is y/n.”

then, quieter: “as always.”

jungkook doesn’t respond. he waits.

“you’ve done well this past year,” he says. “she’s calmer around you. i’ve seen the reports.”

jungkook stays still.

mr. kim’s gaze sharpens.

“you’re good at your job, jeon. which is why i’m trusting you with this.”

another pause.

“but that trust,” he says, “is conditional.”

jungkook’s jaw tightens slightly. “yes, sir.”

mr. kim steps out from behind the desk. walks forward slowly, his gaze never leaving him.

“i’ve noticed the shift. the way she looks at you.”

jungkook doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t speak either.

“i don’t care what’s going on,” mr. kim says, low and firm. “you can lie to yourself all you want. just don’t lie to me.”

silence.

“you want to protect her?” he asks. “good. then do it. because the risk is real this time. they’re targeting her again.”

jungkook’s expression hardens.

“we found surveillance footage,” mr. kim continues. “the same man spotted twice outside her last meeting. once near the driveway three nights ago. they’re watching.”

jungkook nods, sharp and silent.

“this next mission is high-risk. full visibility. no room for hesitation.”

mr. kim walks to the window, pulling the blinds back just enough to glimpse the city skyline.

“we’re using the club opening as a front. the shipment comes through the basement during the event. two routes, one distraction, full crowd upstairs.”

he glances over his shoulder.

“which means she’ll be there. dressed up, smiling, drinking champagne. surrounded by a hundred people—and completely exposed.”

jungkook doesn’t move.

“you stay close. tighter than usual. i want eyes on her the entire night. she doesn’t leave your line of sight, not even for a second.”

“yes, sir.”

mr. kim turns fully, watching him again.

“you think you’re in control,” he says quietly. “maybe you are. but remember—this is my daughter. you screw this up, even once, and i won’t care how many bullets you take for her.”

jungkook meets his eyes. “i won’t screw it up.”

a beat passes. the air between them crackles with something unreadable—challenge, warning, maybe even mutual respect.

mr. kim gives a short nod.

“you’re dismissed.”

-

jungkook pov

“you’re on for the han shipment,” wonwoo says — cold, efficient. “blackout protocol. floor-level escort. west entrance.”

i already knew that. the maps, the schedules — mr. kim had them drilled into me for weeks.

“take the girl out.”

my stomach turns so fast it feels like i might throw up.

“during the shipment?” i ask, careful to keep my voice steady.

“it’s the perfect cover. chaos. all eyes on the deal. no one will notice if one of the kims goes missing in the mess. make it clean. fast. burn the body if you can.”

i clench my jaw.

jeon wonwoo, my older cousin. we didn’t grow up close. he was deeper in the gang than i ever was — smarter, colder, always two moves ahead. i looked up to him once. i still do in a way, but he knows how to play the long game.

which is exactly why i know i can’t talk him out of this.

he wants y/n dead.

“you trained for this,” he adds, like it’s nothing. like she’s nothing. “you’ve played your part well. just finish the job.”

there’s a pause. he’s waiting for my answer.

but all i can think about is her voice last night, whispering some dumb joke into my shirt as she fell asleep on my chest. how small she looked, curled into me like i was something safe.

like i wasn’t a traitor.

“you hear me, kook?” he snaps.

“yeah,” i say, slowly. “i hear you.”

but what i don’t say — is that i’ve already made my choice.

that i’m not killing her. never.

and if that means burning everything down around me, then so be it.

“okay, wait,” i take a breath.

“you’re not hesitating, are you?” he asks.

i grip the phone tighter. “no.”

“good.”

“i’ll send coordinates the night of,” i lie.

the line clicks dead.

i stare at the phone in my hand.

i’ve got maybe forty-eight hours before the club opening, before the shipment goes down — before i’m supposed to kill the only person i’ve ever wanted to protect.

i was never supposed to stay this long.

what started as six months of pretending to be a bodyguard turned into a year buried in the kims’ world — sleeping in their halls, standing by their daughter,

and now i’m in too deep, lying to both sides, losing track of who i even was before her.

“who are you talking to?”

when i turn around, taehyung’s standing in the doorway. rigid. breath shallow. his eyes flick from my face to the phone in my hand, then back again.

“what the fuck were you gonna do?” he snarls. “kill my sister?”

my stomach twists violently.

i don’t get a chance to answer. he’s already storming across the room, grabbing the front of my shirt and shoving me back against the wall so hard it knocks the breath out of me.

his fist slams into my ribs before i can get another word in. i grunt, pain flashing white through my side, but i don’t hit him back.

i don’t even raise my hands. i deserve it.

“i was gonna tell her — i was—” my voice cracks, desperation seeping in.

“tell her what?” he spits. “that you’ve been lying for a year? that you’re one of them?”

he breathes, voice shaking. “you used her.”

he pulls back like he’s about to swing again, and that’s when she speaks.

“tae,” y/n says quietly.

her voice shouldn’t shake the room. but it does.

we both freeze.

she’s standing behind him. pale, frozen, her eyes wide and glassy like she’s trying to breathe.

“y/n—” i start, but my voice falters the second i see her face.

she looks like she doesn’t even recognize me.

like i’m a ghost.

“i wasn’t going to hurt you,” i whisper. “i swear to god, i wasn’t—”

taehyung punches me again. harder this time. my head jerks to the side.

“don’t talk to her,” he growls. “don’t even fucking look at her.”

i grit out, trying to steady my breathing. “i’m trying to protect her, i swear — i’ve been working from the inside —”

“fuck you,” he says, shoving me again.

“what the hell is going on in here?” namjoon’s voice cuts in.

he steps into the room just in time to see taehyung slam me back against the wall again.

he grabs his arm, pulling him off me with a strength that forces space between us. “taehyung—”

“he’s been lying,” taehyung snaps. “he’s been spying — he’s one of them.”

namjoon’s eyes land on me. “what?”

“he’s been reporting to someone — he was just on the phone — i heard it.”

namjoon’s hand goes to the gun at his side.

“you told him where the shipment is?” he asks, deadly quiet.

“no,” i croak, blood at the corner of my mouth. “i gave him false info. i was trying to buy you time. they wanted me to—”

“to what?” namjoon’s voice is ice. “to kill her?”

i don’t answer.

his gun’s already out. aimed at my head.

“namjoon,” i breathe. “please.”

he doesn’t blink. “you messed with the wrong family.”

i hear y/n gasp. soft, quiet. she still hasn’t moved. i don’t know if she can.

the safety clicks.

and then—

“enough.”

mr. kim’s voice cuts through everything like a blade.

he steps into the room, eyes sweeping across the scene — my bloodied face, taehyung’s shaking fists, namjoon’s raised weapon, y/n’s frozen form.

he doesn’t raise his voice.

doesn’t have to.

“put the gun down,” he says calmly.

namjoon hesitates.

“now.”

the gun lowers.

“lock him up,” mr. kim says. “we’ll deal with him later.”

“you’re letting him live?” taehyung snaps.

“we don’t have time for this,” mr. kim says, sharper now. “we have bigger threats closing in. if he’s been feeding them false intel, we’ll verify it. if he hasn’t, we’ll deal with it. but right now, we stay focused.”

he looks at me last.

“you’ll be kept in a secured room.”

no one argues.

namjoon grabs my arm roughly. taehyung watches like he still wants to kill me.

but none of it hurts more than the way y/n won’t look at me.

she doesn’t move. doesn’t say a word.

just stands there, like her world just cracked in half.

i want to say sorry. i want to tell her that every second of it — every look, every touch, every word — was real. that i loved her. i still love her. but i deserve her hate.

-

i’m in the study. the lights are off except for the desk lamp, casting a soft glow over the open journal i’m not writing in. i’ve been sitting here for god knows how long—pretending to read, pretending to care, pretending not to feel like the ground’s still shaking under me.

i keep replaying it all in my head. his voice. his eyes. the way he didn’t fight back.

a knock at the door breaks the silence.

it creaks open a second later.

taehyung steps in first, his knuckles red and swollen, the skin split across two of them. namjoon follows, quieter, but his hand is wrapped in gauze, blood already seeping through.

my throat closes.

“what happened?” i ask, even though i already know.

“he’s still breathing,” taehyung says, voice hollow. “barely.”

“tae—” namjoon warns, then turns to me. “we confirmed it. he was planted by them. undercover since the beginning.”

i swallow hard. “he said he was feeding them false info.”

“yeah. and maybe he was.” namjoon shrugs bitterly. “doesn’t change what he is.”

i look back down at my hands. they’re trembling. i don’t even try to hide it.

namjoon watches me for a second longer before dropping onto the couch.

then he says it.

the words that split me open.

“maybe you were right,” he mutters. “you didn’t need a bodyguard. maybe if we hadn’t assigned him to you… none of this mess would’ve happened.”

my stomach sinks.

taehyung shifts uncomfortably, like even he thinks it was too far.

my laugh cracks out before i can stop it.

“god, i’m so fucking stupid.”

taehyung flinches. “y/n—”

“no, really.” i shoot up from my seat, pacing. “i let him in. i defended him. i trusted him.”

my throat burns.

“and guess what? he was exactly like them.”

“it’s not your fault,” taehyung says gently.

“yes, it is!” i snap. “i should’ve known better. i told myself he cared—i believed it. every time he looked at me like i meant something, every time he touched me like i was breakable, i thought it was real.”

my voice breaks. “and maybe it was. but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“because he was lying the whole time.”

i don’t realize i’m crying until taehyung walks over and wraps his arms around me. i fall into him, fists curled into his shirt, sobs spilling out.

“it’s okay,” he murmurs into my hair. “you’re okay. we’ve got you.”

“i hate him,” i cry, even though it feels like a lie in my chest. “i hate that he made me feel safe. i hate that i miss him.”

taehyung holds me tighter, swaying a little.

namjoon clears his throat. i look up, tear-streaked and shaking.

his face softens. “i’ll give you two a minute.”

and without another word, he turns and leaves—closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

now it’s just me and tae.

and the sound of my heart breaking in my own chest.

-

the hallway down to the basement cell feels heavier tonight. maybe it’s the weight in my chest. maybe it’s the way the guards looked at me before unlocking the door.

i step inside.

he’s there. sitting on the bench. wrists cuffed, one arm purple with bruises, dried blood still caked near his temple. he looks up the moment the door creaks.

and for a second — just a second — i freeze.

“look,” i say, voice brittle. “i’m alive.”

my heels echo against the floor, each step feels like it’s shattering me more.

“heading to the event you were supposed to defend,” i spit. “oh, right. kill me.”

he flinches, like the words are knives he was expecting.

but he doesn’t speak.

“say something.”

nothing.

“go ahead. tell me it was all fake. tell me you were laughing behind my back this whole time.”

his jaw tenses. “say. something!”

he meets my eyes.

and that hurts more than if he didn’t.

because his eyes look ruined. like mine.

“you’re fucking sick,” i whisper. “you looked me in the face and lied every day. you held me like i meant something to you. like—” i choke. swallow it down. “was any of it real?”

he stays quiet. silent.

“you’re lucky you’re alive,” i say. “if it were up to me—” i break off. “if it were up to me, you’d be dead.”

he still doesn’t speak.

and something inside me finally cracks.

“why won’t you say anything?” i whisper, voice shaking. “why? just—just fucking say it, jungkook. say you used me. say you never cared. say anything.”

my fists curl at my sides.

“you owe me that. after everything. after—” i blink hard. “after i let myself fall for you.”

silence.

my breath stutters. i step closer. “please,” i whisper. “please just tell me it meant nothing. tell me you’re a monster so i can hate you properly.”

his throat bobs. his eyes drop. his whole body looks like it’s about to cave in.

but he doesn’t answer.

“jungkook,” i breathe. “just—please. say something.”

my voice breaks on the last word. i cover my mouth, but it’s too late.

a sob tears out of me. ugly. broken. raw.

i sink to the floor in front of him, hands shaking as i hold myself. he leans forward instinctively, like he wants to reach for me — but the chains pull taut and he stops himself.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers. barely audible.

and that’s the worst part.

because it sounds like he means it.

-

in this world, the pain doesn’t matter if no one can see it.

my dress hugs my frame like it was stitched to my skin. black, sleek, unforgiving, a red lip, matte and cold. i look exactly like what they want from a kim.

“ladies and gentlemen — please welcome the kim family.”

flashes explode in front of us.

“kim jihyun, the patriarch."

"kim namjoon, next in line to lead,"

"and the twins — kim taehyung and kim y/n.”

taehyung walks a step ahead, all casual arrogance and tailored black. namjoon nods once, his jaw sharp under the lights. calm. calculating.

i walk between them.

i am the daughter of a king in a room full of wolves. and tonight, i’m the bait.

the club is nothing short of a spectacle. crystal chandeliers hanging above velvet-lined booths, warm gold lights flickering off the glass. every corner gleams like power. people dressed in money line the bar. music pulses under my skin.

but it’s not the sound that gets to me. it’s the tension.

the fact that people know i’m not here to party, that i’m here to be seen.

“stay close to the main crowd,” taehyung murmurs beside me. “don’t go wandering. jimin will meet you by the lounge in five. let him brief you before anything else.”

i nod once. “don’t worry about me.”

he glances at me — a little longer than necessary.

“you okay?”

“i'm fine.”

it’s a lie. we both know it. but neither of us says anything.

i peel off when we reach the private lounge area, winding through guests. men nod. women whisper. i don’t hear any of it.

and then i hear him.

“well, well.”

i turn.

jimin stands with a drink in hand and that infuriatingly boyish smirk on his face. hair slicked back, dark suit, same old eyes, same old charm.

“thought you weren’t the club type,” he says.

i shrug. “guess i make exceptions.”

his smirk deepens. “you clean up nice.”

“i always did,” i say, lifting a brow. “you just never noticed.”

“oh, i noticed,” he says, stepping closer. “i just didn’t think your brothers would’ve let me live long enough to say it.”

i almost smile.

almost.

for a second, i forget about the mission.

but then i remember.

he was supposed to be here tonight — standing near me, watching my back.

instead, he nearly destroyed it all.

i inhale slowly and let the air burn my lungs on the way down.

“taehyung says you’ve got the plan?” i ask jimin, voice even.

he nods, more serious now. “yeah. when the signal hits, we move. until then — look calm. look like you’re just here to drink.”

i hear a scream from somewhere near the bar — sharp, high-pitched, drowned out almost immediately by the crack of gunfire.

i freeze.

people scatter. glasses shatter. the music cuts mid-beat, leaving a thick, horrifying silence in its wake before panic explodes in every direction.

“move!” jimin grabs my wrist so hard it stings.

we’re already running. heels clicking. shoulders slamming. shadows moving fast across the velvet-lit walls.

this was supposed to be controlled.

“they’re early!” jimin growls, dragging me behind a marble pillar. his body twists in front of mine like a shield as bullets chew through the wall behind us.

i duck instinctively, heart thundering so loud i almost don’t hear him when he turns.

“you good?”

i nod. it’s a lie. my throat is tight. my eyes sting. but my hands are steady. my legs are moving.

jimin scans the room. “we need to get you to taehyung.”

“what about namjoon?”

“he’s got the north side. tae was covering you—shit—”

more gunfire.

it’s coming from the balcony now. above. tactical.

they’re surrounding us.

“they were waiting,” i say, realization cutting in cold.

jimin doesn’t answer, but the way his jaw clenches tells me i’m right.

he pulls a blade from the inside of his jacket — sleek, black, fast.

“stay behind me.”

but i don’t.

when one of the masked men rounds the corner, too fast for jimin to catch, i twist forward and grab the bottle off the nearby table — heavy, full — and smash it clean against his temple.

he drops.

i flinch when i see a body burst through the smoke.

“y/n,” he breathes, grabbing my arm. “thank god—are you hurt?”

his face sharp with panic, blood splattered across his collar like war paint.

“no—jimin—he’s with me—”

“i’m right here,” jimin cuts in, emerging from behind a broken booth, pistol drawn, face set.

the three of us are huddled behind a shattered glass table. chaos echoes around us — screams, gunshots, the metallic scent of blood mixing with perfume and spilled liquor.

“namjoon?” taehyung demands.

“north hall. last i saw him, he had backup.”

taehyung swears under his breath.

jimin nods toward the left corridor. “you two help your dad. i’ll back up joon.”

“be careful,” i say.

he peels off into the mess, disappearing into the flickering lights.

taehyung grips my wrist, dragging me toward the hallway behind the bar — the one that leads to the control rooms.

we find dad crouched behind an overturned table, gun drawn, jacket torn.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he barks the second he sees us.

“we’re not leaving you,” taehyung snaps back.

“you’re not,” dad growls, shoving his gun into taehyung’s hand. “but she is.”

“what—”

“take her to the back vault. lock her in if you have to. she’s the target.”

his eyes are bloodshot, his breathing ragged. the weight of a father in a war zone, watching the battlefield swallow his empire.

“but—” i start.

“now!”

taehyung doesn’t hesitate. he grabs my arm again and we bolt — down the corridor, through the back offices, kicking open the door to the vault access stairs.

“we’ll regroup, okay?” he says, shoving open the stairwell door.

but we don’t get the chance.

the second we round the corner—

figures. shadows.

masks.

guns.

“shit—get down!”

taehyung pushes me to the ground just as bullets fly, sparks ricocheting off metal railings.

he fires back — once, twice — but we’re surrounded.

“run,” he shouts. “go!”

“not without you—”

“go!”

i run.

heels snapping off. breath clawing out of my throat. every door is blocked, every scream a warning.

i duck through a narrow hallway, slipping behind curtains and furniture, blood pounding in my ears.

then—

a sharp click.

a gun cocking behind me.

“don’t move.”

i freeze.

hands shaking. heart splintering against my ribs.

my fingers curl slowly at my sides. i don’t turn around. not yet.

i hear their footsteps approach.

closer.

closer.

i turn around just enough to see the glint of metal in his hand. his face is covered, only his eyes visible behind the black ski mask — cold, emotionless, already looking through me like i’m dead weight.

no.

not like this.

my hand twitches. slowly, i edge back toward the wall — toward the broken table i’d ducked behind minutes ago.

his voice is sharp. “don’t.”

but i don’t listen.

my fingers close around a shard of glass — big, jagged, wet with spilled liquor — and the second he steps close enough, i drive it up.

he jerks back, just in time, the glass grazing his arm.

he growls, raises the gun—

i grab a chair, swing it hard. it connects with a sickening crunch.

he stumbles.

i lunge.

it’s all muscle memory now. taehyung taught me how to fight, jimin drilled me on how to use a room, namjoon always said never wait to be saved.

so i don’t.

i throw my weight into his chest, slam my elbow into his throat, knee him hard between the ribs. he drops his gun for half a second.

i reach for it.

but he’s faster.

a fist slams into my side. hard.

the air leaves my lungs in one sharp wheeze. my vision blurs. i try to twist away, but he catches me by the hair, yanks me back, then drives his knee into my stomach.

i drop.

everything aches.

my ears ring, my knees scrape against marble, blood drips somewhere — mine, i think.

i try to get up again—

but his foot lands on my chest.

hard.

i choke.

his weight crushes down, his boot grinding into the space between my ribs.

i clutch at his ankle, squirm, teeth clenched. the pain shoots through every nerve ending in my body.

and then—

he points the gun straight at my face.

his voice is low. final.

“silly girl.”

i blink through the pain. sweat. blood. fury.

but there’s no one left. no one to help.

no ones here.

i try to breathe, trying to keep myself alive hoping taehyung would be around the corner in a few seconds.

nope, its just me.

“get off her.”

my eyes shoot open.

he’s in the doorway.

jungkook.

his black shirt is torn, blood soaked across the ribs. wrists raw and bruised, eyes dark and sunken. he looks like hell.

the man laughs, pressing the muzzle harder to my head. “you’re not in a position to make demands.”

i can barely speak.

“don’t—” i choke out, throat thick with pain. “don’t do this—”

jungkook’s eyes flick to mine. just for a second.

and something silent passes between us.

i’m here. i’ve got you.

then he moves.

fast.

he lunges, slamming into the man’s side with his full weight.

the gun clatters across the floor.

we both scramble — i crawl for it, coughing, ribs screaming — jungkook’s fists fly, raw and reckless.

but he’s weak. too weak.

the man recovers quick, drives his elbow into jungkook’s jaw, then knees him in the ribs. jungkook stumbles.

i scream.

he falls.

the man steps over him, snarling, lifting a knife from his belt now — silver gleaming red under the lights.

i dive forward.

grab the gun.

aim.

my hands are shaking. my vision’s blurred.

but i fire.

the bullet catches his arm.

he drops the knife.

jungkook grabs it mid-fall and plunges it deep into the man’s side.

the man’s eyes go wide. he gasps. stumbles.

falls.

dead.

for a second, the silence is deafening.

jungkook’s on his knees.

he looks at me.

then down.

blood.

his blood.

spreading fast from his abdomen.

my mouth opens. no sound comes out.

“no—no, no, no—” i drop the gun and rush to him, arms catching his body as he slumps.

“you’re okay,” i whisper. “you’re fine, you’re fine, we’re gonna get out of here—”

his head rests against my shoulder, breath ragged.

“wasn’t gonna let him touch you,” he murmurs, dazed.

“don’t say that,” i whisper, arms tightening around him. “don’t talk like it’s over.”

his head lolls slightly. the warmth soaking through my hands is spreading too fast.

too much blood.

too much.

my throat burns. "please—”

“y/n!”

i whip around at the voice—sharp, panicked, grounding.

namjoon.

he rounds the corner, gun drawn, breath ragged from running. behind him, two men from our side—one injured, one still scanning for enemies. the second they see the body on the floor, their pace slows.

namjoon’s eyes snap to me.

then to jungkook.

and the blood.

“shit.”

his voice drops, rough with disbelief.

he rushes forward, falls to one knee beside us, hand darting to jungkook’s wound. his fingers come away slick with blood.

“you stupid bastard,” namjoon mutters, low.

he leans closer, jaw clenched.

“i’m sorry.”

jungkook stirs, barely — lips parting, just enough to murmur:

“it’s okay… brother.”

his body suddenly slackens — his head dips forward, the weight pulling from our grip.

“jungkook—”

his eyes flutter, then shut.

namjoon freezes.

so do i.

for a moment, it’s like the war has stopped. the guns, the smoke, the blood — all of it disappears in that single word.

brother.

a sob tears out of me.

i cry, grabbing his shirt, my whole body shaking. "hate you, i swear to god, if you leave me—”

my voice collapses into noise — wet, broken noise — and i can’t stop the way i cling to him like my body’s trying to keep his soul from slipping through my fingers.

i whisper. “please, just hold on.”

-

jungkook pov

the knock i give is soft, but the weight behind it isn’t.

my stitches are healing, the bruises have faded. but the guilt still lives under my ribs.

“come in,” mr. kim says from inside.

i push the door open.

the office smells like it always does — old wood, expensive whiskey, discipline. the heavy blinds let in thin slants of light that cut across the room like interrogation beams.

mr. kim is behind the desk. namjoon to his left. taehyung leans against the far wall, arms crossed, face carved from stone.

and her.

she sits on the edge of the leather couch, back straight, eyes unreadable, not looking at me.

my chest tightens.

i haven’t seen her since that night. since i bled onto her hands and mumbled a thank you with my last bit of strength. since she held my face like i wasn’t a traitor.

and i’ve thought about that moment every second since.

i stand before them all.

my healing ribs ache under the weight of their stares.

“you’re standing,” namjoon says. not cold, but not warm either. just... tired.

i nod once. “yes, sir.”

“you sure you’re up for this?”

“i wouldn’t be here if i wasn’t.”

mr. kim doesn’t look up immediately.

then he speaks.

“we’ve had time to verify your claims.”

my shoulders don’t move. i don’t blink.

“false intel. redirection. no casualties on our side. even a bullet for her.”

his eyes finally meet mine.

“you did everything you said you did. but the betrayal still happened.”

“i know,” i say quietly.

taehyung scoffs from the wall, voice low but sharp. “you knew what you were doing the entire time.”

i meet his glare. “i did.”

“then why?” he demands.

his tone cracks something inside me. the memory of what his fist felt like when it broke skin across my jaw.

“because she wasn’t supposed to be part of this,” i say. “none of you were.”

and then, softer, without meaning to—

“especially her.”

i glance at y/n.

she still doesn’t look at me.

“the damage is done,” namjoon says. “but we’ve lost men before. we’ve been lied to before. you’re not the first.”

he pauses.

“you might be the first who came back.”

i stay quiet.

“the question now,” mr. kim says slowly, “is what to do with you.”

the silence is thick.

i speak before i lose the courage.

“i’ll stay. under any terms. restricted access, clearance only, weapons locked. i’ll take whatever position you give me. just let me stay where i can see her.”

taehyung shifts.

“bold, coming from a guy who almost got her killed.”

i don’t flinch.

“i protected her,” i say, voice low. “and i’ll keep doing it.”

finally — finally — she looks up.

her gaze lands on me, slow and sharp, and everything in me stops.

she looks dangerous, beautiful in a way that scares me.

she speaks.

“and what do you want in return?”

i blink.

“nothing.”

her eyes narrow slightly.

“you sure?”

“i just want you safe.”

mr. kim watches her closely. then glances at her brother. “taehyung.”

tae straightens.

“do you trust him?”

his jaw tightens. “no.”

“namjoon?”

“…not yet.”

mr. kim turns to her last.

“y/n?”

the room stills.

her voice doesn’t shake. “i don’t trust him.”

every muscle in my chest coils.

then she adds, “but i believe him.”

that’s enough to keep me standing.

mr. kim nods once.

“you’ll stay,” he says to me. “you’ll be monitored. anything goes wrong again, we bury you for real.”

“understood.”

he waves his hand.

“then get out of my office.”

i turn to leave.

just before the door closes behind me, i steal one last glance over my shoulder.

she’s still looking at me.

not with hate, but not with love.

and for now… that’s enough.

-

"i missed you."

that’s all i say before i throw my arms around him — burying my face in his neck like if i hold him tight enough, none of it will matter.

jungkook holds me like he never expected this. like he’s still not sure he deserves it.

but he melts into it anyway.

his hand cups the back of my head, fingers slipping into my hair. his other arm wraps tight around my waist, holding me against the solid heat of his body like he needs me to know he’s real.

and then, slowly — carefully — he lifts me into his arms.

his eyes ask for permission.

i answer with a kiss.

he places me on the bed with a kind of gentleness that makes my throat ache. like i’m something breakable.

he leans over me, hands on either side of my head, and just breathes me in. like he’s memorizing the shape of my face. the exact way my chest rises.

“you sure?” he whispers, voice low and thick.

i nod.

i mean it in every way possible.

his lips meet mine — soft, slow, reverent. the kind of kiss that doesn’t rush, that lingers like a promise.

his tongue brushes mine, warm and patient. i let out a shaky breath, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“take it off,” i murmur.

the black fabric lifts, revealing golden skin and the bandage still wrapped around his waist. my eyes catch on the edge of the bruise near his ribs, the angry red mark below it.

i sit up and press a kiss to the space just above the bandage, just below his heart.

he sucks in a breath. his hand brushes my hair back. “you’re gonna kill me.”

i whisper. “i’m gonna bring you back.”

he kisses me again, and this time there’s more urgency — not rushed, but deeper. his hands are shaking a little as they find the zipper at the back of my dress. he tugs it down slowly, eyes locked on mine the entire time, like he’s checking if it’s okay.

i slip the straps off my shoulders and let the fabric fall, revealing skin, lace, and everything in between.

his touch is light as he runs his hand down my arm, over my waist, resting just above my hip.

he stills as i reach for his belt.

our clothes fall away piece by piece until it’s just skin against skin, warmth against warmth. his lips press down my neck, across my collarbone. his mouth lingers on every inch he missed.

my hands explore him just the same. the dip of his waist, his muscles under my palms, the tremble in his breath every time i touch.

when he finally presses into me — slow, careful, eyes locked on mine — the air leaves my lungs.

it’s not rough. it’s not fast.

it’s quiet.

raw.

his hand stays tangled in mine, our fingers laced tight beside my head as he rocks into me, gently but deeply, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me around him. like this is more than sex — this is a confession.

i gasp softly. his name falls from my lips like a prayer.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers. “i’ve always got you.”

the tension breaks slow — bodies trembling, breath shallow, lips never far apart.

i come undone with a cry muffled into his shoulder, and he follows not long after, pressing a kiss to my cheek like he’s saying thank you. like he’s still stunned i chose to stay.

after, we just lie there.

his hand brushes my thigh. mine strokes his hair.

neither of us speaks.

because in this moment — wrapped in sheets and second chances — silence finally feels like peace.

authors note: heavily unedited sorryyyyy

[littlegochu]

could you plz do a personal trainer taehyung one shot (considering he’s all buffed out rn). imagine he’s your gym crush and you finally get around to asking for pointers and there’s juicy tension

gym crush │ kth 18+

pairing: kim taehyung x reader

genre: gym crush au, fluff, strangers to flirty friends, slice of life

rating: 18+ (explicit content — sexual themes)

synopsis: kim taehyung—known for his silence, his sculpted arms, and the fact that no one’s ever gotten close enough to say more than two words to him.

until me.

i wasn’t trying to get his attention. i was trying not to drop my weights or accidentally pass out mid-squat. but for some reason, he noticed me. corrected my form. watched me like he meant to.

now we train together. he doesn’t talk much. doesn’t flirt. doesn’t even smile unless he’s mid-set and i say something sarcastic. but he’s close. too close. and every glance feels like it means something i’m not ready to admit.

they say he doesn’t get attached. but his hands linger. his eyes stay.

-

set 1: the myth

every girl on campus has a kim taehyung story.

not like real stories. not like “i hooked up with him” or “we matched on tinder.” more like “i saw him bench press 180 with one hand.” or “he looked at me once in the mirror and i haven’t known peace since.”

he’s quiet. never with a group. never at parties. he’s in third-year psych like me, but i’ve never seen him in class. only ever here—shirtless in the weight room, hair pushed back with a bandana, jawline sharp enough to make you rethink every decision you've ever made.

girls flirt with him. he never flirts back. guys nod at him. he never nods back. he’s polite, but distant. beautiful, but untouchable. the kind of boy who could ruin you with a glance and walk away without ever noticing.

i don’t stare. not really. just... occasionally. softly. from a safe distance.

because everyone stares. but he’s never stared back. not until today.

set 2: eyes

i’m squatting in front of the mirror. deep into my fourth rep, knees burning, headphones loud enough to drown out my inner monologue.

and i feel it.

the burn? yes. but also him.

i glance up.

he’s looking straight at me. arms crossed. leaning against the cable machine like he’s sculpted out of shadow and sunlight. his mouth is set. eyes dark. completely unreadable.

i falter.

he doesn’t look away.

i blink. look back down. try to pretend my heart isn’t sprinting faster than my max on the treadmill.

when i sneak another look up—he’s gone.

set 3: "you done w that machine?"

“you done using the machine?”

i look up. he’s standing right there. taller than i remember. realer. sweat still clinging to the edges of his collarbones like it lives there on purpose.

my brain flatlines for a second. he’s talking to me.

i blink once. maybe twice. “uh—yeah. yeah, sorry. go ahead.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t sit down. just lets his gaze sweep over the machine, then back to me. “you train here often?”

i blink again. was that a line?

“…sometimes,” i say slowly. “you?”

his mouth twitches like it wants to smile, but he doesn’t let it. “haven’t seen you before.”

my heart stumbles. “i come at different times.”

he nods. “maybe that’s why.”

i shift to the side, still unsure if this is small talk or some kind of interrogation. he’s just standing there. not using the machine. not looking away.

and then he adds, voice low, “your form was good.”

i laugh, mostly out of nerves. “what, you check everyone's form or just mine?”

he shrugs, but his eyes stay on me. “just yours.”

my lungs give out for a second. and before i can even think of a comeback— he walks off.

set 4: tension

he doesn’t speak to me again. not right away. but he’s near.

too near.

next to me at the squat rack. behind me during rows. his sets always line up with mine now, like we orbit the same routine.

i catch him watching me in the mirror once. not for long. just long enough to notice. and when i look back—he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t pretend.

he just keeps watching.

set 5: the touch

it’s small. innocent, probably.

i drop my towel. reach to grab it. his hand gets there first.

he holds it out to me, gaze steady.

i mutter, “thanks.”

our fingers brush when i take it. not on purpose. not quite accidental either. his hand is warm. bigger than i thought. veins sharp against his wrist.

he watches me too closely as i wrap the towel over my shoulder.

"careful," he says, like it's an afterthought. but his voice is low. almost amused.

“for what?”

he lifts a brow. “getting used to me.”

and then—again—he walks away.

set 6: the offer

“train with me.”

i don’t turn right away. i need to breathe. he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. he never sounds like he’s joking.

when i glance over, he’s already setting up weights beside mine. like it’s not a question. like he already knows i’ll say yes.

“why?”

“you don’t talk too much.” he shrugs. “i like that.”

i snort. “so this is...a compliment?”

his mouth quirks. not a smile, but close. “don’t get cocky.”

i shake my head. laugh quietly to myself.

but when he hands me a heavier dumbbell than usual, i take it. no questions. no hesitation.

because of course i do. it’s him.

set 7: sweat

“lower,” he says quietly, voice right behind me.

i’m already sweating. not from the bar on my back—but because i can feel him. his hands hovering near my waist. not touching. not quite. but there.

his voice is low. his breath hits the back of my neck every time i exhale. i drop into the squat, eyes forward, jaw tight.

“don’t rush the rep,” he murmurs. “feel the bottom. hold it. then drive.”

it’s a normal cue. basic. but when he says it, it feels like something else entirely.

feel the bottom. hold it. drive.

my fingers tighten on the bar.

i push up. steady. not smooth.

“good,” he says, and i hear the smirk behind the word.

i rack the bar. turn around. he’s too close.

his eyes flicker across my face like he’s checking for something. i don’t know what. but it makes me stand up straighter.

“you okay?” he asks, voice still quiet. almost like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear us.

i nod. “just hot.”

he looks me over—slow. his eyes trail from the sweat clinging to my collarbone down to my waistband, where my tank top has started riding up slightly, exposing the faint line of my hip.

his tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

“yeah,” he says, but it’s not really an answer. just something to fill the silence.

next, we do hip thrusts.

my mistake.

i set the barbell over my hips, settling back on the bench.

he stands behind me. like usual. spotting. watching.

but there’s nothing normal about the way he’s looking at me now. his eyes are lower. darker. waiting.

“go heavier,” he says.

i shoot him a look. “you sure?”

he nods once. “you can handle it.”

i hate how that sentence makes my stomach turn.

i load the weight. start the first rep. my hips rise, slow, steady. the metal bar presses tight against me. my breathing gets shallow.

“keep your knees out,” he murmurs.

i adjust, legs trembling slightly.

“slower at the top,” he says. “don’t rush the squeeze.”

i swear to god, he’s doing this on purpose.

i grind through another rep, jaw locked. his eyes don’t leave my hips.

the bar moves. my body rises. his voice stays calm. smooth.

“you’re shaking,” he notes.

“i’m fine.”

“didn’t say you weren’t.”

our eyes meet.

i don’t blink. neither does he. his gaze drops again—barely noticeable. but enough.

the bar hits the floor. my set’s done. but i feel like i just ran a mile with his hand pressed low on my back.

last are deadlifts.

we load the bar together. his fingers brush mine on the last plate. i pretend i don’t notice. he pretends he didn’t mean to.

but we both know.

i line up. feet grounded. hands set.

he crouches beside me, one arm resting on his knee. his head tips slightly, eyes dragging over the length of my spine.

“don’t look up when you pull,” he says. “keep your neck neutral.”

i nod, swallowing hard.

his eyes don’t move. he stays low as i wrap my fingers around the bar. my body lifts—slow. steady.

his gaze trails up, following the pull.

when i lock out at the top, he says nothing. just stares. mouth parted.

“what?” i ask, breathless.

“nothing,” he says. voice rough now. unsteady. “just… you’re strong.”

my heart stumbles.

“you’ve said that before.”

“yeah,” he murmurs, standing up slowly. “but i mean it more now.”

he’s looking at me like he wants to say something else. but doesn’t.

and i’m standing there, heart racing, sweat sticking to my skin in all the wrong places, still holding onto the bar like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

we don’t say anything else.

but it’s loud. so loud between us.

set 8: the ride

“you walking?” he asks, voice low like always.

i’m standing by the water fountain, drenched in sweat, hoodie half-zipped, the hem of my tank top clinging to my skin. my legs feel like they’ve been rung out. my brain’s even worse.

i glance at him. taehyung’s already holding his keys.

“bus,” i say.

he doesn’t like that.

his brow twitches. “alone?”

i nod once.

he stares at me for a beat too long, then tilts his head and murmurs, “i’ll drive you.”

not a question. not even an offer. more like a decision he’s already made.

i should say no. i don’t.

“…yeah. okay.”

-

his car is clean. black leather. smells like cedar and something else—his cologne, maybe. sharp and familiar from how many times he’s spotted me from behind, breath brushing my neck.

he drives with one hand on the wheel. the other rests casually on the console between us, fingers relaxed, dangerous, close.

the silence isn’t awkward. it’s worse. it’s thick.

he doesn’t turn on the music. doesn’t ask where i live. he already knows.

we hit a red light.

i glance at him. he’s leaning back, eyes on the intersection ahead like it’s done something wrong.

“you always this helpful?” i ask, my voice thinner than i meant it to be.

he doesn’t look over.

“only for you.”

my stomach tightens.

“why me?” i ask, softer.

that gets his attention.

he glances sideways, then drags his eyes back to the road.

“you don’t talk just to talk,” he says. “you actually work for your reps. you look at me like you’re not scared.”

“you get close a lot,” i say under my breath.

“you don’t stop me.”

we pull into my building. he doesn’t park. just idles under the streetlight, thumb tapping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from saying something reckless.

my seatbelt clicks free. my hand is already on the door.

“wait.”

i pause. his voice is quiet, but not soft. it lands in the space between my ribs and stays there.

i turn to him.

he’s already looking at me.

and for once, he’s not unreadable.

there’s something in his eyes i’ve never seen before. something raw. tight. like the leash he keeps everything on has been fraying this whole time, and i’m the last thread.

“don’t go in yet.”

my pulse skips. i don’t ask why. i just nod.

he doesn’t move at first. doesn’t reach for me. just stares, jaw tense, like he’s trying to decide if touching me now will ruin whatever careful thing we’ve built.

so i reach first.

my hand slides over his. his breath catches.

his fingers wrap around mine, slow, deliberate.

“i wasn’t planning this,” he says quietly.

“i know.”

his other hand lifts—to my thigh, not far from the hem of my shorts. his thumb presses lightly into my skin. not teasing. not demanding. just there.

“you want me to stop?”

my voice barely comes out. “no.”

he leans in.

not fast. not messy. his lips brush mine like he’s waiting for permission—like he wants to be sure this is something we both walk into, not fall.

i close the distance.

his mouth parts. and then it’s heat. tongue. the sigh that leaves him when i climb across the console into his lap like it’s always been mine.

his hands slide up my thighs, slow and steady.

not greedy. not possessive. hungry.

i straddle him fully. my knees wedge on either side of his hips. he lets out a breath against my mouth like he’s been holding it all night.

“fuck,” he whispers. “you feel so good already.”

i kiss him harder. his hands move under my hoodie, palms dragging along my waist, my ribs. he pushes it up, and i lift my arms to help.

he leans back and looks at me—really looks. i’m in my sports bra. flushed. breathing too hard.

he exhales like he’s looking at something he’s not sure he deserves to touch.

“pretty,” he murmurs. “fuck.”

he lifts the hem of the bra and slides it up. i let him. his eyes darken when i’m bare in front of him, nipples tight from the cold and the attention and the way he’s looking at me like he’s ready to kneel for a taste.

he doesn’t go straight for it. instead, he cups one breast with his hand, thumbing over the center until i shiver.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “you’ve been letting me spot you in this. teasing me.”

“i wasn’t—”

he presses his lips to my chest, right over my heartbeat. then higher. then around my nipple, mouth slow and open and warm.

my head falls back. “taehyung—”

he groans into my skin.

“say my name like that again and i won’t last.”

his hand moves down my back, finds the curve of my ass and grabs it—not hard, just enough to pull me against the thick pressure straining beneath me.

“fuck—” i gasp.

he smiles against my chest.

“that’s right. feel what you do to me.”

i grind once—instinctive, desperate. he sucks in a sharp breath, hands digging in harder.

“god, i’ve been patient,” he mutters. “every time you bent over in front of me, every time you looked at me like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

i meet his eyes. “maybe i did.”

his laugh is low. ragged.

“then you’re mean.”

“you like that.”

his eyes narrow. “too much.”

he grabs the waistband of my shorts and tugs them down my thighs. i lift myself to help, watching his face the whole time. he looks dazed. starved.

“you’re so wet already,” he says, voice rough. “fuck.”

his fingers slide between my thighs and pause at my center.

“can i?”

i nod. “please.”

and when he finally touches me—skin to skin—i feel his whole body jolt beneath me.

his fingers slide through the slickness, slow at first, then with more purpose, more pressure, more intent.

he’s breathing heavy now, jaw clenched, thumb brushing my clit with every pass.

“you’re perfect like this,” he whispers. “so responsive. so fucking soft.”

i moan when he adds a finger. then another.

his lips crush against mine as he fucks me slow and deep with his hand, until i’m trembling in his lap, forehead pressed to his.

i’m close. and he knows it.

“come for me,” he says. “i’ve got you.”

my nails dig into his shoulders. my body shakes. and when it happens, it crashes through me hard enough that i forget where i am. his name slips out of my mouth like a prayer.

he holds me through it, kisses me like he means it.

and when i start to settle, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin— he leans in, presses our foreheads together again, and says, barely audible:

“i don’t want this to end here.”

i nod, voice gone. “it won’t.”

he lifts me, shifts his seat back. unzips his sweats, pulls himself free—and i see how much he’s been holding back.

i sink down slowly.

he doesn’t rush. doesn’t push.

he just holds me, hands on my hips, forehead still against mine, letting me take him inch by inch until i’m full—aching. trembling.

“look at me,” he whispers.

i do.

his eyes are blown wide. desperate. soft.

“you feel like heaven,” he says. “and i’m not letting this be a one-time thing.”

“good,” i manage to whisper, right before he thrusts.

and then there’s no more talking. just skin, sweat, rhythm. just two people in the dark, holding onto something that feels like everything.

requests open anonymously!

[littlegochu]

"just friends" part 6 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

-

“Here.”

He just drops a hoodie in my lap like it means nothing.

I’m on the porch steps, tugging the edges of my towel tighter around me with my teeth clenched so they don’t chatter. I thought I could thug it out.

I blink. “What?”

He’s already halfway across the porch. “Put it on.”

No eye contact. No teasing smirk. Just that tone — quiet, offhanded, like he couldn’t not do it.

I stare after him.

Then I look down.

The hoodie’s massive. Black and soft and warm from his hands. It smells like clean laundry and his cologne — not the overpowering kind, but the faint stuff that lingers in his clothes, on his neck, on the passenger seat of his car. It smells like skin and sun and something a little bitter, like leather left too long in the heat.

And God, it smells like him.

I hesitate for one second. Then I pull it on.

The sleeves drown my hands. The hem hits mid-thigh. The scent wraps around me before the warmth even settles.

About ten minutes later, I’m still there, curled up on the porch, arms around my knees, sleeves falling past my fingers like I’m trying to hide. My skin’s dry now, finally, but I haven’t moved. Haven’t even bothered to change out of my swimsuit. The hoodie’s clinging to me in the best way — warm against the cool air, heavy against my spine, like armor I didn’t ask for but desperately need.

The porch is quieter now. The buzz of voices has drifted toward the backyard, laughter spilling out in waves. Someone’s playing music through a speaker that keeps cutting in and out. I catch snippets of Leon yelling about seasoning and Jimin pretending to be the grill master. It's background noise. Faint. Fuzzy.

Then I see him.

Jungkook walks around the side of the cottage, emerging from the yard like he was never really gone. There’s a paper plate in his hand — balanced one-handed, perfectly casual — like this isn’t weird at all. Like he does this for people all the time.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks up, stops beside me, and gently sets the plate down on the wooden step without meeting my eyes.

Corn. Potato salad. A toasted bun with a burger inside — medium, no onions.

I look up. But he’s already halfway back across the porch, steps quiet, posture unreadable.

No glance. No smirk. No “I got this for you.”

Nothing.

He disappears into the house like it was nothing.

Like that wasn’t the most deliberate thing he’s ever done.

I blink at the plate. Then at the empty space where he stood. Then back at the plate again.

The hoodie sleeves slip forward as I move, brushing against my knuckles as I reach for the food. My fingers hover for a second — just long enough to wonder if this is a trap — then I pull the plate into my lap like it might vanish if I wait too long.

I didn’t ask for this.

Didn’t tell anyone I was hungry.

And that? That messes me up.

Because this isn’t big. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. Thoughtful. And somehow, it’s so much worse than if he’d said something sweet out loud.

This kind of care — the quiet kind, the real kind — it breaks rules. Breaks our rules. It’s not “just friends.” It’s not “we don’t do feelings.” It’s a soft, unspoken confession in the form of condiments.

Mira steps onto the porch with her hair in a messy knot and a drink in hand. She spots the plate immediately and slows, brows lifting.

“He did that for you?” she asks, incredulous.

I shrug one shoulder. It’s the most I can do without my voice cracking.

She lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Thought he didn’t care.”

I don’t answer.

She walks past me, but her gaze lingers for another beat, like she’s filing it away for later. Like this just confirmed something she already suspected.

I shift the plate onto my thighs and stab at a piece of corn with the flimsy plastic fork. It wobbles. I take a bite anyway. Chew slowly.

It’s stupid good.

Warm. Fresh. Way better than I expected.

And that only makes it worse.

Because this is the kind of thing someone does when they see you. Really see you.

And I’m not sure I know what to do with that.

I’m still chewing when Mira mumbles under her breath, half to herself, “Men like that are dangerous.”

No shit.

-

Later, the others are still outside — Mira curled in a camp chair, one leg over the other, nursing a can of cider while Leon and Jimin argue over whose meat is more “perfectly charred.” Their voices carry in waves, floating up from the backyard in bursts of swearing and laughter. The scent of grilled steak clings to the open air.

I slip inside, nudging the screen door shut behind me, and let the hush of the house wrap around me like a blanket. The temperature’s a little warmer in here, sun pooling across the hardwood in slow-moving gold.

Mira’s cousin’s daughter, two years old at most, sits smack in the middle of the rug, surrounded by a battlefield of toys: stuffed animals, plastic spoons, a lopsided tea set, and one very unfortunate doll that’s missing both a shoe and its head.

She sees me immediately.

Her whole body perks up, spoon clutched in one chubby hand.

“Pay?” she says, eyes wide, already grinning.

I blink. “Uh… sure.”

Before I can even get both knees down, she’s patting the rug with both palms, bouncing in place like she just won a prize. I drop beside her cross-legged, adjusting the hem of Jungkook’s hoodie down over my thighs. She immediately shoves a cracked teacup into my hand like she’s been expecting me for hours.

She lifts the empty teapot with great effort — both hands, tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she tilts it with full concentration.

I bring the cup to my lips. “Mmm! Yummy!”

She lights up, letting out a happy little squeak. Then grabs a pink saucer and places a squishy plastic cookie onto my palm with the seriousness of a Michelin-star chef.

I gasp and clutch my chest. “Oh no. That’s too good.”

She collapses in giggles. Tiny, hiccupy, squealing ones. When I dramatically fall backward and sprawl on the floor, she shrieks in delight and crawls over to pour me more.

“’Again!,” she insists, jabbing the air with the empty pot.

“You’re really strict,” I mumble, sitting back up. “Do all your guests get bossed around this much?”

She nods so hard her curls bounce. “Mhm.”

She hands me another cookie. I pretend to nibble it, chewing dramatically. She watches every move like it’s high-stakes performance art.

And then it happens.

That slow, creeping awareness.

Like a shift in gravity. Like a current in the air.

I look up.

Jungkook is standing in the doorway.

Hoodie sleeves bunched at his elbows. Hair slightly tousled, like he’s towel-dried it and gave up halfway. Barefoot. Shoulders broad, hands loose at his sides. He doesn’t move.

He just… watches.

His gaze flicks from the toddler nestled against my leg to the cup I’m still holding to my face — and then finally lands on me.

Something in my chest tightens instantly.

Not because I’m embarrassed. Not exactly.

But because he looks… softer. Caught. Like he just stumbled into something he wasn’t supposed to see and can’t quite tear himself away from.

The light from the window casts gold along the side of his jaw, catching in the curve of his mouth, the shadows of his collarbone.

His expression isn’t amused. Or smug. Or anything I expect.

He looks like he’s seeing me differently.

Like he didn’t realize I had this in me. Like maybe he never let himself imagine it.

I glance down, flustered. The girl presses a spoon into my hand like it’s urgent business.

When I risk looking up again — he’s still there.

Still staring.

And then, slowly, he steps forward.

His movements are quiet, careful. Like he’s not sure he’s invited. But still — he comes. Walks across the room and lowers himself to the rug beside us, crouching low so he’s at eye level with the chaos.

The little girl freezes.

She looks at him like he just walked out of a cartoon. Blinks once. Then holds out a bent plastic spoon with cautious approval.

“Play,” she says.

He takes it without hesitation.

He doesn’t look at me. Not yet. Just glances down at the nearest stuffed animal — a panda with an eye missing — and gently sets it upright between us.

“What’s his name?” he murmurs.

She shrugs. Then points to a rabbit. “Hop.’”

“Hop,” he repeats, voice low and soft.

She hands him a tiny cup. “Hot,” she says solemnly.

He nods, expression serious. “Very hot.”

Then he pretends to sip, frowning dramatically. “Too hot!”

She dissolves into laughter again, feet kicking the rug.

I can’t stop smiling. My cheeks hurt.

I try not to look at him, but I do — sideways, quick.

He’s sitting with one leg folded under the other, his long fingers wrapped awkwardly around a doll-sized teacup. His head is tilted slightly, hoodie bunching against the curve of his neck, and there's something in the way he holds himself — relaxed but attentive. Open, but like he's trying not to be.

He smells like fabric softener and smoke from the grill. A little like the lake. A little like me. My chest tightens again.

He turns his head, catches me looking.

“What?” he murmurs, just above the little girl’s giggles.

I swallow. “Nothing.”

But everything about this is something.

The little girl presses a pink crayon into my lap. Then one into Jungkook’s hand. She’s clearly assigning us roles. He takes it seriously. Doesn’t flinch. Just accepts it, starts drawing crooked spirals on a paper plate like it’s a mission.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes pass like that. Quiet. Strange. Safe.

At one point, our knees touch. Not fully — just the edges. But he doesn’t move. And neither do I.

When the girl finally toddles off toward the bookshelf, distracted by something shiny, I look over at him.

He’s still holding the spoon.

He looks back at me, expression unreadable.

Then he sets the spoon down on the rug like it’s delicate. Gets up slowly, dusts off his hands on his shorts, and walks out without saying a word.

But the scent of him stays behind. And the warmth where his knee pressed against mine. And the image of him — barefoot, hoodie sleeves falling past his wrists, pretending to sip invisible tea just to make a little girl laugh.

And the silence he leaves behind?

It settles in my chest like gravity. Heavy. Lingering.

Impossible to ignore.

part 7 here

authors note: part 6 is finally here! I'm not really proud of this part but i think it was meant to be a filler episode, part 7 will pick up dw! lmk some opinions and ideas, requests are open anonymously as well!

[littlegochu]

jungkook texts │ jjk 18+

jus a little quickie for u guys while I'm writing part 6 of fwb, lmk if u like these

[littlegochu]

you can take more │ jjk 18+

“sit on my lap, we’re not done.”

pairing: idol jeon jungkook x reader(f)

genre: established couple

rating: 18+, smut

dominant!jungkook, post-concert tension, possessive energy, filthy teasing, pillow humping (he watches), begging kink, denial & overstimulation, thigh riding, oral, tit play & titty-fucking (heavy focus), multiple orgasms, desperate dirty talk, jerking off while watching, messy, controlling sex, teasing aftercare, nipple obsession, he worships you like he owns you

-

The concert’s over, but he looks like he’s still on stage.

Jungkook’s skin glows with sweat, black shirt plastered to his chest, damp hair pushed back from his temples. He’s barely said a word since stepping off the stage, but I can feel it in the way he looks at me—like he’s been wound tight for hours, like the adrenaline of performing wasn’t enough to drain the rest of what’s building inside him.

He doesn’t kiss me.

He just reaches for my wrist. Grabs. Pulls.

No patience.

My heart stumbles. My legs move on instinct. By the time the door to our apartment clicks shut, he’s already on me—pressing me against the wall, his body hot and vibrating with restraint.

“You wore that on purpose.” His voice is gravel low. “You smiled at me from the crowd like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he says, stepping closer. “And now you’re going to feel everything I didn’t let myself give you back there.”

He walks me backward. No urgency in his steps—just heavy tension. I can feel it like static in the air, the kind that clings to your skin and makes your breath catch.

He grabs a pillow from the bed. Drops it on the floor.

“On your knees.”

“Jungkook…”

“You wanna be a tease?” His voice is velvet-dirty, low but sharp. “Then ride that for me. Let me watch what you look like when you’re the one doing all the work.”

The second my knees sink into the carpet, heat crawls up my chest.

The pillow is too soft. It’s not him. And I think that’s the point.

Still, I press my hips down, grinding slowly.

The friction is immediate—dull at first, then sharper, more focused as I angle forward and catch the edge just right. I press down harder. The pressure blooms like a tight ache under my skin. My thighs tense. I do it again.

Behind me, I hear him exhale.

When I glance up, his forearms are braced on his knees, veins sharp. His eyes are locked on my hips like they’re the only thing keeping him from losing it. His breathing is uneven.

“You’re soaked already,” he mutters.

My cheeks burn.

“Keep going.”

I roll my hips faster. The burn starts to spread—low and hot. My clit throbs against the cushion. It’s not enough and somehow too much. I need more friction, more pressure, more of him, but all I get is the edge of cotton and his eyes watching me unravel.

“Please,” I gasp. “Touch me.”

“No.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You wanted to tease me? Then make yourself cum.”

The tension snaps.

My legs shake, thighs clenched around the pillow, and the orgasm hits sharp—ripping through my center like a wave that drags everything else with it. I gasp his name. My whole body curls forward as I come apart.

But there’s no release from the tension in the room.

Not yet.

He grabs me by the waist and lifts me like I weigh nothing, dragging me into his thigh feeling he’s already extremely hard and heavy under the fabric of his pants. His thigh flexes beneath me. I shudder as I land on him, still slick, still oversensitive.

“Again,” he whispers.

I grind down—slower this time, but the contact is deeper. His thigh is firm, unrelenting. Every shift of my hips makes the heat spike again.

Jungkook lets out a broken sound.

His hand drags lazily across his stomach, just brushing the waistband of his sweats. I don’t even have to look to know he’s hard.

“You’re doing so good,” he groans. “So fucking pretty like this. Look at how wrecked you get on just my thigh.”

I can feel it coming again—tight and unbearably sharp. I brace both hands on his chest, gasping for breath.

“You’re gonna cum for me again, yeah?”

I nod—desperate, overwhelmed. My body feels like it’s on fire.

And when I do—when the orgasm hits again, smaller but more intense—I cry out softly against his shoulder.

“I need you.”

That’s all it takes.

He stands with me in his arms.

Carries me to the bed.

And fially, finally presses his mouth to mine.

The kiss is deep, hungry. Full of everything he held back for hours. When he pushes into me, the stretch makes me gasp. I’m already too sensitive, too full, too everything.

He pulls back. Slides in again—slower this time.

Every thrust fills me with more than just friction. It’s pressure, emotion, heat, praise—all wound into his voice when he groans against my throat.

“You feel so good. So warm. So tight, baby…”

My body arches.

And he doesn’t stop.

He flips me on my stomach, then back again—legs hooked over his shoulders, grinding deeper, harder, hitting places I didn’t know I could feel. His hips snap harder, hands gripping my thighs, dragging me to the edge.

“You wanted it like this,” he whispers. “You knew exactly what you were doing to me.”

When I cum again, it’s a blur. He follows with a low moan, body trembling as he releases inside me.

But even after, he doesn’t stop.

He lays down beside me, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me into his chest.

And his hand?

It finds my chest again.

His thumb drags softly over my nipple, again and again, until I squirm.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “They’re too pretty.”

I laugh—wrecked, breathless.

He presses a kiss there, slow and teasing.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers.

“I’m not done yet.”

-

authors note: i have this queued so ngl its unedited asf and hella rushed

pls comment or lmk in my anonymous requests if ur into fluff, smut, multiple part stories or drabbles it would be a biggggggggggggg help

[littlegochu]

hold me tight epilogue│ jjk 18+

"I never stopped loving you."

Trigger Warning: This story contains emotional and physical abuse. (Jungkook is not the abuser btw)

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: exes to lovers

rating: 18+, fluff w smut.

synopsis: Y/N is untouchable, his dare: "Make her fall in love with you."

Two years ago, Y/N was just a dare—a game Jungkook never meant to take seriously. But somewhere between the laughter, late nights, and whispered promises, he fell. Hard. Then the truth came out, and everything shattered.

Now, Y/N is a single mother trying to rebuild her life when fate throws Jungkook back into her world. He’s changed. Older. Steadier. But the past still burns between them. As secrets unravel and emotions resurface, they’re forced to face everything they tried to leave behind.

Some wounds run deep. But some loves never die.

-

3 months later

The first time Jiho calls him dad on purpose, Jungkook drops the strawberry he was holding.

It rolls off the couch and onto the floor, forgotten.

Jiho doesn’t notice. He’s half-asleep, thumb in his mouth, body curled into Jungkook’s side like he always ends up—warm, sticky, still in his dinosaur pajamas. He’s been asking for strawberries for the last ten minutes, blinking slow, barely awake.

But this time, the ask is different.

“Daddy,” he mumbles, voice small and tired, “more strawberries please.”

And just like that, something shifts in the air.

You freeze in the kitchen mid-pour, juice sloshing over the rim of the cup in your hand. Your heart stutters.

Jungkook goes completely still.

Not like he didn’t hear it. Like he heard every syllable and doesn’t know how to keep breathing.

Jiho doesn’t even look at him. He’s too busy snuggling deeper into the blanket, fingers reaching out for the bowl without lifting his head.

Jungkook stares down at him like he’s looking at a miracle.

His mouth opens. Closes.

But he doesn’t speak. Not for a moment.

Instead, he reaches back into the bowl with a trembling hand and places a strawberry into Jiho’s sticky fingers.

“Here you go, baby,” he says softly. So softly. Like he’s afraid the word might vanish if he says it too loud.

Jiho hums, content, and munches happily.

Jungkook brushes a hand over Jiho’s hair with a quiet tenderness that makes your chest ache. Then he leans in and presses a silent kiss to the top of his head.

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there, watching the two of them tucked into the corner of the couch, the glow of the cartoon flickering gently against their faces.

-

Later, when Jiho’s fast asleep—draped over Jungkook’s chest, arms loose around his neck like he’s the safest place in the world—you hover in the doorway for a minute too long.

Jungkook notices.

He lifts Jiho carefully and carries him to bed, tucking him in with practiced hands and brushing his fingers over his forehead like muscle memory.

He stands there a beat longer than necessary, watching Jiho breathe.

You watch him.

The apartment is quiet again when you both end up on the couch. The TV is off. The only sound is the hum of the heater and the way both of you are breathing like you’re bracing for something.

“He called me Daddy,” Jungkook says eventually, voice low and distant, like he’s still trying to believe it. “Like it was… normal. Like I’ve always been that for him.”

You nod slowly. “It is normal. Now.”

He swallows hard.

And then he laughs—but it’s not funny. It’s cracked, raw.

“I missed everything,” he says. “His first words. His first steps. I wasn’t there when he was sick, or scared, or learning how to sleep through the night. I missed it all.”

His eyes are rimmed red.

“I hear him laugh now and wonder if he sounded like that a year ago. Or if he used to sleep on your chest like that. Or if he cried when he got his first tooth.”

You sit next to him and reach for his hand, fingers interlocking like instinct.

“You’re here now,” you whisper.

His jaw flexes. “That doesn’t undo anything.”

“No,” you say. “But it matters. He loves you. He trusts you. That means something.”

His hand tightens around yours.

And then, softer: “What about you?”

You meet his eyes. They’re so vulnerable it hurts.

“I’m trying,” you admit. “Some days I feel okay. Some days I still get scared. But I see how you look at him. I see how you’re showing up. And I feel it—I feel you trying.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for months.

“I never want to let either of you down again,” he murmurs. “Not ever.”

You lean in, forehead touching his. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye.

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever do… we talk. We fix it. We don’t run.”

His other hand lifts—covers yours where it's resting over his chest. His heartbeat is fast beneath your palm, steady but full of unspoken things.

“I think I’m still scared you’ll leave,” he admits, voice barely audible. “That I’ll wake up and this will all be gone.”

“I used to be scared of staying,” you whisper. “But I’m not anymore.”

He blinks, and one tear escapes down his cheek.

You wipe it away before he can.

Then, gently: “We’re building something new. From scratch. No pretending. No perfect.”

“Just us,” he finishes. His voice shakes. “Me. You. And Ji.”

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, voice thick. “Just us.”

And when he kisses you—it’s not rushed. Not desperate.

It’s deep. Slow. Like he’s anchoring himself in the weight of this moment.

Of you.

Of what you’ve become.

And when you pull away, his forehead rests against yours. His hand never leaves your face.

“I love you,” he says, and this time, it doesn’t ache. “So much it makes me dizzy.”

You close your eyes.

And say it back.

Not just because he needs to hear it.

But because you mean it.

-

The apartment looks like it was ransacked by prehistoric creatures.

Plastic dino footprints lead from the front door to the living room. Streamers hang like jungle vines from the ceiling fan, fluttering every time it spins. A pack of balloons, most of them green or covered in tiny cartoon teeth, bounce against the windows, trapped by the breeze coming in.

Jungkook’s mom is in the kitchen with yours, arguing lovingly over frosting consistency while whispering about whether Jiho’s too young to remember this. (He won’t forget. He remembers everything.) Jimin and Taehyung are trying to blow up a giant T-Rex float in the hallway, failing miserably. Your cousin’s on the floor trying to keep Jiho from tearing into his presents before the cake.

And right in the middle of the chaos—your son, in a paper crown and a dino t-shirt that says I’m Rawrsome, is vibrating with energy.

“Cake!” Jiho shrieks, running in circles. “I want cake now!”

“Patience, baby,” Jungkook laughs, catching him mid-lap. “You gotta blow the candle first.”

“And wish!” Jiho adds like he’s the one explaining it.

Jungkook lifts him up, balancing him easily on his hip as he brings him to the cake table. It’s a glorious mess of frosting, candy rocks, and a sparkler candle in the shape of a gold 3.

The room crowds in.

Everyone sings. Loudly. Off-key. Jiho claps for himself halfway through the song.

And then the music ends.

The candle flickers.

Jiho raises one chubby hand and says, “WAIT!”

The room quiets.

You exchange a look with Jungkook. “Uh-oh.”

Jiho straightens his spine dramatically, one hand on his hip. “You have to kiss.”

You blink. “What?”

He points at you and Jungkook like it’s obvious. “Kiss first. Like the movie!”

Laughter ripples through the crowd—your aunt snorting into her wine glass, Taehyung clapping like this is his favorite show.

Jungkook grins. “He’s been watching Sleeping Beauty on repeat. There’s a kiss before every happy ending now.”

You sigh, cheeks warm. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in to kiss Jungkook’s cheek.

But at the last second—he turns.

And your lips land right on his.

It’s not dramatic. Not planned.

But it stops time.

Just for a second.

The kiss is soft. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that makes your chest ache. His hand brushes your waist, steadying you like he forgot there were people watching.

You pull back slowly, flustered, blinking up at him.

He just smiles. “Didn’t want to waste it.”

Jiho lets out the biggest cheer of the night.

“YAYYYYY!”

Everyone claps.

“NOW I BLOW!” Jiho yells with all the authority of a tiny dinosaur prince.

He puffs his cheeks and blows the candle with all his strength. It sputters out with a little spark.

“Make a wish?” Jungkook murmurs beside him.

Jiho thinks very hard for two full seconds.

Then, proudly: “I wished for more cake tomorrow.”

Laughter explodes around the room.

“You’re definitely my kid,” Jungkook says, kissing his head.

As the crowd breaks into conversations and the cake is sliced (with Jiho insisting on choosing who gets which color of frosting), Jungkook wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close.

You lean into him, both of you watching your son smearing icing on Taehyung’s face like he’s a canvas.

“He’s never going to forget this,” you whisper.

“Neither will I.”

-

The envelope isn’t hidden. It’s sitting right there on the counter, like it belongs.

Cream-colored. Sturdy. Real estate letterhead in bold at the top.

My stomach drops the second I see the logo.

I already know what it is. I don’t even need to open it — but I do. My fingers tremble slightly as I tear the flap, tugging out the thick packet of papers inside.

Deposit confirmation. Edelridge Realty. A house.

My name isn’t on it.

By the time Jungkook walks in from Jiho’s room, I’m leaning against the counter, envelope open, anger barely contained beneath the surface.

He sees me — sees the papers — and stops like he’s stepped into a minefield.

“You wanna explain this?” I ask, voice calm. Too calm.

He rubs the back of his neck, already looking guilty. “I was gonna tell you tonight—”

“You were gonna tell me?” I lift the papers slightly. “Not ask me?”

“Y/N…” He exhales, like he already knows where this is going.

“A house, Jungkook. That’s not a throw pillow. That’s not a car lease. That’s a life.”

“It’s just a deposit,” he says quickly. “It holds the place until we decide—”

“We didn’t decide shit.”

“You’ve been saying we need more space—”

“Oh my god.” I bark out a laugh. “So because I said this apartment felt cramped, your solution was to go undercover?”

“I was just trying to do something good.”

“For who?” I snap. “You? Me? Jiho? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re writing a happy ending without me.”

His jaw clenches. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

I step around the counter. “You didn’t even think, did you? That maybe I’d want to see the house too? Walk through it? Imagine us there together?”

“I was going to show you—”

“After you handed over a deposit and made the decision alone?”

He steps forward, hands out. “Come here. Let’s just—talk this through.”

When he reaches for my hand, I slap it away without thinking.

“Don’t touch me.”

He goes still.

“I’m not trying to fight,” he says, voice low.

“Well, I am,” I bite. “So if you don’t want to hear it, there’s the door.”

His brows knit together. He runs a hand through his hair. “Y/N, I messed up. I should’ve asked. But do you even hear yourself right now?”

My arms tighten across my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You say I don’t talk to you—but you hide how you feel all the time. You say everything’s fine, smile like nothing’s wrong, then I find you crying in the bathroom with the water running.”

My throat goes tight. “That’s not the same.”

“Yes, it is. You keep things in because you don’t want to burden anyone. I make decisions because I don’t want to scare you. And we’re both just guessing at what the other person needs.”

I blink fast, eyes burning.

He sighs again, softer this time. “I’m trying, baby. I just want to give you a future. Something solid. Something that doesn’t disappear when things get hard.”

“I don’t need a house to feel safe, Jungkook,” I whisper. “I need to be part of the life we’re building.”

A beat passes.

Then he reaches again. Slowly. His fingers brush mine.

I swat his hand again. “I’m not done being mad.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

And then he wraps his arms around me.

I freeze. Arms pinned. Jaw tight. He smells like baby shampoo and laundry sheets and home and I hate that I want to melt into it.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” he murmurs into my hair. “But I’m not letting you spiral alone.”

I exhale hard against his chest.

“I hate that you’re always the first to apologize,” I mutter.

He lets out the faintest chuckle. “Yeah. I don’t.”

And I let him hold me, even though my pride is still fuming — because his chest is warm, and his heartbeat is steady, and I think maybe I needed this hug more than I wanted to admit.

His hand moves up, cradling the back of my head like I might slip away again if he lets go.

We stay like that for a long time—breathing in the same rhythm, surrounded by silence that isn’t heavy anymore, just full. Like maybe it’s making space for something softer to move in.

His voice breaks through, quiet and close.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says. “This… family thing.. Being a dad.”

I pull back enough to look at him. His brows are furrowed, eyes low, like he’s confessing something shameful instead of something achingly honest.

My chest tightens.

“Jungkook…”

He shakes his head once, slow. “I keep trying to get it right. To do things for you. For Ji. But I don’t always know how to do it with you. And that’s what I keep screwing up, isn’t it?”

I blink hard. My throat’s too tight to answer right away.

“I know I should’ve asked,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over the curve of my waist like muscle memory. “I just… I wanted to make something real. Something solid. Something that doesn’t leave.”

My voice cracks when I finally speak. “You think I don’t want those things too?”

“I know you do.” He meets my gaze again, and he looks wrecked in the most vulnerable way.

I nod slowly. “I don’t want perfect. I want us. Mess and all.”

His lips twitch into the faintest, saddest smile. “We’re definitely messy.”

“But I still want to come home to you.”

That’s what breaks me.

He exhales through his nose, leans in, presses his forehead against mine like he’s grounding himself in me. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

For a long time, we don’t move. We just stay there, stitched together in the stillness—two tired hearts finally meeting in the middle.

And in the quiet, we start again.

Always.

authors note: i actually adore part 1 of hold me tight its probably my fav story so i decided to make a 2nd part! part 6 of fwb will be out soon pls be patient its kinda hard to write it as of rn.. but pls comment! anonymous requests open!

[littlegochu]

new blog! morelittlegochu

a space for all my non-jungkook fics. requests open!

first drabble: dont tease │ kmg 18+

link here

you’re both fresh off your solo stages. the makeup room door is locked now. and he’s already got your skirt bunched around your hips.

pairing: idol!kim mingyu x idol!reader (exes)

genre: idol au, exes with benefits, angst, smut, jealousy, toxic but addictive

rating: 18+ (explicit content — sexual themes, rough sex, jealousy, possessiveness, profanity)

synopsis: you and kim mingyu dated once — quietly, desperately, secretly. but when his group blew up, the relationship didn’t survive the spotlight. now you’re both idols. both single. both pretending to be fine. except you’re not. because every time you see him, he looks at you like you still belong to him. every time you smile at another idol, he corners you after. every time you try to move on, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind your body who it answers to.

it’s not love anymore. but it’s not over either.

and when he’s inside you backstage, whispering, “thought you liked it when other idols flirt with you? huh? use your words,” you remember exactly why you still haven’t let him go.

[littlegochu]

hold me tight │ jjk 18+

"I never stopped loving you."

Trigger Warning: This story contains emotional and physical abuse. (Jungkook is not the abuser btw)

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: exes to lovers

rating: 18+, fluff w smut.

synopsis: Y/N is untouchable, his dare: "Make her fall in love with you."

Two years ago, Y/N was just a dare—a game Jungkook never meant to take seriously. But somewhere between the laughter, late nights, and whispered promises, he fell. Hard. Then the truth came out, and everything shattered.

Now, Y/N is a single mother trying to rebuild her life when fate throws Jungkook back into her world. He’s changed. Older. Steadier. But the past still burns between them. As secrets unravel and emotions resurface, they’re forced to face everything they tried to leave behind.

Some wounds run deep. But some loves never die.

-

“Maybe,” you start, voice light and sweet, “the reservation can wait.”

You round the corner into the bedroom, heels in hand, lips slightly parted at the sight in front of you.

Black dress shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough to show off the tattoos. Silver watch, subtle chain. Hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try.

He glances up from the mirror.

Smirks.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, walking over, eyeing your dress like he wants to ruin it.

You loop your arms around his neck lazily, standing on your toes. “You just look so good, baby. It feels wrong to let anyone else see you like this.”

Jungkook chuckles, low and rough, hands finding your hips like instinct.

“Pretty sure you’ve seen me look better.”

You pout. “Not recently.”

His brow lifts. “That right?”

Before you can answer, he hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you down on the kitchen counter with a grunt of satisfaction.

Your breath catches.

He steps between your legs, crowding your space, lips ghosting over yours.

“We have all day, baby,” he murmurs, voice a little rough. “I’m all yours.”

You fake a whine. “You’re teasing.”

He grins, kisses your cheek, your jaw, then finally your lips. “Maybe.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper into his mouth: “Ten minutes.”

He pulls back just enough to grin. “Dinner first. Then I’ll give you all the time you want.”

-

The sunset hits just right — golden and warm, spilling over the skyline like it’s bending just for you. String lights sway gently above your heads, casting soft glows on silverware and champagne flutes. The city buzzes somewhere below, muffled by height and distance, replaced by the quiet clink of plates and the lull of soft jazz floating through the speakers.

Sitting in Le Morte— the restaurant his parents gave to him on his 21st birthday. The same restaurant where he asked you to be his girlfriend, the same tiny restaurant you both promised his parents to build up to success. Now, it's a beautiful restaurant sitting at the top of the tallest towers in South Korea.

You sit across from Jungkook, candlelight flickering between you, and he looks—

God. He looks unreal.

Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, collar loose. Gold chain sitting just at the base of his throat. One arm draped casually over the back of his chair, the other lazily stirring the ice in his drink like he has all the time in the world.

But his eyes are locked on you.

The whole time.

Not just glancing. Not just admiring. Watching you like he’s soaking in every second. Like he’s trying to memorize the way your lip gloss catches the light, or how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you laugh too hard.

“Stop,” you murmur, cheeks warm from the wine. “You’re staring.”

His smile is crooked. Intimate. Like it’s just for you.

“Let me,” he says softly. “Might not get to do it like this again.”

You blink. “What does that mean?”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table, fingers rubbing gently at the base of his glass. The sunset behind him catches the glint of something silver in his palm.

A small box.

Your breath stops.

You freeze.

He stands up.

“I was gonna wait until dessert,” he says, voice low but certain. “But I can’t. Not when you look like this. Not when I’ve been carrying this for months.”

The world quiets.

He drops to one knee.

Your heart stumbles.

“You’re it for me,” he says. “Even when I’m loud. Even when I’m wrong. Even when I piss you off and leave dishes in the sink. I want you. I want lazy mornings and midnight drives and grocery trips with a shared cart and matching house keys.”

Your eyes are already burning.

“So marry me. Let me wake up next to you for the rest of my life. Let me be yours, fully, finally, forever.”

He opens the box.

A silver ring. Simple. Elegant. Yours.

You cover your mouth, tears slipping before you can stop them. And your voice shakes as you whisper, “Yes.”

He lets out a breathy laugh like he was holding it in for hours.

You stand. He grabs your waist and pulls you into him — tight, full-body, arms around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

He kisses you.

Slow. Certain. Familiar.

And when you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you smiling through tears.

“Told you I’d give you forever,” he whispers.

-

You barely make it through the front door before he’s on you.

The ring is still snug on your finger, your heels are kicked off, and he’s kissing you like the air in his lungs depends on you.

Your back hits the wall. His hands are everywhere — one at your waist, one sliding up your thigh, slow and sure and possessive like he’s already memorized every inch.

But it’s not rushed. It’s not messy. It’s deliberate.

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You look so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the line of your lower lip.

You whisper, “You’re shaking.”

He swallows hard. Smiles, a little unsteady.

“I’m in love. Give me a break.”

You reach for him — fingertips curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

And he lets you.

Lets you tug him down. Onto the couch. Into you.

He kisses you like a prayer, like a secret, like a man terrified and overwhelmed and deeply, undeniably yours.

His hands are slow.

His mouth is reverent.

Every inch he touches feels claimed, branded, held.

“Say it again,” he whispers as his nose grazes your collarbone.

“What?”

“That you’re mine.”

Your voice breaks against his shoulder. “I’m yours.”

And he breathes out the quietest, most broken “Good.”

His lips press into the crook of your neck, soft at first, barely there — like he's grounding himself. Like he needs to feel you just to believe you're real. His breath is warm, shaky against your skin. You can feel the smile in it. The ache, too.

You exhale slowly, hand threading through the hair at the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the undercut.

He kisses your collarbone. Then again. And again. Slower. Lower.

Your dress slips off one shoulder. His mouth follows the exposed skin like it’s his path home. His hands — warm, steady — trace your hips like he’s reminding himself you said yes.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the top of your chest. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You laugh softly, breath catching. “You already have me.”

He leans back just enough to look at you — really look — and the way he stares makes you forget how to breathe.

Like you’re the only thing he’s ever believed in.

His thumb grazes your jaw, then your bottom lip, slow and reverent.

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

Before you can ask what he means, his mouth is on yours again — deeper this time, hungry but restrained, like he’s savoring it. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open for him instinctively, your body already arching into him like it knows its place.

He lifts you without warning, hands gripping the backs of your thighs, walking you toward the bedroom like he’s done it a hundred times — but tonight it feels different.

Charged. Worshipful. Final, somehow.

He lays you down like you're made of glass.

Then he follows.

His weight settles between your legs, but it’s not heavy — it’s perfect. Warm. Familiar.

His kisses slow. Dragging. Like he wants to memorize how you taste.

You feel his hand slide down your side, slipping under your dress, skimming the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches.

You shake your head, voice breathy. “Don’t stop.”

“Yeah?” His eyes darken. “You want me to take my time with you?”

You nod.

And he does.

The dress comes off inch by inch — not rushed, not desperate. Like unwrapping something sacred. His eyes never leave you, like if he blinks, he’ll lose you.

Your back arches when his mouth moves lower, slow kisses across your chest, your ribs, the dip of your stomach. His hands are warm and sure, holding your waist, smoothing over your skin like he’s trying to learn every inch by feel.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, voice almost shaky. “You always have been.”

Your chest clenches. Because the way he says it—so full of awe, of devotion—it sounds like he’s been waiting his whole life just to tell you.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed. It’s slow. Deep. Everything.

You cling to him — arms around his shoulders, nails lightly digging into his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist — because it feels too good. Too full. Too much.

He moans into your neck, low and guttural, breath hot against your skin.

“This… you… this is it for me,” he murmurs, hips rolling deeper, like he can’t get close enough.

Your eyes blur. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer.

Every stroke is steady. Intimate. The rhythm building slow, like he's not just trying to make you come—he’s trying to mark you. Remember you.

And when it finally crests—when you cry out and he groans your name like it’s carved into his lungs—he holds you through it.

Shaking. Pressing kisses to your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, his hand softly stroking your side.

“I love you, my wife.” he whispers.

-

“We’re done.”

You don’t yell. You don’t have to.

The silence between you and Jungkook splits open the second the words leave your mouth.

“We’re fucking done.”

He’s frozen where he stands — barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. He just got out of the shower. His hair’s still damp, clinging to his forehead. He looks… normal. Relaxed.

Like he’s not about to lose everything.

Like he has no fucking clue.

Your hand is trembling as you hold your phone out, the screen still glowing. His name is highlighted in the thread of messages, half-jokes and ego and the kind of careless boyish cruelty you never thought could come from him.

[Taehyung]: “Yo, you actually gonna do it?” [Jungkook]: “Already started. She’s cute. This’ll be easy.” [Namjoon]: “Bet you 200 she falls for you first.” [Jungkook]: “Watch me make her say I love you.”

Your voice trembles. “How long?”

He doesn’t answer.

You swallow, hard. “How long were they laughing at me?”

He takes a step forward and you step back, heart racing, breath caught.

“Y/N,” he says, quietly. “I can explain—”

“No. Don’t.” Your throat tightens so suddenly it almost chokes you. “You don’t get to look at me like that right now.”

He blinks like he’s been slapped.

“I wore your ring for two months,” you whisper. “Two months I’ve been waking up beside you, loving you, planning forever with you—while your friends texted you behind my back, congratulating you for playing me.”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it?” The crack in your voice finally splits open. “What the fuck was I to you, Jungkook? Some prize? A challenge?”

He flinches like it physically hurts.

“It started as a dare, we were young,” he says, voice low, ashamed. “I was drunk. It was stupid. But the second I actually got to know you—”

“Stop.”

“—I fell so fucking hard, Y/N.”

“Stop.” Your eyes sting, but you refuse to cry in front of him. “Don’t stand there and feed me that now. Not when the only reason you ever spoke to me was because someone dared you to.”

He looks like he’s falling apart.

You wonder if he feels it the way you do—like the air’s been punched out of your lungs. Like your body’s full of splinters, breaking from the inside out.

“You were never a bet to me,” he says softly. “Not once I knew you.”

You almost laugh. It comes out broken.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

You take a shaky step back, the ring suddenly burning on your finger.

“You had so many chances, Jungkook. We dated for two fucking years, you proposed two months ago. You could’ve told me after our first date. After the first time we slept together. After the night you held me when I cried about my mom. You could’ve told me before you proposed.”

“I was scared,” he admits, voice breaking. “I knew I’d lose you.”

“Good.”

His eyes lift to yours—glassy, wounded.

You don’t care.

“I trusted you,” you whisper. “With everything. My body, my heart, my life. And you… you humiliated me.”

His breathing hitches. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. Can’t.

“You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I am,” he says quickly. “I am. You know me better than anyone—”

“No, Jungkook.” You shake your head, blinking back tears. “I knew the version of you you let me see. I never knew this.”

Silence stretches between you, unbearable and sharp.

You slide the ring off your finger. Slowly. Like peeling off a layer of skin.

His eyes drop to your hand.

“No,” he breathes. “Don’t—”

You step forward. Place the ring on the counter. Not thrown. Not dramatic. Just... final.

“I was going to marry you,” you whisper. “I wanted to build a life with you.”

Tears slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe them.

“I would’ve given you everything.”

Jungkook’s voice is raw when he speaks. “You still can.”

You shake your head once, then again. Firmer.

“I’ll never know what was real,” you say. “I’ll never know if you looked at me like that because you loved me—or because you knew you’d already won.”

He breaks then.

Takes a step forward like he can’t stay still anymore, his voice cracking open.

“You were never a game to me.”

“But I was a joke to you once,” you whisper. “And that’s enough.”

His face crumples. “Please don’t leave.”

“I already did.”

You grab your bag. Sling it over your shoulder.

His feet move before he can stop himself. “Y/N, please. Baby—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He freezes.

You reach for the doorknob with trembling hands.

And then—because you can’t help it—you turn back one last time.

He looks ruined.

Hands limp at his sides. Eyes red. Chest rising too fast like he’s barely breathing.

He whispers your name like it’s the last thing he has.

You whisper back, barely audible—

“Goodbye.”

Then you walk out.

And this time… he doesn’t follow. Because he knows he lost you the second he lied.

-

[2 years later]

It’s warm inside the café.

Not the cloying kind—just soft. Familiar. The kind that seeps into your bones and tells your chest to stop bracing so hard. The kind of warm that smells like cinnamon and vanilla, where the hum of espresso machines mixes with quiet music and the occasional clink of mugs.

You’re sitting at a window table, one hand wrapped around a latte, the other steadying Jiho as he bounces lightly in your lap. He’s sticky with syrup and joy, a piece of pancake still clutched in one tiny fist. His laughter bubbles up when your boyfriend leans in and makes a quiet, ridiculous face just for him.

And you laugh too. Soft. Full. Real.

Your boyfriend has been good to you. Patient, steady, kind. He doesn’t push. He never tried to fill shoes that weren’t his to wear. He just showed up and stayed. And when you finally let him in, he didn’t treat your past like baggage. He treated it like part of the road that led you here.

So yeah, mornings like this? They feel okay. Safe.

Until the bell above the door rings.

You hear it, but you don’t look up right away. You’re busy wiping syrup off Jiho’s chin with a napkin, murmuring a quiet, “Hold still, baby,” while he wriggles.

And then you feel it.

Not just a presence. A rupture.

Your breath catches before you even know why.

You glance up.

And everything stops.

Jungkook walks into the café like a memory you weren’t ready for.

He’s with Taehyung. Laughing at something he says. But the moment he sees you, his body goes still. His expression falls apart in real time. And then his eyes drop—to Jiho.

To your son.

His son.

You feel the air punch out of your lungs.

He looks older. Bulkier. His hair is longer now, a little curl tucked behind his ear. He wears a dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing familiar tattoos that used to trace your skin. He looks…

Ruined. But whole in a new way. A version of him you don’t recognize. One that never held your hand in the middle of the night or whispered promises against your spine.

“You okay?” your boyfriend asks, his voice cutting softly through the tension.

You don’t answer at first.

Jungkook is still staring. At Jiho. Then at you. And there’s something in his expression that’s not shock anymore.

It’s betrayal.

“He’s getting fussy,” you murmur, eyes still fixed on Jungkook. “Can you take him to the car? I’ll just run to the bathroom and meet you there.”

Your boyfriend nods without hesitation, presses a kiss to your temple, and lifts Jiho easily into his arms. Jiho yawns and rests his head on his shoulder, thumb slipping into his mouth.

You can feel Jungkook’s stare as they leave.

You rise. Walk past him without looking.

The bathroom is down a narrow hall, dimly lit. You lock the door behind you and grip the sink until your knuckles ache.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

You rinse your hands slowly, as if that could wash off the past year.

And when you open the door—he’s there.

"Cheater." Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“You were mad at me this whole time,” Jungkook says, low and cold, “but you were out here carrying some other guy’s fucking baby?”

Your heart twists.

He laughs, humorless. “That’s rich, Y/N. You didn’t want me, but you moved on just fine, didn’t you?”

You stare at him. Silent.

The hallway feels like it’s shrinking.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t think I deserved to know?”

“Did I deserve to be a bet?”

That shuts him up.

You shake your head, eyes burning.

“I was pregnant when I left,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know it yet. I found out alone. I stayed alone. I gave birth alone. I raised him—your son—alone.”

Jungkook goes pale.

He looks stunned. Pale. A man watching the earth split under his feet.

His mouth opens once. Then closes.

“Y/N…”

You step back.

“And yeah, I moved on,” you breathe. “Because I had to. Because loving you almost destroyed me. Because trusting you did destroy me.”

His hands shake. His chest rises like it hurts to breathe.

“I would’ve been there.”

“Would you?” you whisper. “You lied every day for months, Jungkook. I don’t know what part of you was ever real.”

He swallows, eyes desperate now. “All of it. I loved you. I still—”

You cut him off with a cold laugh. Final. Solid. Unforgiving.

“Then you should’ve fought harder.”

There’s silence. Dense. Trembling.

“His name is Jiho,” you say flatly. “He’s brilliant. He has a real dad now. Someone who shows up, every day, no matter what. Someone who didn’t need to be biologically connected to love him better than you ever could.”

Jungkook flinches.

You feel nothing.

You take a step closer, voice low and sharp.

“You want a role in his life?”

He nods slowly. Hope flickers behind his eyes.

You smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Too fucking bad.”

And then you walk.

You don’t look back.

Let him break.

Let him wonder.

Let him live with what he lost.

Because you have a son.

And a man who never made your love a game.

And a life you built from the ashes he left behind.

-

[jungkook pov]

Jungkook doesn’t remember how many shots it takes before the guilt finally numbs.

He doesn’t feel the booth beneath him or the sticky table under his forearms. Just the pressure in his throat—the kind that burns more than the liquor. The kind that doesn’t let go.

“She said his name is Jiho.”

His voice is rough. Slurred, but not from the alcohol. From everything else.

“He’s brilliant. Got a smart mouth. Big eyes. My fucking eyes.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything. He just watches him from across the table, jaw tight.

“She didn’t need to say it,” Jungkook mutters. “I knew the second I looked at him. That’s my kid.”

Yoongi leans back in his seat, arms crossed. Hoseok twirls his empty glass, saying nothing.

“She told me he has a real dad now.” Jungkook laughs, but it’s hollow. “Said he shows up. Loves him better than I ever could. Said he doesn’t need to be blood to be his father.”

The table goes quiet. No one meets his eyes.

“She meant it,” Jungkook breathes. “Every word.”

Taehyung finally speaks. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Anger. Screaming. Anything but that fucking smile she gave him.”

Jungkook rubs his hands over his face, then through his hair, like he’s trying to scrub the memory off his skin.

“She looked happy. Safe. Not because of me. In spite of me.”

“You hurt her,” Hoseok says, careful but blunt. “You don’t get to be surprised she moved on.”

“I’m not,” Jungkook snaps. “I’m not surprised. I’m—” He stops, breath catching.

“I’m destroyed.”

The word hangs there. Honest. Raw.

Yoongi taps a finger on the table. “You said you didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“I didn’t,” Jungkook growls. “I didn’t fucking know. If I did—God—do you think I would've let her go? Let her raise him alone?”

Taehyung’s voice is low. “Doesn’t change what you did before.”

Jungkook looks up slowly. “I never meant to fall in love with her.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi mutters. “That’s kind of the problem.”

The silence turns heavier.

“She's a mom now,” Taehyung finally says. “And you? You’re the guy who made her a dare.”

Jungkook flinches.

“No mother worth a damn is gonna risk her child’s safety—or her own peace—on a man who turned her love into a joke.”

“I know,” Jungkook whispers.

“You say you want to be there for Jiho,” Hoseok says, “but you’re not the one who decides anymore. She does.”

“I’m not trying to take him,” Jungkook says hoarsely. “I just—I want to know him. I want him to know me.”

“He has a dad,” Taehyung says gently but firmly. “The one who stayed.”

Jungkook exhales sharply. His head drops into his hands.

“She said I couldn’t love him better. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t deserve the chance.”

No one replies.

“I just want to try.”

The words leave him in a whisper. Barely there. But the silence that follows feels deafening.

No one answers.

Taehyung just stares at him like he’s already bracing for impact.

And maybe Jungkook was hoping for something—anything—a crack of sympathy, a nod, a sign that someone still believed in him. That he wasn’t completely fucking ruined.

But there’s nothing.

Only the echo of his own voice, pathetic and hollow.

And that’s what finally makes him snap.

He shoves the chair back so hard it topples. Kicks it across the floor without thinking. Glass clinks and shatters as a bottle rolls off the table and explodes near the wall. Hoseok jolts up, trying to steady him, but Jungkook shoves him off with a harsh, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

His breathing turns ragged, chest heaving as he grips the edge of the booth like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“She didn’t even give me a chance,” he spits, venom coating every word. “She just looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was the fucking villain.”

“Jungkook—” Taehyung tries, but he’s not listening.

“She never even told me. She made that choice for me. Took him away from me before I even knew he existed.”

He pounds his fist into the table—once, twice—until his knuckles split open. Blood pools against the cracked wood. He doesn’t even flinch.

Yoongi stands up slowly. “You’re scaring people.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Jungkook growls. “I’m already a ghost in my own life. What’s one more mess?”

Taehyung’s voice is quiet but firm. “You’re not helping anyone like this. Least of all yourself.”

“I wasn’t trying to help myself!” Jungkook shouts, eyes wild. “I just wanted to try. I wanted to be something—to someone. To him.”

He sways slightly, blood dripping down his hand, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are glassy now, somewhere between fury and devastation.

“I didn’t ask to fall in love with her. I didn’t ask to lose her. But I did. And I lost him too.”

He finally sinks back into the booth, shoulders sagging like the fight’s drained out of him all at once.

“I’m not asking her to forgive me,” he whispers. “But she doesn’t get to erase me either. That’s my son.”

Nobody speaks.

The bar is quiet around them. Tense. Distant music playing beneath the weight of everything unspoken.

Taehyung finally breaks the silence.

“You’re bleeding.”

Jungkook looks down at his hand, broken skin and bruised knuckles.

He just laughs.

-

It’s almost midnight.

The apartment is still—blanketed in that soft kind of silence that only exists when the world’s asleep. Jiho is down for the night, his tiny breaths steady through the baby monitor on the table. The lights are low. My tea’s cold. Cassi’s face lights up the screen of my laptop, her voice a soothing constant in the quiet.

“So this girl—hand to God—she told her man, ‘If he wanted to, he would.’ And then this man shows up outside her job with a damn sign.”

I laugh into my cup. “A sign?”

“A literal cardboard sign. In public.”

“Okay, fine. That’s cute.”

"Hm, you have that look again."

"What look?"

“The one where you pretend you’re not thinking about him.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not.”

“Sure,” she drawls, then leans closer to the camera. “Bet he’s still hot. I wonder if he’s single.”

I laugh. “Wanna stalk him?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Her fingers are already moving. “What was his full @ again?”

I try to hide my grin. “You’re horrible.”

“Got him,” she says triumphantly. A second later, a notification pops up. Cassi’s just sent me his profile.

I don’t open it.

Not yet.

Instead, I lean back, feeling the air shift. That weird, aching weight that creeps in when you let a memory hang too long.

Cassi notices. “Hey,” she says gently. “You okay?”

Before I can answer, the door opens.

The lock clicks.

I freeze. Cassi’s expression sharpens. “Is that him?”

I nod and quickly end the call. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The apartment door creaks open. Han steps inside—jacket askew, smelling like beer and sweat and the kind of cheap cologne that clings to your skin for hours. His smile is crooked, lazy. A little drunk.

“Baby,” he calls out, dropping his keys to the counter, “you’re still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He stumbles over and drops onto the couch beside me, pulling me into his lap without waiting. He’s clingy—hands all over me, breath hot against my neck.

“I missed you tonight,” he says, lips grazing my cheek. “Was thinking about you the whole time.”

“You smell like beer.”

“I had a few.”

His fingers start trailing down my side. I pull away.

“Han, Jiho’s sleeping.”

“Let him sleep. I want you.”

“I’m tired.”

He stills. Then pulls back slightly to glance at the screen I didn’t have time to close. The Google tab is open again.

His eyes narrow.

“What’s this?”

I move to shut the laptop, but he snatches it first. Reads the screen.

His voice sharpens. “You’re looking up his shit?”

“It was nothing.”

“You miss him?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.”

He stands abruptly, sending the laptop sliding off the couch.

“I go out for a few drinks and come home to this? You—still thinking about that fucker who left you?”

I rise to my feet. “Han, you’re drunk.”

He steps closer. “You want him again? That it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“No, I’m not—”

He grabs my wrist hard.

“You were mine,” he growls. “I took care of you. Took care of your kid. And you’re still out here googling your ex like some pathetic little girl.”

“Han,” I whisper. “Let go.”

But he doesn’t. His grip tightens.

And then he slaps me.

Hard.

The sound cracks through the room.

My head jerks sideways. My cheek stings. My ears ring.

I freeze.

He doesn’t.

He lunges again, fists balled, grabbing my shoulders now, shaking me like I’m the problem. Like I’m the one who ruined him.

“You ungrateful bitch,” he snarls. “I fed him. I stayed. And you still look at me like I’m not good enough.”

I cry out as his knuckles graze my collarbone.

“Please—stop—”

But he won’t.

He doesn’t even hesitate this time.

I shove him back with everything in me and sprint for Jiho’s room.

My heart is slamming in my chest.

I grab Jiho—still half asleep, clinging to my shirt—and the baby monitor. I don’t even grab shoes.

Han’s shouting behind me, but I don’t listen. I don’t stop.

I bolt.

Out the door.

Down the stairs.

Into the night.

It’s almost 2 a.m.

I’m sitting on a metal bench outside a shuttered pharmacy, cold biting through the thin fabric of Jiho’s blanket, my coat, my skin—everything.

He won’t stop crying.

His little hands keep clawing at my chest, his body trembling as I hold him tighter and tighter, whispering, “I know, baby, I know,” even though nothing I do is helping.

He’s cold.

I’m cold.

And everything is closed.

I tried every door. The gas station. The diner. Even knocked on the back entrance of a convenience store until my hands went numb.

No one answered.

I pull him tighter into my chest. Try to rub warmth into his back, over and over, like friction and desperation will be enough to make him stop shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, rocking him slightly, even though I know it’s not enough. “I didn’t mean to bring you out here. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

My voice cracks before I can finish.

Jiho’s sobs aren’t the loud kind. They’re tired, hoarse, hiccupping. The kind that gut you. The kind that sound like trust breaking down.

And I’m failing him.

I’m failing my baby.

I try not to cry. I really do. But my eyes are stinging so hard I can’t see, and my throat’s so tight I can’t breathe.

I press my lips to his forehead. He’s too cold. His skin is damp with sweat and tears.

“Please stop crying,” I whisper, like begging him will undo everything. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know where to go.

Everyone I thought I could call—Cassi, gone. My old neighbor, asleep. Family? Not an option. I burned that bridge when I chose Han. I told myself I could fix him. I told myself Jiho would never see the worst of him.

I lied.

I bounce Jiho lightly in my arms, trying to calm him down even though I’m shaking just as badly.

He coughs once. Shudders again.

Something cracks inside me.

I pull out my phone. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it. I scroll. Scroll again. I open every app like something magic might be waiting there—someone, anyone—who could help.

But there’s no one.

And then… I don’t know why I think of it. I just do.

That stupid restaurant name. Le Morte.

The place he made me promise we’d build together.

My thumb hovers over the browser.

I shouldn’t.

I swore I’d never give him another chance to hurt me.

But Jiho’s still crying. His whole body trembling against mine.

And I have nothing left.

I type the name.

The website loads. I don’t read it. I just find the number.

I hit “Call.”

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I almost hang up.

Then—

“Le Morte.”

His voice is deeper than I remember. Quieter. But still him. Still Jungkook.

I don’t say anything.

"Hello?" A pause. A faint inhale. Then again, softer this time— "...Hello?" The sound of his voice breaks something open.

My throat caves in on itself. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a choke—sharp, ugly, aching.

I press the phone tighter to my ear, like that could steady my hands, like that could hold me up.

Another gasp escapes me. “I… I don’t…”

“Y/N?” His voice shifts. Urgent. Gentle. “Is that you?”

"Bab—" He stops himself. Breathes out slow. Then, careful and quiet: “Y/N, I need you to breathe. Just breathe for me, okay? I can’t help if I can’t understand you. Please—just tell me where you are.”

I blink, but everything’s a blur—wet and trembling and spinning. Jiho’s still crying against me, his little sobs going straight through my chest like wire.

“I don’t know—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Hey. Hey, stop.”

His tone softens again, that low warmth I haven’t heard in two years, like balm against an open wound. “I’m glad you called me. It’s okay, I promise it’s okay. Just tell me where you are. Anything you see around you. Anything, Y/N.”

I look around wildly, heart clawing at my ribs. “Pharmacy. Near… near the intersection by the overpass, across from—there’s a bus stop. Metal bench. I—he’s so cold, Jungkook. He won’t stop crying and I didn’t mean to bring him out I just—”

“Okay. Okay, I know where that is. That’s enough. I’m coming. Right now. Don’t hang up, alright?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Okay.”

“I want you to hold Jiho just like you are. Keep your cheek against his. I’m getting in my car now. I’ll talk to you the whole way.”

His voice is quieter now. Thicker.

“I’ll be there soon. Just hold on for me. Please.”

And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—I let myself cry. Really cry. The kind that comes from somewhere deep. Not panic. Not frustration.

Just grief.

Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the betrayal, the years apart—I still remember what it felt like to be safe in his voice.

-

The headlights cut through the dark like a promise.

I hear the tires before I see them—skidding slightly on wet pavement as the car pulls up to the curb. The engine dies, and the world goes quiet again except for Jiho’s whimpers, quieter now, fading into hiccups against my chest.

The door swings open.

Footsteps.

He’s still in his suit.

The one from Le Morte. Midnight black, sleek lapels catching what little light bleeds from the streetlamp above. His tie’s undone. Hair slightly windblown like he ran the second he got my call.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

Just stands there for a beat, eyes scanning me—Jiho pressed into my chest, my tear-streaked face, the way I’m shaking like my whole body’s trying to hold back a scream.

Then he moves.

His steps are fast but careful, like he’s afraid if he startles me, I’ll vanish.

He shrugs off the suit jacket and drops to his knees in front of us.

He drapes the coat around Jiho’s small frame, then pulls it over my shoulders too, like he’s trying to shield both of us at once. His hands linger there for a moment. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

My body caves forward.

I don’t mean to. I don’t even think. I just fold into him, and he catches us like he never stopped being mine.

I sob into his shoulder. Gasping, messy, completely undone.

Jiho clings tighter to me, still crying, but quieter now—like he knows something’s shifted.

Jungkook wraps his arms around both of us.

He doesn’t ask anything.

He just holds on.

Tight.

One hand cups the back of my head, the other bracing Jiho’s trembling spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay now.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong. That nothing’s okay. That I’m still broken, still afraid, still so angry.

But all I do is cry harder.

And he lets me.

His own breath stutters against my cheek, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t ask for answers.

He just holds me like he never wants to let go again.

-

I don’t know how long we stay like that. On the cold pavement. Wrapped in the scent of him—cologne and city air and something achingly familiar.

Jiho’s hiccups start to slow. His small hand curls into the front of Jungkook’s shirt, and for a second, Jungkook stops breathing altogether. His fingers twitch slightly against Jiho’s back, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to react.

But Jiho doesn’t let go.

So Jungkook exhales. Slowly. And wraps both arms around us again.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” I whisper eventually. My voice is raw. Shaky. “I didn’t want to call you.”

“I know.”

He gives a small nod, like he’s scared saying anything will push me away. “But you remembered Le Morte.”

I pull back just enough to look at him. His face is shadowed, lit only by the flickering streetlamp, but I see it—every crack. Every line.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes are red. Not from the cold.

He’s hurting too.

“Why did you come?” I whisper. “You could’ve ignored it. You could’ve sent someone else. You could’ve—”

“I would’ve crawled through fire to get to you.”

I suck in a breath. My lip trembles.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, barely getting the words out. “I don’t know where to go. I don’t even know how I got here. I just—he hit me, Jungkook. He—he hit me and Jiho saw.”

His whole body tenses. His jaw ticks so hard I flinch, and he notices—immediately softening.

“I’m not him,” he says low. “I swear to God, I’m not him. But if you need me to leave after this, I will. I’ll go. Just tell me where you want to be, and I’ll get you there safe. That’s all I care about right now.”

I look down at Jiho. His head is resting on my shoulder again. One hand fisting the fabric of Jungkook’s coat. His cheeks are pink from the cold, but his eyes are fluttering shut. He’s exhausted.

“Can we go somewhere warm?” I ask. “Just…for tonight.”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah, baby.”

I freeze.

He sees it—hears it—and his voice softens again.

“I mean—Y/N. Yeah. Let’s get you warm.”

He rises carefully, lifting Jiho from my arms without waking him. He holds him so securely, like he’s done it a hundred times, and my chest twists.

I stand too, legs weak. Jungkook watches me closely, like he’s waiting for me to collapse again. He keeps an arm around me as we walk toward the car waiting by the curb.

He opens the back door, gently places Jiho in the seat, then looks back at me.

“You sit with him. I’ll drive.”

And just like that, I nod.

Because for the first time in a long time— I believe him. We’re safe.

-

He places Jiho in the backseat, his hands steady but his jaw locked so tight it looks like it might shatter.

When he closes the door and turns to me, I expect him to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not at first.

He just stares.

At me.

His eyes flick over my face, pausing on the bruises beneath my makeup, the swelling just below my eye. My cracked lip. My trembling fingers still clutching the edge of his coat.

His whole body shakes as he exhales through his nose.

And then he’s in front of me—closer than I can brace for.

His hands reach out, hesitating for a breath before they find my cheeks, the pads of his thumbs ghosting over my skin like I might disappear. His brows are drawn so tight, his mouth pressed in fury, but his touch… God.

His touch is gentle.

Too gentle.

He wipes under my eyes with trembling fingers.

He swallows hard, like the words taste like poison. His thumb keeps brushing under my eye, trying to clean away the tears that won’t stop falling. His forehead leans close, almost touching mine, his breath shaky.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low, “what it did to me to hear your voice like that.”

I blink up at him. My knees feel hollow.

“You were crying. And Jiho was crying. And I wasn’t there—again."

“Tell me where he is,” he whispers. “Just tell me where.”

“Jungkook—”

“No,” he says, voice still soft, but steel beneath. “You don’t get to show up shaking and scared, with bruises on your face and tears in your eyes, and expect me not to burn the fucking world down.”

His voice falters at the end. His hands drop, then fist at his sides.

“I didn’t come to fall into you again,” I say quietly. “I came because I had no one left. That doesn’t mean I—”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes closing for a second like he’s steadying himself. “But I’m not strong enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

Silence lingers.

The wind cuts past us, but he steps in again, cupping the back of my head, his palm warm against my scalp. His other arm wraps around me slowly—cautiously—like he’s waiting for me to pull away.

I don’t.

I can’t.

He holds me against his chest like I’m glass.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispers into my hair. “All along. Through everything.”

I cry harder.

Because despite everything I told myself— Despite the time, the pain, the silence—

A part of me never stopped wishing he had been.

-

The morning light slips through the blinds in pale streaks, soft and almost kind, like it doesn’t know how much pain this room has held overnight. I haven’t moved much. I’ve been sitting on the edge of the bed for almost an hour, staring at the carpet, trying to pretend my stomach isn’t hollow, that my lungs aren’t tight, that the world hasn’t shifted underneath me again.

Jiho is asleep in the hotel crib across the room—warm, safe, breathing steady. Jungkook insisted we take the king bed, and he spent the night on the armchair, half-awake, shirt wrinkled, jaw locked. He left early this morning, and for a moment, I thought he wasn’t coming back.

But the door opens.

My shoulders jump before I can stop them.

“It’s just me,” he says, voice low, careful. I don’t turn around. I just listen to the soft thud of his shoes as he steps inside.

“I brought breakfast.”

I hear the tray set down on the small table. Hear the lids lifting, the faint hiss of steam rising into the quiet. I don’t move. I can’t.

“You didn’t have to,” I murmur.

“I wanted to.”

His voice is closer now. I feel him looking at me, the silence stretching. I finally glance up.

He looks… tired. The same white button-down from last night, sleeves pushed up. No jacket. Dark slacks, black watch. His hair is messy, like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times since the sun came up.

I can’t hold his gaze.

He sits down slowly, arms resting on his knees. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t push. But his voice cuts through everything anyway.

“Why him?”

I freeze.

“Why Han?” he says again, quieter now. “What made you pick him? Stay with him? Let him around Jiho?”

I feel the sting in my eyes before I even try to speak.

“I thought I didn’t owe you that.”

“You don’t.” His voice catches. “But I need to know. Because last night you looked like you were breaking. And then you called me.”

I don’t answer.

“I thought you hated me,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. “I did.”

His breath catches.

“But I didn’t have anyone else.”

That admission burns worse than anything.

He doesn’t speak right away. And when he does, it’s so quiet I almost miss it.

“I’m glad you called me.”

I blink hard.

“And don’t look at me like that,” he says gently, like he can read every line of guilt on my face. “I know you feel guilty. I know you think you shouldn’t have. But Jiho’s my son. And you’re his mother.”

He stands, steps closer.

“I wanted to do this. I want to be here. Don’t be guilty.”

His voice cracks. Just barely.

“I wanted to protect you.”

The room feels too small. My throat feels too tight. I can’t breathe with all this silence pressing on me.

When he reaches for me, I let him. His hand touches my cheek, his thumb brushing beneath my eye—and I realize I’m crying again.

His palm is warm. Steady.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he says.

And I break.

I lean into him, and he catches me, arms wrapping around me like a shelter I never thought I’d need again. He holds me tight—tight like he doesn’t want to let go, tight like he’s afraid if he does, I’ll disappear again.

My hands clutch his shirt, and his lips brush my hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine. “You don’t have to say that. Not right now.”

And before I can think—before guilt or pride can pull me back—I lift my face and kiss him.

It’s slow. Raw. Desperate. Like everything we’ve buried is clawing its way back to the surface.

His hand cradles the back of my neck, his breath shuddering.

He kisses me like he’s been waiting years for this.

And for once… I let him.

authors note: im ngl im tryna stay active by using my old stories, sooo they're lowkey unedited but again pls comment i love hearing ur opinions!!!

[littlegochu]

my ride │ jjk 18+

"Don’t forget who you belong to."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: mafia male lead, empowered female lead, established kinda (downbad but cold jungkook)

rating: 18+, smut (sluuuuuuutyyyyyy sex, dirty talk, doggy, tied up, marking up, all that good stuff)

synopsis: He's not the kind of man you fall for. He's the kind you survive.

Jeon Jungkook doesn't love gently. He loves like fire-hot, wild, and uncontrollable. The first time Y/N meets him, it's supposed to be a one-night mistake. A beautiful stranger with inked arms, a wicked mouth, and eyes that burn right through her.

But one night turns into obsession, and obsession turns into a cage disguised as protection. He doesn't ask to be in her life. He decides. Every move she makes, he watches. Every man who looks at her, he remembers. And every time she thinks about walking away, Jungkook reminds her exactly why she never will. He's toxic. Possessive. Wrong in every way. And he's the only thing that's ever felt right. Because the truth is-Y/N doesn't want soft. She wants ruin. And Jungkook? He was built to destroy.

-

Y/N didn't think he'd come back. Not after that night. Not after the way she touched him like she didn't care and left like she wouldn't look back. But Jeon Jungkook isn't the type of man you forget — and definitely not the type to let you go first.

Since then, it's been unspoken — they're something. She doesn't call it exclusive. Doesn't call it anything. But he shows up after every shift. Every night. Waiting in the dark just to drive her home.

Until tonight.

She took a cab. Alone. Without telling him.

And Jungkook? He's livid. Not because she left — but because she didn't wait. Because ever since that night, Y/N's been his — even if she won't say it out loud.

She's fire, and she thinks she can walk away. But Jungkook's never been good at letting things he wants slip through his fingers.

And tonight, he plans to remind her exactly who she belongs to.

-

I'm still staring at the screen when I hear the knock — just once. Firm. Final. The kind of knock that doesn't ask if you're home, it tells you to open the door.

I do.

My heart skips. Jumps. Collides with my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Because there he is.

Not in a suit. Not in one of those soul-stealing, mafia-drenched outfits that scream, I own the night and everything in it.

No.

He's in gray sweatpants and a fitted black long sleeve. Simple. Understated. Dangerous. It's unfair how good he looks doing absolutely nothing. Like he could've stayed in, but decided ruining me in loungewear sounded more fun.

His shirt clings to his chest like it's scared to let go. Sleeves shoved up, revealing the ink wrapping around his forearms like sins he wears proudly. His hair's a mess — that hot, chaotic kind of mess that says I've been thinking about you all night and not in a tender way.

And the way he's looking at me?

Like I betrayed him.

Like I didn't just get in a cab — I stabbed him in the back on the way out. Like I'm the sin he regrets loving, but still wouldn't give up if you held a gun to his head.

'Yes?' I say, because apparently sarcasm is my only functioning defense mechanism.

His jaw ticks once. 'You left.'

Oh. Great. He's leading with that.

I cross my arms. 'Nice to see you too.'

He steps inside without asking — because of course he does — and shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. Not a slam. Not a bang. Just... quiet. Controlled. Scary. The kind of quiet that feels louder than shouting. The kind of quiet that makes your spine straighten instinctively.

'You were busy,' I blurt, already regretting it.

He's walking toward me now — slow, steady, and terrifyingly calm. Like a storm that's already decided where it's going to land.

'I told you I'd come get you.'

'And I told you I can handle myself.'

His jaw tightens again. Just slightly. But I feel it. That tension radiating off him like heat from a fuse that's burning too close to the powder.

I hate how attractive he is when he's mad. Actually, no — I hate how attractive he is all the time. It's exhausting.

His voice dips, low and lethal. 'Baby, you call me — I come get you. It's that simple.'

I blink. 'You act like I abandoned you on the side of the road. I got in a cab, Jungkook. A licensed one. With an old man who offered me gum.'

He doesn't smile. Doesn't blink. Just stands there and smirks.

"You don't leave without me. You just don't."

My brain queues up with a comeback — something about not realizing I'd been claimed like a mafia — but it dies a fast death the second he steps in close.

He smells like soap, skin, and something darker. Something sharp that makes your blood heat and your knees question their own integrity.

He halts just inches away, so close I can feel the low, controlled fury humming beneath his skin. He raises a hand — slow, deliberate — and places it on my jaw. Not rough. Not sweet either. Firm. Commanding. The kind of touch that doesn't ask for permission because it already knows it has it.

He tilts my face toward his. His thumb brushes lightly along my cheek, but I can feel the pressure behind it. The tension in his fingers like he's holding back a thousand things he's not allowed to say.

His eyes drop to my lips, slow and possessive. But he doesn't kiss me. Not yet. No, he's savoring the moment before the ruin.

"You think I wait outside your bar every night just for fun, hm?"

My breath catches. I can't even pretend to be annoyed. Not when his other hand slides up the back of my neck and settles there, fingers curving over the base of my skull like he's grounding himself. Or claiming territory. Maybe both.

"You walked away from me like you don't know what that does to me," he says, and the sound of it — low and cracked just slightly — makes my stomach twist. "Like I wouldn't burn this fucking city down if someone else tried to touch what's mine."

The air between us feels charged — like if I speak too loudly, it'll all ignite.

"Next time," he breathes against my ear, "You wait for me. Yes, baby?"

I nod. Because thinking is no longer an option.

But he doesn't move.

His hand tightens just a little. "Words."

"Yes," I whisper. "I get it."

And that's all he needs.

When Jungkook finally kisses me, it's not gentle. It's claiming. It's not I missed you.

It's Don't forget who you belong to.

His lips crush into mine like he's been holding it back all night — like punishing me with silence didn't work, so he's resorting to punishment by pleasure instead. I feel his mouth — hot, consuming, feeling the smirk he makes when he finally gets what he wants.

I don't even realize he's backing me into the wall until my shoulders hit it. 

I know exactly what this is.

This is Jungkook teaching me the true meaning of dominance.

He hikes up my skirt, exposing the back of my thighs to his narrowed gaze, "Was this on purpose? Your pussy's dripping." he presses four of his finger flat against my cunt, roughly sliding them against the soaked cotton.

"Jungkook-" a whine leaves my lips, biting into my swollen lower lip as his hand reaches my skin, hooking his fingers into the lace, before spanking between my thighs again, twice more. 

He scoffs, "This pussy's all mine" grabbing my ass with his calloused palms, the slick between my thighs catching his attention. Jungkook stretches and kneads the flesh, cementing himself. 

"Greedy." his words slip through his gritted teeth. He grabs both my arms behind my back, my wrists feeling small in his hand.

"Bossy." I bite back, clenching because the idea of dirty sex with Jungkook is so arousing.

Far, far past the final punched hole, my sharp stilettos plunge between his black leather belt, tightly wrapped around the flesh.

He knots it twice, ensuring that it doesn't move. The guilt of his acts and the twisted pleasure of my masochistic tendencies combine, releasing a moan as the smooth cloth restrains. He pulls once, making my shoulder blade flex and my nipples scrape against the bed as my back curve is dragged into him.

Jungkook lets out a cocky laugh, rubbing his digits along my exposed cunt, "Slut." I let out a whimper as he waits for a response while pumping his stiff, oozing cock directly behind my dripping entrance. Wishing I could see how attractive he looks with his length in his palm. 

"Are you gonna fuck me or n-"

Just as the last syllable leaves my mouth, he shoves his entire girth in, wasting no time by pulling me back into him by the belt, forcing me to meet the loud slaps of his pelvis connecting to my ass. 

Jungkook isn't oblivious to my manipulative undertone, he loves to hear the words I'm yours. He had to show it again, plunge it into my system with the presence of an overwhelming orgasm.

With a deep thrust, he brutally buries himself in my tightness as the warmth recklessly overwhelms his senses. He's hungry, wanting to take in every inch of my body and watch his soaked cock vanish into my stretched hole. 

He uses my hair to make me watch him. His eyes are focused on my spine, waist, and bound wrists scraping the leather. He looks obsessed with every inch, his eyes are narrowed and roll back in an instant. "Mine, mine, mine," he repeats.

"Fuck—" The word slips out before I can stop it, traitorous and desperate. I already know that smug, possessive part of him hears it like a goddamn trophy.

It stirred something raw in him—just like that night at work, when my coworker Sean let his hand rest a little too low on my back as I passed by. Friendly, harmless... but not to Jungkook. I didn't even have to say anything. I felt his eyes on me before I turned. One look from across the room — sharp, cutting — and I knew. No warnings. No second chances. That was the line, and I'd let someone cross it.

The sex was good that night.

"Harder," I gasp. The burn's already spreading — starting in my shoulders, raw and overstretched, then trailing down over my chest, where my nipples drag against the sheets with every movement. The friction's almost too much, too sharp, but it doesn't stop. It slides lower, crawling down my ribs, flooding me from the inside out. It reaches the throb of my untouched clit. Jungkook's cock dips, bottoming his fat tip out before pushing all the way back in- meeting my g-spot with vigour, pushes and pushes. The room fills with restless moans, pooling out alongside my spit, decorating the corner of my mouth.

"Let another man touch you- drive you, help you, but he could never make you feel like this." The heat of his anger crashes into me the moment he leans in, pressing the rigid lines of his body against my restrained arms. It hits like a wave—sharp, unrelenting—and I drown in it willingly. I can't breathe, don't want to, not with the way his teeth sink into my shoulder, hard enough to leave proof.

"Say it," he growls against my skin. "You're mine. Every inch."

I whimper, shaking under the weight of his voice as he marks me again, dragging fresh color into my skin like he's branding me with every bruise.

His hand wraps around my throat, firm but controlled, tilting my face up until my mouth parts on instinct—like I need to say it.

"You... yours, baby," I choke out, the words tumbling out messy and raw, strung tight with everything I'm feeling and trying not to feel.

He groans at the sound, like my submission winds something deeper inside him, something dangerous. Then his teeth sink into my shoulder again—harder this time—before he pulls back and slams into me all over again. His grip flies to my hips, grounding himself in the way I shudder beneath him, and the sharp sting of his palm slapping my ass echoes through the air.

I feel his frustration pouring off him — not just in the way he moves, but in every breath, every curse under his breath, like this is the only way he knows how to say mine.

I can't see the bruises he's painting into my skin, but I can feel them — the slow burn sinking deep, the tremble in my thighs as they threaten to give out. The bite he leaves on my shoulder pulses like a seal, like he's finishing a sentence written in teeth and heat.

My hands are bound behind me, but it's more than that. I'm tied to him — to the weight of his presence, the way he takes up space in my lungs, in my head, in everything.

"Hold it. Not yet." I drop my head against the bed, my arms trembling, the tension in my body stretching too tight to hold. It crawls down my spine, hot and overwhelming—but I don't get a break.

Jungkook's hand tangles in my hair, rough and certain, and yanks me back into him until my spine arches and my body fits into his like it was made for it. "Shiiiiit, baby..." he growls, voice thick and wrecked. "You're so fuckin' good for me."

I don't mean to whimper — it just slips out. A soft, helpless sniffle between the broken sounds of his name that keep tumbling from my mouth.

But he hears it.

Of course he does.

And it only makes him go harder — his hips driving into me with punishing precision, like every thrust is a warning, a claim, a promise I'm too far gone to deny. His tight balls slap against my swollen clit-more, deeper- he throbs and throbs, my walls sucking him in.

Jungkook's hands move to the belt, fingers quick but careful as he loosens it from around my wrists. The moment the tension releases, his arms slide around me — strong, warm, pulling me back into his chest like he can hold me together.

His lips find the curve of my neck, brushing slow kisses over the bruises he left behind — like he's trying to erase them with apology. His hand rests on my stomach, thumb tracing soft circles over the tender skin, grounding me, claiming me gently now — in the aftermath of everything he unleashed.

The room is quiet now — heavy with the kind of silence that follows ruin. My breath stumbles in and out of my chest, skin flushed and burning, body molded to his. I don't speak. I don't move. I just exist in his hold, pulled apart and put back together in the span of a few heartbeats.

Jungkook lowers his gaze, eyes dark but softer now — that rare calm he only shows me. His fingertips trace down my spine, then lower, slow enough to make my body twitch in response.

He hums — low and satisfied, softly grazing the purple skin with his knuckles.

"Looks good,"

authors note: i had this on wattpad and decided i love it soo much i had to post it here too (it had different names tho so lmk if u see a slip up hehe..) pls comment i love hearing ur opinions, also my requests are open anonymously!

[littlegochu]

"just friends" part 5 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

-

📧 @ jkarchive has posted [jungkooks main, photography account]

📧 @ y/shidden has posted [y/ns spam account]

"YOU GUYS FUCKED?"

Leon nearly chokes on his water bottle, one hand tightening on the steering wheel.

Mira jerks in her seat, staring at you like you just grew another head.

You sip your iced coffee like you didn’t just casually drop a bomb in the backseat. "Just figured it’d be worse if you found out mid-trip."

Leon glances at you in the rearview, mouth still open. "You’re telling me this now? While I’m driving?"

"Figured it’d keep you alert," you say.

"YOU GUYS FUCKED," he repeats, like his brain needs time to register it.

Mira is still staring. "Oh my god. Oh my god. I need to open a window."

"It’s not that deep," you mutter.

"It is exactly that deep," Leon says, eyes wide. "You’ve been walking around acting like nothing happened, and then you just—what? Drop that like a spoiler in the middle of season three?"

You shrug. "It was a while ago. It’s not a thing. Just… happened."

Leon shakes his head slowly, then exhales. "Okay. Alright. Okay. I need, like, a second. Jesus."

Mira finally blinks. "Are you okay?"

"No, I’m not okay," Leon says. "It's Jeon-fucking-Jungkook. This car ride is gonna kill me."

You laugh. A little. "Just don’t crash the car."

Leon throws his hands up. "Too late. Crashed emotionally. This whole weekend just got a plot twist."

"LEON, OH MY GOD!"

"What?" he laughs, hands steady on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview. "I’m just saying what we’re all thinking."

You blink, iced coffee halfway to your lips. "Excuse me?"

"You and Jungkook," he says, as if it’s obvious. "There’s no way that’s a platonic."

Mira groans. "Can you be normal for one road trip? One?"

"Nope," Leon says cheerfully, then nods toward you. "So, what’s the verdict? You guys hooked up, or are you still riding that denial train into hell?"

You take a long sip of your drink. "We’re just friends."

Leon raises a brow. "Right. That’s why you gave me a heads-up the second we confirmed this trip. ‘Just in case things are weird,’ remember that?"

Mira lets out a wheeze, trying to hide her laughter behind her hand. "Please stop. She’s already dying."

"Look, Y/N," Leon says, tone dipping into something almost serious. "You’re a grown woman. You can do what you want. But if you’re gonna mess around with Jungkook, at least don’t let it mess with your head. That guy... he’s a little too good at keeping people at arm’s length."

You glance out the window, jaw tight. "I know."

Leon softens. "Just don’t let him hurt you. Or I’ll run him over. With this car."

Mira rolls her eyes. "This car’s a Prius. You’d bounce off him."

"It’s the thought that counts."

-

They’re waiting outside a corner shop when you pull up—Jungkook in black slides, shorts, and a teal shirt clinging to him like it’s already been through one swim. Jimin beside him, scrolling his phone, sipping on a bottle of water.

Jungkook doesn’t smile when he sees you.

Your stomach flips.

He tosses his bag into the trunk. "Shotgun’s mine."

Leon shrugs. "Called it."

Mira helps Jimin shove his bag in. "Sorry. Middle seat for now."

Jimin climbs in with zero resistance, settling between you and Jungkook. He smells like laundry detergent and sunscreen. Familiar.

"Hey, stranger," he says lightly.

"Hey," you smile.

Jungkook says nothing.

The next thirty minutes are filled with light chatter. Jimin’s shoulder brushes yours occasionally, but it’s natural. You two have been over for years, and yet somehow never lost that comfortable rhythm. You laugh at his dumb commentary. He gently roasts your taste in snacks. It’s easy.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word.

"Remember that time Leon thought he could outswim a jet ski?" Jimin says.

"That jet ski came out of nowhere," Leon defends.

"You ran like a cartoon character," Mira laughs.

"He slipped on a pool noodle," you add, grinning.

Jimin chuckles beside you. "You still laugh like that, huh?"

You blink. "Like what?"

"You do this snort thing when it’s really funny," he says, and you immediately feel your face heat.

"Don’t expose me like this."

"It’s cute," he shrugs.

Jungkook doesn’t react.

And for all the jokes and the memories and the comfort of being squished in a car full of friends, there’s still something stiff on your right—silent, still, and watching everything with the kind of awareness that makes it hard to breathe.

You lean closer to Jimin without realizing it.

-

At the hour mark, you stop at a gas station with a little diner attached.

Everyone piles out. Stretching, yawning, Mira dragging Leon inside to find energy drinks. You head toward the restroom while Jimin buys gum.

When you come back, Jimin is already leaning into the car, giving Jungkook a shove.

"I’m done. Your turn, middle boy."

"Wait—what?" You freeze.

"Sorry," Jimin says, slipping into the far seat. "You’re up, champ."

ack on the road. Now it’s worse.

Jimin leans against the door and slips in his earbuds, dozing off easily, his head turned away. The car falls into a sleepy quiet, except for the occasional turn signal or the low hum of the tires against pavement.

You’re too aware. Of the space between you and Jungkook. Of the space that no longer exists.

His arm is barely grazing yours. His knee bumps yours every few minutes. It feels deliberate. Or maybe it’s not. You don’t know anymore. But it’s driving you insane.

You can feel his warmth. His silence. The way he hasn't looked at you once.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

You glance sideways—he’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Like he’s trying not to think. Or trying too hard.

The air feels heavier by the second.

Leon glances at the mirror again. He notices. Of course he does. But he says nothing this time. He just watches. Then looks away.

Jungkook shifts slightly, and his pinky brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, he leaves it there.

Neither of you says a word.

You don’t look at him.

But your pinky curls—just a little—until it hooks around his.

He doesn’t pull away.

-

When you blink awake, it takes a second to realize the car isn’t moving. The sky’s gone soft with early evening light, and the air inside is thick with leftover warmth.

You’re still in the middle seat, and Jimin’s head is lolling gently toward yours. He stirs around the same time you do, stretching with a grunt.

“Are we... here?” you mumble, groggy.

Jimin rubs his eyes. "Guess so."

You glance around. The parking area is quiet, trees swaying gently outside the open car windows. The others are gone.

They left you two in the car.

You blink down. Your hand is free now. Your pinky cold.

Was I holding Jungkook’s pinky? The thought slams into your chest.

Did he fall asleep like that? Did you?

Was it real or just—some kind of noncommittal moment? A stunt?

You rub your hand over your face. Why is it bothering me?

You barely have time to spiral deeper because Mira's voice cuts through the air. “Y/N! You guys up?”

You glance up to see her poking her head out of the cottage door, hair pulled up, a drink in her hand.

Jimin groans and opens the door beside him. “We were enjoying the AC, thanks.”

You follow him out, legs stiff, mind buzzing.

Mira waves you both toward the trunk. “Come grab your stuff before Leon steals all the good rooms.”

And just like that, you’re swept into the motion of arrival—stretching, unpacking, pretending like everything’s fine.

Even though your hand still remembers the weight of his.

-

The sun's lower by the time everyone’s unpacked, bags tossed into rooms, swimsuits swapped out for shorts and tank tops. You step outside with Mira, sunglasses perched on your head, and catch the tail end of Leon and Jimin messing around near the boat tied at the dock.

Jungkook is a little farther off, standing near the water with a towel slung over his shoulder, talking to one of Mira’s cousins. His shirt is still on—a fitted blue one that makes his arms look unfair, the fabric hugging his biceps like it’s clinging on for dear life. You look once, then immediately regret it. Then look again.

“Earth to Y/N,” Mira says, elbowing you. “We’re heading out in ten. Boat’s packed. Sunscreen?”

You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got it.”

She tosses you a bottle before jogging ahead. You linger near the porch steps, scrolling your phone half to kill time, half to pretend you're not watching him.

You open your camera and snap a photo without thinking—Jungkook standing beside Jimin, both laughing at something Leon said, sun sharp against their skin, wind in their hair. It’s stupidly perfect.

The boat rocks gently as everyone loads in—coolers clunking, towels being thrown around, someone blasting a summer playlist from a tiny waterproof speaker. Leon and Jimin are already bickering over who gets to steer, Mira is yelling at them to stop shaking the boat, and Jungkook moves quietly, untethering the rope with one hand, eyes flicking up just once—to you.

You pretend not to notice.

Mira pats the seat beside her but you slide into the front instead, next to the cooler. Distance.

The engine kicks up with a sputter and hum, and soon you’re skimming across the lake, wind curling through your hair and the sun casting everything in a soft, hazy gold. You lean into it. Let yourself drift.

Jimin breaks out a pack of drinks. Leon nearly spills one when a wave bumps the side of the boat.

“You’re gonna drown us all,” Mira says.

Leon: “If I go down, I’m taking the aux with me.”

Laughter rolls over the water. You sip your drink slowly, eyes trailing toward the back of the boat where Jungkook is perched on the edge, one leg bent, hand braced casually against the side.

He looks good. Relaxed, but not fully. Always a little distant. That blue shirt still on, clinging slightly from the mist, the sleeves pulled tight against his arms.

“Alright,” Jimin announces. “Everyone in. It’s officially too hot to pretend we’re chill. Let’s go.”

Mira stands. “Wait, not all at once!”

But Leon’s already mid-jump, crashing into the lake with a splash.

You stand and peel off your tank top, leaving your shorts on over your bikini. The water looks good—cool, inviting. Jimin dives in next, yelling something incoherent before disappearing under the surface.

Jungkook doesn’t move.

You glance at him. He meets your eyes for just a second. Then shrugs his shirt off.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

You look away.

“Go,” Mira nudges.

You jump.

The cold is shocking in the best way. It steals the breath from your lungs, wraps around your legs and pulls you under. You surface with a gasp and a laugh, flicking water from your lashes, just in time to see Jungkook dive in cleanly—arms slicing through the surface like he’s done it a thousand times.

He pops up nearby, pushing his wet hair back with one hand.

You pretend not to notice how good he looks wet.

He doesn’t look at you. But he’s close.

Jimin splashes Leon. Mira yells something about sunscreen. The boat drifts nearby, anchored loosely.

You float, tilt your head back to stare at the sky, and try to forget the tension clinging to your ribs.

But under the water, you feel a brush—light. Intentional.

A hand grazing yours. Just for a second.

You exhale slowly, wiping your face, pretending nothing happened—pretending your heart didn’t skip a beat. But the water’s too clear, and Jungkook’s too close now. You catch a glimpse of his smirk just before he looks away, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Like he wants you to wonder.

You narrow your eyes. Is he teasing me?

He dives again, and when he surfaces, he sends a small splash your way—light, almost playful. You splash back without thinking, eyes sharp. He smirks again.

Definitely teasing.

You tread water, jaw tight. He acts like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t hold hands for an entire stretch of highway. Like that moment didn’t sit in your chest like a second heartbeat.

What is this? A joke to him? A game?

You look away, annoyed at yourself for caring.

authors note: i had this story already written but private on my wattpad, obviously added many tweaks so idk if the story is going to my expectations anymore i feel like its going to fast/getting boring but lmk and give me some suggestions!

part 6 here

[littlegochu]

"just friends" part 4 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

-

The message is already there when I wake up.

[Jungkook]: your place?

I stare at it for a while. Blink. Roll onto my back and let the sunlight hit my face like punishment. My head isn’t aching, but it might as well be—my thoughts are loud enough.

I don’t answer.

Instead, I toss my phone somewhere into the mess of sheets and blanket, drag myself out of bed, and plant my feet on the cold hardwood like it might shock something useful back into my brain.

He’s not my boyfriend. He never was. It was stress relief. Graduation anxiety. A mutual understanding. A warm body and a sharp mouth and a habit that got too familiar.

So why does my chest feel tight?

I shower like it’ll rinse it off. Like it’ll undo the way he looked at me from across the couch—like I was someone he wanted to forget and couldn’t. I don’t even remember washing my hair, just that my fingers shook when they brushed my collarbone.

[Jungkook]: or u mad i didn’t chase you down last night

I still don’t answer.

-

Mira picks the coffee shop—tiny, overpriced, with oat milk and weird lighting that makes everyone look like they’re in a Lana Del Rey music video.

"You look like you haven’t slept in three weeks," she says, sipping something with cinnamon foam and zero empathy.

I shrug. "Just a rough night."

"Oh? Because of Theo? Or because of a certain black-haired menace who texted me asking where you went?"

My eyes narrow over the rim of my iced matcha. "You talk to him?"

"Not really. He just said, and I quote, 'your friend disappear or just dramatic?'" She lifts her brow. "So. Which was it?"

"Neither," I say, leaning back. "It was just time to go."

Mira watches me too closely. Like she’s waiting for a crack to show.

She leans her chin into her palm. "You know, for someone who’s not supposed to care, you’re acting weird."

I exhale slowly. "I’m not acting weird. I’m just... over it."

She snorts. "You’re over it the way people are over their ex but still check their stories."

I say nothing.

She softens a little, like she knows she’s pressing too hard. "You know I get it, right? I’m not judging you. It’s just—when you walked out last night, he looked like someone just stole his lighter."

I blink. "That’s oddly specific."

"It’s Jungkook. He’s attached to stupid things."

I huff a laugh, finally. "Yeah. Like bad decisions."

She smiles, then sighs. "He’s not easy. Never has been. Even as a kid. Always intense, always quiet until he wasn't. People thought he was cool, but really he was just… complicated."

"Sounds familiar."

Mira lifts her brow. "Exactly. You two speak the same language. Which is probably why it’s a disaster."

"We were just hooking up," I say, quieter now. "It helped. When school was insane, when everything felt too loud—he was just… there."

"But now school’s over. And he’s still there."

I don’t respond.

"So what now?" she asks, more gently this time. "You ghost him? Pretend it didn’t matter?"

"We weren’t anything."

"You keep saying that. Doesn’t sound very convincing."

I play with my straw. The ice has all melted.

"You’re really on both sides, huh?"

"Unfortunately," Mira says, rolling her eyes. "I like you both. But don’t make me pick if this blows up. Seriously. I’ll vanish. Witness protection. New name, new life."

I crack a smile. "You’re dramatic."

"And you’re deflecting."

I lift my cup. "Cheers to that."

"No promises," I murmur.

"You know," she says casually, stirring her drink like she isn’t aiming straight for my jugular, "I know you think this thing with him was just about stress. But finals are over. Graduation happened. You don’t look very relieved."

I look away.

The coffee shop smells like vanilla syrup and someone’s overly ambitious cologne. My fingers tap restlessly against my cup. The straw squeaks.

"We used each other," I say finally. "It was mutual."

Mira hums. "Sure. Mutual. That’s why you look like he hit you with a truck made of bad decisions."

I glare. "You’re enjoying this."

"A little. I like when you have feelings. It makes you human."

I roll my eyes.

"So what now?" she asks, sipping again. "You just ghost each other? Pretend it never happened? You know we’re all friends, right? You can’t unsee each other."

"We don’t need to." I pick at the lid of my cup. "He’ll move on. Probably already has."

That comes out too bitter. I try not to let it show.

But Mira doesn’t miss a beat.

"Right," she says, slow. "And that doesn’t bother you at all? Him with someone else?"

I scoff. "No."

"Hmm." A beat. "You sure?"

I don’t answer. Because if I do, I might say something stupid. Like I saw him with someone last night and it felt like swallowing glass.

-

My apartment is too quiet when I get home.

The walls hum with silence, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of the hallway clock. I toss my keys in the bowl by the door and set my phone face down on the counter like it might behave better that way.

I wash a dish. Then another. Then stare at the sponge like it holds answers.

What if he did go home with her? What if that text this morning was just routine? Just checking if I’d let him use me again?

What if I want him to?

I’m about to spiral again when there’s a knock on the door.

Three short raps. Confident.

I freeze.

The air feels thicker. My skin prickles.

I open it.

Jungkook stands on the other side.

He’s in dark joggers, a fitted tee that clings to his arms, and a zip-up that he didn’t bother zipping. His hair’s slightly messy like he ran a hand through it a few times, and there’s a faint line across his neck like he just woke up from a nap he didn’t mean to take.

He looks stupid hot.

Which is deeply unfair.

I lean against the doorframe.

"What."

He tilts his head. "You ignoring me now?"

I lift a brow. "Were you expecting a thank-you card for last night?"

His lips twitch. "Didn’t think I needed one. But you dipped without a word."

"So?"

"So?" He steps closer. "You gonna tell me why?"

I shrug. "Didn’t feel like staying."

"That all?"

I meet his gaze. Cool. Level.

"Why? You miss me already?"

He smiles. Slow. Sharp.

"Are you jealous?"

I scoff. "Of what? The girl with the wandering hands? Please."

He laughs—quiet, throaty. He looks at me like he knows he’s getting under my skin.

I hate how much he is.

"Stop acting like that," I say flatly.

He quirks a brow. "Like what?"

"Like you didn’t do anything wrong."

Jungkook leans against the frame beside me. Close enough to feel. The scent of his cologne hits—clean, faint spice, warm skin underneath. It curls into my lungs and sits there.

"Did I?"

I want to scream. Or kiss him. Or slam the door.

Instead, I roll my eyes and step back.

"You coming in or just here to admire yourself in the peephole reflection?"

He smirks. Follows me inside.

It starts all over again.

-

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks in like he’s done it a hundred times—which he has—and glances around the room like something might’ve changed in the last twelve hours.

I fold my arms. "You here to sulk in person? Or did texting me twice not feed your ego enough?"

He tosses a look over his shoulder. "I brought you something."

I blink. "What?"

He holds up a plastic bag. Inside: two cups of boba, condensation slicking down the sides.

"Figured you were still mad," he says. "You always want something sweet when you’re mad."

I don’t move right away. Just stare at the bag. My throat feels too dry.

Right. Of course he brought boba.

Because I’m just a casual fuck to him. That’s why he’s here. That’s what this is. Don’t be dumb.

But my chest pulls tight anyway, like my body didn’t get the memo.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

I can find someone else easily. If I wanted. If I cared. I don’t.

I grab the drinks without thanking him. It doesn’t stop the flutter in my chest.

"You think this fixes anything?"

He shrugs and drops onto the couch, legs spread like he owns the place. "Didn’t know I broke anything."

I roll my eyes and sip the boba. It's my favorite. Obviously.

He watches me over the rim of his hand as he runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back. The veins in his forearms stand out when he stretches, and I hate that I notice.

"You keep looking at me like that," he says, "people might start thinking you like me."

"Keep talking like that and you’ll be the only one thinking that."

He laughs, quiet and low. "You missed me."

"You’re delusional."

"You didn’t block me."

"Bad karma."

"You opened the door."

"Out of curiosity."

He leans back, arm resting along the top of the couch, one leg bouncing slightly. Every move is lazy, comfortable, and way too attractive.

"So what’s the deal?" he asks. "We just don’t talk anymore?"

"That was the idea."

"Doesn’t seem to be working."

I cross the room slowly and sit across from him, curling one leg under myself. I keep the boba in my hand like a shield. He watches every move like it matters.

His gaze lingers a little too long. My skin warms. My pulse kicks.

"Don’t look at me like that," I say again, quieter this time.

"Like what?"

"Like you miss me."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps his eyes on me. Heavy. Dark. Focused.

"Maybe I do."

The silence sits thick between us. I should say something sharp. I should laugh it off. But I don’t. I just stare at him, my breath shallow.

The silence sits thick between us. I should say something sharp. I should laugh it off. But I don’t. I just stare at him, my breath shallow.

He taps his thigh. "Come here."

I don’t move.

"You’re scared," he says, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a fact.

"Of what?"

He tilts his head. "Of how bad you want this to not be casual anymore."

I scoff, but it sounds thin. "You’ve got a big head for someone who couldn’t even keep my attention past midnight."

He smirks, stands slowly, and walks toward me.

"Want me to try again?"

I swallow. My heart hammers.

He stops just in front of me. Not touching. Just close. The kind of close that’s magnetic.

"Say the word," he says, voice low. "And I’ll back off."

I look at him. I really look at him.

And I don’t say a thing.

He leans in. His lips ghost over mine. I feel his breath. My hand grips the edge of the couch, knuckles white.

The boba is long forgotten on the table.

When he kisses me, it’s soft. Testing. But underneath—heat.

It’s about to get messy. Again.

-

He kisses me like he’s trying to remind me of something—his mouth slow, tongue teasing, hands still annoyingly patient. And I’m over it.

I push forward, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, and shove him back until the backs of his knees hit the couch. He lets himself fall with a low grunt, looking up at me with something between surprise and amusement.

“Damn,” he murmurs, voice slightly rough. “Didn’t think you were in the mood.”

I climb over him, straddling his thighs, pulling his jacket down off one shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His hands hover at my hips, not quite grabbing—like he’s waiting for permission, or maybe just enjoying watching me lose it first.

“You still mad?” he asks, tone mocking. “Still jealous?”

I drag my nails along his collarbone, just hard enough to leave a mark. “Shut up.”

He groans low, like he likes that too much. “Fuck, you're hot when you’re pissed.”

“You don’t know me pissed.”

“I’m starting to.”

I grind against him once—slow and firm. His breath stutters.

His jaw tightens, hands finally clamping down on my waist. But he doesn’t guide. Doesn’t take control. He just holds on, letting me move how I want.

Which is worse.

Because it means I’m doing this to myself.

He looks up at me with his jaw flexing, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dark. It’s infuriating how good he looks like this—messy, controlled, completely at ease beneath me like he owns this whole situation without doing a damn thing.

“You gonna keep teasing?” he says lowly.

“Maybe.”

“Figured.”

I lean in, mouth grazing his. “You don’t get to act bored when you’re this fucking hard.”

His breath catches. “Didn’t say I was bored.”

I kiss him again, rougher this time. There’s nothing sweet about it—just teeth and tongue and too much tension pressed into skin. He kisses back with heat but holds himself steady, letting me take.

That’s what pisses me off the most.

He doesn’t try to dominate me. Doesn’t flip us over or take charge.

He lets me have it.

Because he knows I want it.

I pull at the hem of his shirt. He lifts his arms just enough to help but never stops watching me—like he’s curious how far I’ll go before I break.

I push his shirt over his head, toss it somewhere careless. His chest rises and falls, inked skin flushed. My hands drag down his stomach, lower.

“You still think I missed you?” I ask.

He exhales through his nose, smirking. “You act like it.”

“Ha,” I scoff.

His breath catches again when I palm him through his sweats. I don’t look away. I want to see it. Want to watch the tension unravel.

His fingers dig in at my hips. A groan rumbles low in his chest.

“I’m not gonna stop you,” he mutters. “You know that, right?”

“I don’t need you to.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

His hands slide up my thighs and under my shirt, slow but confident, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just under my ribs. He tugs the fabric up inch by inch until I lift my arms for him to pull it over my head. The cool air hits my skin, and he doesn’t waste time—he palms my chest roughly through my bra, lips dragging along my jaw.

I arch slightly. He grins against my skin.

"You’re easy to rile up," he mutters, mouth ghosting over the top edge of the bra.

"You talk too much."

He slides one strap down, then the other, dragging the cups away to expose me. His mouth is hot when it wraps around one nipple, tongue swirling once before he sucks hard. My fingers tighten in his hair.

He hums against me like he enjoys it. The sound vibrates through my chest.

He switches to the other side, bites gently, then soothes the sting with his tongue. My breathing goes shallow. His hand kneads the side of my breast, rough and greedy.

"You like this?" he says against my skin.

"I like shutting you up."

He smirks, but the way he looks at me now is darker. Hungrier.

"You gonna return the favor?"

I blink down at him. Then I shove his chest.

He falls back with a grunt, smirking as I move down between his legs.

"You’re dangerous like this," he says.

"You talk too much."

I pull his sweats down, slow and deliberate. His breath hitches. I don’t look away.

His cock is already hard, flushed, the kind of perfect that makes my throat dry. I stroke him once, twice, loving the way his hips twitch.

When I finally take him into my mouth, he groans—deep and raw, head falling back.

"Fuck, that’s..." He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

I go slow at first, then pick up the pace, tongue working him over as he grips the edge of the couch. I press my palm flat against his stomach, feeling the muscles jump.

He mutters something, curse and praise all tangled.

I don’t stop until his hand tightens in my hair and his breath turns ragged.

"Y/N—"

I pull off, wipe my mouth, and climb back onto his lap.

His pupils are blown wide. His chest rises and falls like he just ran five miles.

I reach between us and guide him, slow but certain. He shudders under me, the sharp hitch in his breath making my head spin. I sink down inch by inch, every nerve lit up, every inch of him pushing into me like he belongs there.

His hands slide up my thighs again but stop at my hips. He doesn’t help. Doesn’t move. Just holds me in place and watches like he’s burning this into memory.

"You wanted control," he says, voice rough. "Then move."

So I do.

At first it’s slow, steady. Just enough to get used to the stretch again, to remind myself that I can take it. That I’ve done this before. That it shouldn’t feel this different.

But it does.

It feels too good.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are on my mouth. He looks like he’s fighting himself with every second that passes.

I roll my hips once and his fingers dig in, but he doesn’t stop me.

“Don't look at me like that,” I whisper. “I dare you.”

His voice is ragged. “I’m trying not to.”

“Try harder.”

He laughs under his breath, but it dies fast when I move again. Faster this time. Harder. His mouth parts, a low sound dragging from his throat.

The couch creaks. My skin is flushed and damp. I can feel him twitch inside me and it just spurs me on.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

My hands splay against his chest. His skin is hot and smooth, his abs flexing with every shift of my hips. He’s trying to hold still but I feel it—every second closer to breaking.

“Why are you doing this?” he breathes.

I slow, stare at him. “Because I can.”

He groans again, eyes closing like it physically hurts to let me have this much power.

“You’re gonna make me forget this is supposed to be casual,” he mutters.

I bite down on his shoulder, not soft. “Shut up.”

He pulls me down to kiss him again—messy, hot, all tongue and teeth. This time, I let him.

Because if he wants to pretend this means nothing, then fine.

I can pretend too.

I ride him until both of us are shaking. Until the air is thick and the only sounds in the room are my breathy curses and his ragged moans and the slick rhythm of our bodies moving like we forgot how to stop.

And when I feel him start to lose it, I don’t slow down.

I want to watch him fall apart.

“Say it,” I whisper.

He grits his teeth. “Say what.”

“That I’m better than her.”

His hands fist in the couch. “Fuck.”

“Say it.”

He growls, snapping his hips up once, sharp and perfect. “You are her.”

'You are her.'

Hm.

“Louder.”

“You are her. Fuck, you’re—”

authors note (edit made after publishing): jungkook didn't get w that other girl, she was just seen flirting w him at the party hence why he said "you are her." since y/ns bringing up imaginary competition 😭 but also mind jungkook is free to mess around with whoever he wants! as long as he's practicing safe sex since him and y/n aren't anything serious/established!

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.

He comes hard, body locked, face wrecked. And I don’t stop moving until I’m chasing it too, shaking, clutching him like I hate him for how good it feels.

We collapse in silence, both of us breathing like we ran a marathon.

My head drops to his shoulder. His arm slides around my back. Not possessive. Just there.

Like he forgot to think twice.

And I let him.

authors note: lwokey rushed this but comment and lmk what u think!

part 5 here

[littlegochu]

Omg when are we getting part 3 of fwb??? I’m hookedddd

"just friends" part 3 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

-

Leon’s apartment smells like tequila and vanilla candles and way too many people trying to make a goodbye feel fun.

I should’ve worn something boring. Something forgettable. Instead, I’m in a black dress that hugs in all the right places and a lip stain that says I don’t give a fuck even though I do. My hair’s up. My earrings sparkle. My stomach’s a little nauseous.

Because I know he’s here.

I know before I even see him. I can feel it.

The heat crawling up my neck. The buzz in my ribs. The memory of his hand gripping my waist like I was something worth breaking.

Mira opens the door for me, holding a half-empty red cup and smiling like she knows too much.

“You look hot,” she says, dragging me inside.

“I’m fine,” I reply.

She gives me a look. “I said hot, not emotionally stable.”

Touché.

The room is loud. Music thumping low. Fairy lights tangled above the windows like someone tried. The couch is full. Theo’s yelling something at Jimin about beer pong. Leon’s in the kitchen doing shots with two people I’ve never seen before.

And Jungkook?

Yeah. He’s here.

Sitting on the arm of the couch in black jeans and a dark tee, one silver ring on his finger, hair pushed back, jawline sharp enough to kill. He’s got a red cup in one hand and the expression of someone who doesn’t care about anything — but I know better.

His eyes flick to me once.

Just once.

Then back to the wall like I didn’t just walk in with bare shoulders and a nervous system ready to self-destruct.

Okay. Fine.

It’s fine.

I follow Mira to the kitchen, ignoring the twist in my stomach. We take shots with Jimin, who hugs me like it hasn’t been five days since graduation, and Theo tells me I smell good, which is nice until he adds, “Like a sexy fruit roll-up.”

I laugh too hard. Jungkook doesn’t.

Because yes — he heard it. Of course he did.

And now Theo won’t shut up.

He keeps finding ways to touch my arm, complimenting my earrings, making some joke about how we should go to Bali this summer even though I barely know his last name. Mira’s watching the whole thing like it’s her favorite drama. Jungkook? He hasn’t moved. Just sits on the couch, one arm slung across the back, drink half-finished, jaw tight. Still not looking at me.

But I feel it. The shift. The way he’s listening even when he’s not facing me.

Mira raises her brows once, silently, from across the kitchen island. I shrug.

What?

I’m not doing anything.

I am, though. I’m leaning into Theo’s space a little too much. Smiling a little too easy. Talking louder than I need to.

Because maybe if I flirt with someone else, I’ll stop feeling like I’m choking every time Jungkook breathes near me.

Spoiler: it doesn’t work.

And Mira knows it.

She claps her hands and announces we’re doing a game. Something stupid. Cards or charades or truth or drink, depending on how fast people are getting tipsy.

Everyone groans but gathers. Mira starts pointing. Pairing people up like she’s running a dating show.

“You and you. Jimin and Liv. Theo, sorry, you’re with Leon.”

Then she looks at me.

And then at him.

“Y/N and Jungkook.”

I freeze.

Jungkook doesn’t react. Not even a blink. Just lifts his drink again and downs what’s left.

I sit next to him.

The couch cushions shift. Our knees brush.

I don’t move.

Neither does he.

Mira deals out cards like she’s innocent.

I want to kill her.

-

The game moves fast — dumb dares, harmless truths. People laughing too loud, drinks sloshing, Leon doing a cartwheel in the hallway for no reason. Mira keeps throwing me glances across the circle, eyes bright with something too knowing. Jungkook’s thigh is still pressed against mine, and he hasn’t moved an inch. It’s like sitting next to a statue made of heat and tension.

Then it’s my turn.

“Truth or drink?” Mira asks, already smiling.

I narrow my eyes. “Truth.”

She tilts her head. “Who in this room would you hook up with, if you had to pick someone tonight?”

Groans and oooohs ripple through the room.

My cheeks flush instantly. Jungkook is right beside me, still and unreadable.

I lift my cup. Take a long sip. “Pass.”

Theo howls. “That means it’s someone here, though.” Theo laughs, leaning forward with way too much interest, like he already thinks it’s him. Like me not answering is some kind of coy invitation. His knee bumps mine again and I don’t think it’s an accident this time. Mira raises her brows at me from across the circle, her smirk saying: oh, you’ve really done it now.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word.

But he sets his empty cup on the floor and leans back against the couch like he’s already bored.

The game moves on. I laugh when I’m supposed to, sip my drink when I can’t think of anything clever, and try to ignore the way Theo keeps glancing at me like we’ve just shared something. We didn’t. But Jungkook hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t even looked at me. I pretend my heart isn’t still thudding like it’s trying to get out.

Later, I sneak away to the kitchen. Just to breathe.

I grab a glass of water, focus on the hum of the fridge, the scrape of a chair leg in the other room.

Then I feel him.

He walks in without a word.

Stands a few feet away. Arms crossed. Staring at the counter like I’m not there.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“You’re real friendly tonight.”

It’s not a question. It’s not playful.

Just cold.

I turn around slowly, glass still in hand. “It’s a party.”

He tilts his head, eyes dragging down then up like he’s taking stock of everything and finding it unimportant.

“Guess so.”

He walks out.

And leaves me standing there, throat tight, drink untouched, like I’m the one who wanted something more.

I don’t go back to the game.

I find Mira, hug her goodnight, slip out the door without saying a word to anyone else.

My phone buzzes halfway down the stairs.

[Jungkook]: You done with him yet?

I don’t answer.

I just keep walking.

-

The rooftop of Leon's dorm is colder than I expected.

It smells like the city — smoke, exhaust, summer sweat — and something faintly sweet from someone’s open balcony down the block. I lean on the railing, phone still in my hand, trying to breathe like a normal person. In. Out. Repeat.

I don’t know why I came up here. Just needed a second. Needed to not feel his voice in my head.

"You’re real friendly tonight."

Why did he say that? Why did it sound like he cared? Or worse — like he didn’t want to?

The wind brushes the back of my legs. My skin feels hot and cold all at once. I stare out at the streetlights, watching cars move like I’m not spiraling. Like I don’t want to throw my phone off this rooftop.

Because what even is this now? School’s over. We were supposed to be stress relief. A bad habit. Something to laugh about later.

But now it’s just… lingering.

Are we supposed to keep fucking? What happens when we don’t have finals or deadlines or shared buildings as an excuse? Are we still going to pretend like it’s casual?

I exhale slowly. Finally type out a reply.

[Me]: you done being weird yet?

I don’t hit send.

My thumb hovers over it.

And just as I’m about to press it, the groupchat lights up.

[UNI YEAR 4 – LET’S GOOO 🧨]: bro who is this girl w jung 😭😭

There’s a video. Blurry. But clear enough.

Jungkook. Sitting on the same couch from tonight. A girl beside him — new dress, long hair, laughing. She leans in. He says something low. She laughs harder. Her hand lands on his thigh.

I scoff.

Of course.

My stomach drops — not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to remind me I’m an idiot.

I delete the draft. Tuck my phone in my bag. Walk down the stairs without looking back.

And I don’t text him back.

authors note: comment and lmk what u think!

part 4 here

[littlegochu]

12 rounds │ jjk 18+

“Lose the fight, win me. That’s the deal.”

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: boxer jungkook, toxic but addicting, established couple

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: He loses the fight. Unfairly. Publicly. And the only thing stopping him from snapping is her—barefoot on the balcony, refusing to be shut out. She doesn’t coddle him. Doesn’t flinch when he’s cold. She pushes back. And when the silence finally breaks, it turns into something they both understand better than words—heat, desperation, and a need to feel something real.

-

The crowd roars around you, but your eyes don’t leave him.

Jeon Jungkook. In the ring like he owns it—shirtless, sweat-slicked, muscles cut and coiled with every movement. His jaw is locked, knuckles already bloodied, and the way he moves is pure venom. Focused. Cold. Dangerous.

And yours.

You’re standing near the front row, VIP badge barely needed when everyone already knows who you are. Cameras flash your way, whispers trail behind your back—“That’s his girl.” “They’re so hot together.” “How the fuck does she pull him?”

You ignore them. You’re not here for the attention.

You’re here for him.

He hasn’t glanced at you once since the fight started. You don’t expect him to. That’s how he is when he’s locked in—ruthless, silent, unreadable. You fell in love with that part of him and hated it all the same.

But you know he felt you walk in. Felt your gaze when it landed on him. He always does.

You catch the way his shoulders roll back when the second round ends—his back glistening with sweat, muscles twitching beneath bronzed, tattooed skin. He’s a walking sculpture, wrapped in rage and breath and heat. The kind of body that’s earned—not gifted. The kind that could ruin you without even trying.

You’ve seen him like this before. Too many times. But it never gets old.

Jungkook in the ring is another version of him entirely. More vicious. More beautiful. Like a storm trapped in a body. That controlled fury in every punch, the precision in every dodge, the restraint that only you understand because you’ve seen what it looks like when he lets go.

“Finish him!” someone yells, and you catch the glint in Jungkook’s eye.

He’s tired. You can tell from the way his footwork staggers for half a second—no one else would notice it, but you do. He should’ve had this guy knocked out in the second round, but the ref was too slow on the break call, and the other guy got a cheap shot to the ribs.

Dirty hit.

You grit your teeth, arms crossed under your chest, diamond bracelet glinting under the arena lights. You look good tonight. Too good. Cropped jacket hugging your waist, heels tall enough to look down on half the men here. Your makeup’s untouched even after hours.

Jungkook always says you look like trouble. And that’s why he likes you.

And even though he’s locked in—throwing punches, tasting blood—you know he saw you. You know he saw the way your lips parted when he ducked under a hook. The way your hand wrapped tighter around the bar railing when he landed a left.

He fights like he knows you’re watching.

The bell dings for the final round.

He exhales, shoulders tight.

And even though he hasn’t looked at you once, his jaw ticks like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

He knows this isn’t going to be clean. You both do.

-

You feel it the second the final bell rings.

And you know—before the ref even lifts the wrong hand—that it’s about to be bullshit.

The other guy’s arm is raised.

The crowd erupts in boos. Furious, stunned. It’s not even subtle. Everyone saw the illegal shot. Everyone saw Jungkook dominate the first four rounds. But the judges? The commission? Bought. Blind. Doesn’t matter.

Your heart drops.

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. His jaw is tight, lips parted, chest rising slow like he’s trying not to explode. Blood trickles from his brow, sweat carving paths down his torso. His taped fists hang at his sides, and for a full five seconds, he just stares at the ref.

Then he turns. And you’re already moving.

Security parts before you like instinct. You walk in heels like they’re made for the mat, your blazer hugging your waist, hair still perfect, not a drop of emotion on your face—except for what’s in your eyes. Fury. Devotion. Fire.

He sees you immediately.

And that’s when he finally breathes.

His gloves are already off, tossed to the side. Tape loose around his wrists, knuckles bruised and red. He walks straight into your space like a magnet, and before you can say anything, his hand catches your hip, dragging you in.

Your arms go around his neck like instinct. His body is hot and hard and shaking.

“Don’t say anything,” he mutters against your ear. His voice is low, dark. Controlled the way dynamite is controlled—right before the fuse is lit. “Not here.”

You nod, forehead pressed to his. “I’m not.”

His other arm wraps around your lower back and pulls you flush against him. It’s not soft. It’s not delicate. He holds you like a claim, like possession, like he wants every camera watching to see exactly where he finds peace. His scent hits you immediately—leather, sweat, the faint echo of his cologne, spiced and sharp and familiar.

“Fucking rigged,” he mutters, voice cracking with restraint.

You tilt your head and stare up at him. Even angry, he’s beautiful—his lip is split, his cheek swelling, but his eyes are dark and locked on yours like they haven’t seen anything else all night.

“You should’ve knocked him out,” you say quietly.

“I tried.” His jaw flexes. “Didn’t want to kill him.”

You smirk, just barely. “Pity.”

His lips twitch. The smallest hint of a smile—there and gone.

Then he leans down.

A quick kiss. Messy and sharp. His bottom lip tastes like blood. Yours smudge gloss onto his. It’s not sweet—it’s public. It’s loud. It’s a declaration. His hand slides down to your ass, gripping without shame as he pulls you tighter, and you feel his exhale shake against your mouth.

Let them all see.

He’s not hiding anything.

Reporters shout both your names. Cameras flash in waves. A mic’s shoved toward your face, and a voice slices through the noise.

“Y/N, thoughts on the decision tonight? Do you think Jeon Jungkook was robbed?”

You don’t break eye contact with him as you reach up and gently fix a strand of damp hair from his forehead. His hand stays wrapped around your waist like a cuff.

Then, to the cameras, your voice comes out steady and clear—

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” Your tone is cool. Confident. The exact opposite of the storm you’re holding down inside. “But that’s okay. We’re not done.”

Jungkook hums low in his throat like he agrees.

He lets go of your waist just long enough to lace your fingers together, holding your hand as he steps down off the mat. Security tries to hold back the press, but he doesn’t give them a choice—he walks you through the chaos like it’s his runway, like the world owes him a moment of silence.

-

You don't need to look at him to feel it. The shift.

He’s still holding your hand, but his grip has changed—firmer, tighter, a little too close to a fist. The crowd is screaming, cameras flashing, everyone clawing to get a glimpse of him. Of you. Of you two.

But Jungkook doesn’t care about the noise anymore.

He walks you out of the arena like he’s dragging a ghost behind him. Silent. Stormy. The win stolen right out from under him, and the only thing keeping him from knocking out someone on the way out is the weight of your hand in his.

He lets you in the limo first. His touch on your hip is automatic, firm, but there’s no softness in it now. No teasing squeeze. Just pressure.

The door shuts behind him with a hard thunk.

And he goes still.

The moment feels longer than it is. The silence isn’t peaceful—it’s thick. Suffocating. Like the air’s too heavy to breathe.

He sits across from you. Shirtless. Shoulders wide, bruised, skin glinting with the last remnants of sweat and blood. His jaw is locked, his brows drawn. The cut above his brow has stopped bleeding, but there’s still a smear on his cheekbone. You know he’ll refuse to get it cleaned up until the morning.

His phone buzzes. He checks it with a flick of his eyes. Then declines the call without a word.

You sit still.

Waiting.

Watching.

The engine hums beneath your feet, and outside, the crowd disappears. The tinted windows block out everything, but inside the car, the silence only gets louder.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer.

You try again. “That decision was bullshit.”

Still nothing.

You cross your legs, lean into the seat. “Cool. So you’re doing the sulking-in-silence thing tonight.”

He exhales through his nose. Slow. Measured. Controlled. That control scares you more than if he’d yelled.

You press your tongue to your cheek. “At least you looked good getting robbed.”

He finally moves—just his eyes. Sharp and dark, cutting across the seat to look at you like a warning.

You meet it head-on. “Don’t look at me like I’m the one who handed out the scorecard.”

“You don’t get it,” he mutters.

“I don’t get what?”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice low and cold. “I worked for that fight. I fucking bled for that fight. And they gave it away like I was nothing.”

“You think looking good is enough to make that go away?” he says. It’s not cruel. But it’s sharp. Wounded.

“I don’t want to hear anything right now.” His jaw clenches.

You stare at him. “Guess I’m just for show, huh? Pretty thing to stand beside when you lose.”

“I didn’t lose.”

You pause. Quiet. “Then why do you sound like you did?”

His gaze flicks away. That’s the last thing he says.

He leans back, hands rubbing over his face once, then through his damp hair. The seat creaks under his weight. You watch him closely, waiting for him to break the silence.

But he doesn’t.

He shuts down completely.

The ride continues like that—heavy, wordless. The distance between you stretched by everything he’s not saying. You’re still in your heels, still in your perfect blazer, still looking like the girl every guy wants to steal. But he doesn’t reach for you.

Doesn’t even look.

You fold your arms and turn to the window.

Fine.

If he wants quiet—he’ll get it.

-

The elevator opens to the quiet luxury of the penthouse—glass, marble, soft lighting, the city glowing below like it has no idea the man standing in this hallway just got robbed of a win that bled months of preparation.

Jungkook walks in first. No word. No glance.

You follow behind, slower. He leaves the door open for you, but doesn’t wait. His duffle hits the floor with a dull thud, water bottle in hand before you’ve even unzipped your jacket. His back is to you when you step inside, and it stays that way.

You toe off your heels by the door, your body still humming from the adrenaline of the arena. But he doesn’t even look.

The silence follows you through the living room like a shadow. You sit on the edge of the couch, slowly undoing your blazer buttons, waiting—hoping—he says something first.

He doesn’t.

He twists the cap off the water bottle. Drinks like it’s a chore. His jaw tenses with every swallow, throat bobbing, chest rising and falling too quickly.

Still no words.

You exhale. “You’re really not gonna talk to me?”

He caps the bottle. Tosses it on the kitchen island. Then turns around—but his eyes don’t meet yours.

Your voice drops. “You’ve been quiet since we left. You gonna keep doing that all night?”

“Don’t,” he mutters, walking past you.

That’s all he says.

Don’t.

You stand slowly, arms crossed. “You don’t get to snap at me like I’m the one who made the call.”

He doesn’t even slow his steps. Just walks straight to the balcony, opens the glass door, and steps outside.

You blink. “Are you fucking serious?”

No response.

The door shuts behind him with a cold finality.

You stay frozen in the living room, lips parted in disbelief, hands curled at your sides.

He’s done this before—gone quiet when shit gets under his skin—but this? This feels different. Sharper. Like he’s not just mad about the loss. He’s mad about everything. The fight. The cameras. Himself. And maybe even you, though he won’t admit it.

You walk to the balcony door, stop just short of opening it. He’s out there with a cigarette between his fingers, leaning against the glass railing, the glow of the city painting his skin in soft gold and silver. Shirtless. Silent. Alone.

Smoke curls from his mouth as he exhales. His hair’s still damp. His knuckles are red and scraped raw. He presses the cigarette to his lips again, breathing in slow like he’s trying to stay sane.

You stare at him through the glass.

Your chest rises, falls. But you don’t go out there.

Not yet.

Because if he wants space, if he wants to stand out there and pretend like you didn’t ride for him all night, then fine. Let him.

You walk back to the couch, arms still crossed, jaw still tight, sitting down like you’re done talking until he starts.

And in the silence, the distance stretches like a fault line between you.

-

The cigarette’s almost done.

You watch from the couch, pretending not to care, but every time you look up, he's still out there. Still silent. Still leaning on the glass railing like the weight of the city might drag him over it.

And you’ve had enough.

You rise slowly. Quietly.

The balcony door opens with a soft click, and the air outside hits you—cool, sharp, but nothing compared to the chill in his silence. The wind brushes your skin. You walk barefoot onto the balcony, arms folded, steps deliberate, slow.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

You stop beside him, close but not touching.

He exhales smoke without a word. The wind pushes his hair back from his face. His profile’s cut in moonlight—high cheekbones, the edge of a bruise on his jaw, lips still red from the fight, or from you. His chest rises, slow and tense.

You stand still.

The silence stretches between you, long and bitter.

And then you speak—softly, just above the wind.

“You gonna be quiet forever?”

His jaw clenches, cigarette between his fingers. “Depends.”

“On what?”

He flicks the ash over the edge. “On whether or not I say something I’ll regret.”

You look at him, long and level. “You already did.”

That makes him finally glance at you. A flash of guilt crosses his face, but it disappears just as fast. He drops the cigarette in the ashtray beside him and leans back against the glass, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“I’m tired,” he mutters.

You nod once. “I know.”

“I’m angry.”

“I know that too.”

He looks at you now. Really looks. “Then why are you out here?”

Your lips twitch. “Because you always act like the world’s ending when you lose. Like I’m supposed to stand back and let you implode.”

“I’m not imploding.”

“You’re not talking.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

You pause. “Not with you. With you, silence is worse.”

He looks away again.

You hate how beautiful he looks like this—quiet and bruised, still burning. You can see the fight still living in his shoulders, in the way he breathes, like his lungs are too full of everything he didn’t get to say in the ring.

You step closer, slowly. Until your shoulder almost brushes his arm.

“You don’t have to talk,” you say softly. “But you don’t get to shut me out like I’m the problem.”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second—just a second—you see it. The crack. The thing underneath all the silence.

He reaches out.

Fingers graze your wrist. Light. Hesitant.

Then firmer.

His hand wraps around your wrist, tugging gently until your front touches his side. His head dips toward you, forehead resting against your temple, his eyes closed like he’s just too tired to keep carrying all that weight by himself.

“I don’t know how to lose,” he whispers.

You press a hand to his chest. His skin is warm. His heart is pounding.

“You don’t have to,” you murmur back. “Not when I’m here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But his hand slides to your waist.

Not tentative this time. Firm. Certain. The kind of touch that says he’s done pretending you’re not exactly what he needs.

He exhales into your neck—warm, shaky. “You wore that just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

You smirk, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I always dress for war.”

His fingers tighten, pulling you flush against him. Your chest meets the bare heat of his torso, and for a moment, you both just breathe—his nose grazing your cheek, your fingers curling into his shoulder. The bruises on his skin don’t scare you. If anything, they only make him feel more real. Less like a symbol. More like your man.

The one who bleeds, and breaks, and still tries to keep the world on his back.

He turns his face, mouth finding yours in the dark. And it’s slow this time. Not sharp. Not angry. Just deep. Needy. His lips part against yours like he’s tasting relief, like kissing you is the only thing that makes him feel like himself again.

He kisses you like he lost something out there and found it the second you walked onto the balcony.

Your hands tangle in his hair. His body presses you gently against the glass. You gasp softly into his mouth when his palm moves lower, finding the backs of your thighs, lifting—just enough to make your breath hitch.

“I need you inside,” you murmur, voice low. “Now.”

He doesn’t answer. Just takes your hand and pulls you in.

You follow him through the dark, quiet penthouse. No lights on. No music. Just your footsteps, your breathing, the sound of his body so close you can almost feel him without touching.

He stops in the middle of the living room.

Turns.

And kisses you again—harder this time.

Your back hits the couch. He leans over you, not breaking the kiss, hands roaming with more heat, more pressure. Like all the silence from earlier is pouring out now in the way he touches you. Desperate. Focused. Controlled in only the way he is when he’s about to lose it.

His mouth leaves yours to trail down your jaw. Your throat. Your collarbone. Every kiss is a vow. A bruise. A surrender.

You pull him closer.

Because this is what it always comes down to.

Not the fight.

Not the anger.

But this— The way he breathes when he’s on top of you. The way his body fits against yours like it’s home. The way he falls apart when you touch him like he’s not invincible.

And for once… he lets you hold him without flinching.

No more silence.

Only skin, and sighs, and everything he doesn’t know how to say in words.

Your back hits the couch cushions and his weight follows immediately—solid, heavy, demanding. His knee parts your legs without hesitation, and you open for him like muscle memory.

His mouth is back on yours, but different now. Gone is the slow burn. This is messier. Breathless. All tongue and teeth. He kisses like he’s punishing you for showing up. Like he’s mad it made him feel better.

Your head tilts back and you moan against his mouth. His hand wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive. His thumb brushes your jaw as his other hand pushes your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around your hips.

“Fuck,” he growls into your mouth. “Look at you.”

You gasp when his palm slides up your inner thigh, fingers dragging, slow and firm, like he wants to take his time even though you both know he won’t. His touch is hot, calloused, and so familiar it makes your chest ache.

You grab his wrist, breath hitched. “Don’t tease.”

He smirks, but it’s darker now. “You don’t get to make demands.”

His fingers slip past the edge of your underwear, and you jolt, legs twitching. He grunts when he feels how wet you already are, dragging his fingers through you, slow at first—just enough to feel how badly you want it.

“Fuck, baby…” His voice is low, wrecked. “You like it when I’m angry?”

You stare up at him, lips parted, breathing hard. “You like pretending you’re still in control.”

That makes him snap.

He pulls your underwear down roughly, doesn’t even bother taking it off fully—just pushes it past your knees and spreads your thighs with both hands. You feel the heat of his breath as he looks at you, not touching, not yet.

“You’ve been testing me all night,” he mutters, sliding two fingers into you without warning.

You arch off the couch with a sharp gasp.

His fingers curl immediately, dragging against that spot you hate how fast he finds. His thumb presses down on your clit, slow circles that contrast the way he fucks you with his hand—deep, rough, unrelenting.

You grip the cushions, eyes fluttering. “Jungkook—”

“I said don’t talk,” he growls.

He leans in close, nose brushing your cheek. His breath is hot, his words even hotter.

“You sat through the whole fight looking like a fucking trophy. And now?” His fingers thrust harder, faster, obscene sounds filling the room. “Now you’re dripping for me. Soaked through and shaking.”

You moan, thighs closing around his hand. He forces them open again, pushing them down with his knee.

“Keep ‘em open,” he commands.

Your fingers slide up his back, nails dragging through the sweat and tension in his spine. He shudders from it, his mouth dropping to your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. You gasp again. His tongue soothes over it.

He groans low in your ear. “You want me to fuck you like I lost?”

You nod, dizzy. “Yes.”

“Like I hate everything but you?”

“Yes, Jungkook—fuck, yes.”

He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, and you whimper at the loss. He pushes up onto his knees, breathing hard, undoing his sweatpants with one hand, eyes locked on your thighs like he’s about to destroy you.

When he pushes in, it’s fast and deep—too deep. You cry out, legs wrapping around him, nails digging into his biceps as he starts thrusting without mercy.

Every snap of his hips punches a sound out of your throat. He’s gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes dark and fixed on the way your body gives under him.

“This what you wanted?” he pants, fucking into you hard enough to rock the couch. “Wanted to be the only thing I could feel after getting robbed?”

You nod, whimpering, trying to keep your voice from breaking.

“You are,” he snarls. “You fucking are.”

You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore—just sounds, gasps, curses, his name. His name, over and over.

He slips one arm under your back, dragging you up against his chest so you’re nearly sitting in his lap, your legs wrapped around him. His rhythm doesn’t slow. If anything, it gets rougher.

Skin on skin. Bruising, breathless. His hand on your ass, your nails in his neck, teeth grazing lips between ragged kisses.

He’s not being gentle. And you don’t want him to be.

This isn’t careful. It’s not sweet.

It’s two people breaking at the seams and using each other to survive it.

His forehead drops to yours. His breath is hot, shaky, lips brushing yours with every thrust.

“I need you,” he murmurs. It’s not rough. Not this time. Just honest. Raw. “I need you, baby. Stay with me.”

You kiss him like a promise. Like you’ll never go anywhere.

Your orgasm hits hard—fast and full-body. You shake, fingers clenching around him, crying out his name. And he follows, growling into your neck, burying himself inside you with one final thrust that leaves you both breathless.

The only sound left is the way you both breathe.

Then silence.

Warm. Spent. Wrapped around each other on the couch, skin damp and hearts pounding.

And for the first time all night— He’s not angry. He’s just holding you.

authors note: comment and lmk what u think!