sabrinacocksucker

[sabrinacocksucker]

Lines of fate: 01 | jjk

➵ pairing: tattooist!jungkook x f. reader

➵ genre: apocalypse au, exes to lovers (?) dad!jungkook, survival, angst, smut

➵ summary: the last thing Jungkook ever imagined was an outbreak that turned the dead into the living. But even more unexpected is seeing you—an ex he’s known nothing about in the past four years—with a small child who bears a striking resemblance to himself. As Jungkook grapples with the shock and the city spirals into chaos, the two of you are thrust back together, forced to confront unresolved feelings, long-buried truths, and the horrors of the deadly virus taking over.

➵ word count: 11.9k

➵ warnings: swearing (jk says fuck way too much), graphic depictions of violence and death, blood and gore, seizures, virus and zombies ofc, brief mentions of alcohol consumption.

➵ series masterlist

➵ a/n: it’s finally here!! <3 sorry this was postponed way longer than expected, all I can say is: life :,) anyway!! posting my writing again after years on hiatus definitely feels nerve wracking lol. this idea has been in my wips for literally years so I’m so excited to finally be sharing it with you all!! I would greatly appreciate your feedback and thoughts as it is something quite different from anything I usually write (it’s definitely been a kick in the ass) it’ll also really help me stay motivated to continue writing it. thank you for all the hype and excitement you showed for this fic before it was even released cause like hello?? that’s crazy to me😭 thanks for always showing my stories love and support🫶🏻 I’ve taken inspiration from all the zombie movies and videogames I’ve ever seen and played over the years (thanks dad). I should also mention, I had a very thorough plot for this planned out and it kinda went to shit in the process of writing so we’re kind of going off vibes only and 20% of the plot I had originally planned so yeah, bare with me🤪 I also want to say, updates on this will most likely be slow, but I will try my best to get them out as fast I can for you🙏 now that that’s over, I hope you enjoy this series as much as I am enjoying writing it!! this chapter is just the very beginning <33

The autumn sun filters through the large window with an amber glow as you take a slow sip of your coffee, the warm bitterness spreading in your chest as you attempt to chase some kind of comfort. But the loud hum of the city just outside and the muffled chatter of the bustling cafe are very much a grounding reminder of where you are — and where you really wish you weren't.

Your gaze travels down to your daughter sitting on the booth beside you, her little legs swinging off the seat contentedly as she picks away at her blueberry muffin. Completely oblivious to your ongoing little inner torment. Her big eyes flicker up to meet yours, brimming with glee. Brushing a crumb off her cheek, you force a little smile for her. 

Like a dull sting under your skin, you feel how little teeth of guilt gnaw away at you, not only because it’s been almost impossible to offer her a genuine smile in the past two days since you stepped foot in this dammed place, but because you simply wish you could share the same excitement as she does, and perhaps…feel more positive about this whole situation. For her.

But all you’ve been able to feel is guilt.

An incessant amount of it. Guilt and fear. Slowly brewing up inside you like some sort of poison that has had you feeling a little sick to your stomach.

”You’re spiraling again.” Hoseok pulls you out of your absentminded state, studying you over the rim of his half finished iced americano.

You blink. You often tend to forget how well he’s capable of reading you. Though you suppose that’s a skill acquired with nearly twenty years of friendship, and an unavoidable consequence of growing up constantly together, practically like siblings. 

Hoseok has been the only constant in your life for as long as you can remember, like a brother to you — conjoined at the hip as his mother always used to joke. It all began when you moved next door. With your parents always working late and often times far away from home, Hoseok's home slowly became your second one — the place you spent most of your childhood and adolescence and formed some of your fondest memories. A place where you were never alone.

You do suppose it’s no surprise the years and the unbreakable bond you’ve formed have given you exceptional abilities to know when something is off with just a simple glance. But it's never less surprising.

The corners of your mouth tug upwards into a tiny smile at his words, brows pinched in a pathetic attempt to hide your truth. “I am not.”

“You are. You’re thinking too much,” he stirs the ice in his drink with the straw, eyes flicking up to meet yours again. “Which if I may remind you, is one of your fatal flaws.”

You scoff, only slightly offended as you watch him take a slow sip. Pushing your sunglasses further up your head as you lean back. “Thinking too much is not my fatal flaw.” 

He’s may very likely be right about that, but of course, you’d never actually admit it.

Hoseok snorts, clearly unconvinced. His voice just above a whisper when he murmurs, “Right. Sorry. It’s definitely lying.”

Before you can argue, he leans forward to accept some crumbs of muffin Jieun is so eagerly offering him. The sight tugs at something deep in your chest, watching his expression soften to mush as he thanks her with that brightest, tender smile he only ever uses for her before he brings his attention back to you. 

“If it weren’t your fatal flaw, you’d actually be enjoying that overpriced coffee and oh—, maybe being reunited with your best friend again. I haven’t even seen you in like three months.” He shakes his head in utter disappointment, sitting back with a dramatic sigh.

“Hobi, I am so thrilled to be reunited with you, truly.” You roll your eyes ever so slightly and place a hand on your heart rather sarcastically as you say it, but deep down you hope he knows you’re only half joking. No one has done for you more than what hoseok has in the time you’ve known him.

You suppose all the change has got you in a rather sentimental state. But you bury it away. Hoseok deserves a nice time out with a friend for once too. He’s seen enough of your tears.

“Yeah?” he leans in, studying you with mock concern. Though not falling for it even a bit. "That's your thrilled face? You sure about that?” You almost laugh in response, but then, he shifts, looking more serious than just seconds ago. “You know,” he pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “For someone who finally landed a nice new job and has everything working out, you don’t look all that thrilled to me, actually. That’s all.”

You press your lips together and glance down at your coffee, suddenly the truth a little too hard to face. You should be happy. He’s right. Because things really are starting to look up for you again. Everything you’ve spent the last few months wishing for has finally become a reality. And yet, you can’t shake the fact that there’s a deep buried sense of dread that seems to be getting in the way of that, a familiar fear that's been present for years, but only intensified since you stepped foot in Seoul again. 

Hoseok follows your gaze, watching you carefully, then nudges your foot under the table gently. “Come on.” He murmurs softly, eyebrows raised gently. “What is it?”

You suppose your real fatal flaw is your emotions showing up as flashy neon subtitles over your head apparently, or the fact you are simply terrible at hiding them, because Hoseok doesn't budge. He sees right through your little facade — always has. And as much as you know he is a great listener and that he genuinely cares to hear it all, always ready to give you a helping hand in any way he possibly can, you just don’t want to sound ungrateful. Not when anyone else in your position would be feeling over the moon right now.

Besides, you’ve never liked burdening him, or anyone for that matter. Never wanted to add more weight to the heavy things he already carries himself. He deals with so much of that at work already. So many problems significantly worse than your own worries. So you simply shake your head, putting on a small smile once again in hopes to appease him.

“I’m alright, Hobi. It's just…strange. Being back here. Overwhelming, I guess,” you admit, though only to half of the truth. “It’s so calm on the island. I suppose I got used to it. Everything here is just so intense. But that's all.” You cross your arms on the table as you gaze out at the busy streets. Hoping you don't sound as pathetic as you feel. Though in truth, this whole things isn't just strange. It’s all actually fucking terrifying.

In many ways it seemed like nothing here had changed since the day you left four years ago. The cityscape is as bustling as you remember – a stark contrast to the quietude and stillness of Jeju, where you had been building your new life up until now. People in suits rush back and forth and push into each other with no care, everything is always shadowed by a maze of buildings that don't seem to have an end. Cars weave through traffic like they want to crash into each other, and neon signs and billboards still flicker blindingly even in the daytime. 

The fact that everything remains the same, terrifies you. The rush, the stress, the chaos. That constant hustle and bustle that seems suffocating. It wasn't the reason why you left. but it was certainly a factor that made your life here something you wanted to escape from. It feels like stepping back into the life you thought you’d left behind for good. Like stepping onto a moving treadmill, when you no longer know how to run. Not sure if you’ll ever find your place here again.

Hobi hums in understanding, and the warmth in the familiarity of his smile helps lessen the knot that's been forming in your stomach all morning. And though you've only let out a tiny portion of what's on your mind, you already feel like you can breathe with more ease.

Sometimes, it’s not so bad that he can see right through you. Because you also tend to forget he’s the only one that truly gets you, understands you when even you struggle to understand yourself, and has never once been one to judge you, no matter how small or ridiculous it may be.

“Yeah, I get it. It can be overwhelming.” He nods slowly, letting the words settle. “But if I were you, I’d be damn proud of myself.” His expression is calm and his words full of sincerity as he speaks. “You did what you had to do, and now you’re doing it again. Making more big changes. Really tough decisions, and I know that’s not easy.” He pauses. “But you've always made it after all. This time won't be different. Besides, think about this, we’re close to each other now. I’ll be here for anything you guys need, you know that.”

Your heart softens at his comforting words, and the reassurance feels like it melts some of the tension off your shoulders. And for just a split second you feel that roar of confidence, thinking about everything you've accomplished, but it's not lasting, and deflates with the weight of your heavier thoughts.

You want to believe what he says — you really do. For your daughter's sake. Because this is finally your chance to start over and build something better. To give Jieun the life she deserves, something stable, a chance to thrive in a place full of new opportunities. 

A fresh start. 

After all, isn't that all you've ever been chasing?

You don’t want to allow your fears and the past to come in the way of that. But it's never so simple. At least, definitely not here — definitely not for you.

Because the truth is, being in Seoul again feels like roaming a haunted city. Tainted and plagued by shadows from the past, by who you used to be, and everything and everyone you left behind all those years ago when you ran and didn’t dare to look back. Being here now, you can’t shake the feeling — the apprehension and fear that everything you once left behind is lurking around the corner, ready to jump out and haunt you, making everything you've finally built up crumble to pieces once again. This place just gives you an indescribable feeling of…dread. Eeriness even. Enough for it to linger gut deep with a painful sense of discomfort that hasn’t eased since the day you arrived. As if you can never truly let your guard down.

But after all, it was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up, even if it meant returning to the city you swore you’d never step foot in again. The offer came at just the right moment, a lifeline after months of uncertainty and dead-ends. After losing your job, and endless nights crying yourself to sleep with the heavy burden of becoming a failure of a mother and not knowing how to make ends meet. You practically cried with joy the morning you finally got the call, and ignored the pit that formed in your stomach when you heard where it required you to move to. It had felt like you were about to reach the peak of a mountain, only to drop all the way back down to the bottom. But it was a steady paycheck, and a chance to finally give Jieun some stability. It wasn’t glamorous or grand — a position in a small marketing firm. But it was enough to rebuild. The breakthrough you so badly needed to start over and secure a future for your little girl. 

How could you possibly turn it down?

That was your biggest and only goal in life.

There was nothing you wouldn’t do for her. So you knew in that very instant you had to take it. Even if it meant returning to the place that broke you beyond repair. So you packed up your life and now, here you are. Back where you never thought you’d be. So far from the tranquility of the home you had made for yourself in a secluded tiny seaside town four years ago. Where you were happy. Where you didn't live in constant fear.

“I know this is what I need right now,” you speak softly, more to yourself than anything. You reach out, gently brushing your fingers through Jieun's baby soft hair, watching as she focuses intently on her muffin, completely unaware of the heaviness of the conversation. “I just don’t want to mess anything up…the job, you know, our new life here. I want to get this right. I don’t want anything, getting in the way of that.” You swallow thickly, fingers tightening around the mug of coffee in front of you, and Hoseok knows exactly what you mean by that. You hesitate, letting out a quiet breath before speaking again. “I know there's so many opportunities for us here but…I was happy in Jeju. Jieun was happy.”

Hoseok nods, slow and understanding. “I know you were. A city like this takes some adapting to, you know that.” He reaches out and gives your arm a gentle squeeze, “but give it time. You’ll settle right back in.” He says warmly, reassuring. You return a tiny smile, more genuine this time.

“Seriously though. Change is good. New home, new job, meeting new people…maybe even someone special…” he adds.

You scoff, eyes widening, only half incredulous at how fast he swerved the topic there. So typical of him. 

“Yeah no, thanks. You can stop it right there.” You shake your head.

“What?” Hobi leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he waggles his eyebrows, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, completely unbothered despite your clear opposition. “I'm just saying,” he adds in, raising his hands in mock innocence, though he feels like your glare could actually kill him. “You’re young. You’re no longer in that tiny ass town full of old drunk married cheating men. Everyone deserves a little fun. It wouldn't kill you to-”

“Hobi,” you sigh, cringing internally at the memories of disastrous dates you told him all about over the phone. You throw a pointed look in his direction, but Hoseok just chuckles. “I’m done with all that. Seriously.”

“Come on,” he presses.

“No. No way. I told you.” You interject, tone firm, not even allowing space for the idea. “I’m a single mother, Hobi. That’s been off the cards for years. I have different priorities now.” You straighten in your seat, making a point to scoop Jieun's hair back and out of her drink. These are your priorities now.

Hoseok raises a brow, watching you carefully, but there's no judgment in his expression now — just silent understanding. He leans back in his chair again, smile dying down, tapping his fingers absently against his iced americano before his gaze drifts over to your little girl. His expression softens, fondness flowing in his eyes.

“I know,” he says after a moment, his tone a tad more gentle. “But I’m just saying…you’re allowed to let yourself be happy again, you know. You deserve that.”

Something uncomfortable twists in your insides. Happy. What a simple word, but what a complex thing. 

You lift your eyes to meet his, the sincerity in his gaze cutting right through. You could argue, explain that you don't agree, that romance is a door locked for good. Not only out of fear, but out of necessity. It’s no longer just about you. You don’t have the luxury of reckless choices or fleeting little flings like you did before.

There's simply to much buried history to let anyone new into your life.

And deep down, you don't believe you deserve it. But you don’t voice any of that. There's no need to explain. Hoseok knows your history better than anyone, the pain etched deep into you, the one you carry like a scar beneath your skin. He knows Jieun's father plays a big role in that, even though you don’t dare to mention him and haven’t in years. He knows his existence and every memory he’s involved in is something you merely refuse to acknowledge. And though Hoseok wants nothing more than for you to thrive, he knows better than to press on the matter. 

Still, he hesitates before speaking quietly. “I’ve been here four years, and I’ve never seen him again.”

He says it gently, in hopes the information is comforting to you, to maybe put you at ease, but instead it feels like a small jab between your ribs. You stiffen, for just a second. You feel your heart begin to race a tiny bit faster. And you wonder when the mention of him will stop having this goddamn effect on you.

Hoseok notices, and regret quickly flickers across his face. He realizes he might have overstepped, treading on thin ice that he fears may slowly be cracking beneath him.

But it doesn't. You take a deep breath, and you simply nod. It’s okay. You know you can’t avoid it forever. Besides, who’s to say he even still lives here? The thought should be reassuring, bring you some sort of peace, be relieving. But it isn’t. Because the thought of ever seeing him again makes your palms sweat, and your chest a little tight.

“Yeah.” You say quietly. “You’re right. Who knows.”

You don't mention how many late nights you've stayed up, haunted with thoughts like if ever did make it out of here. If he ever made to the states and accomplished all those things he wanted. If he's perhaps settled down and started a family or if he's stuck right where he used to be, how he used to be. You don't mention how sometimes, you mind even attacks you with the thought of if he’s even still alive.

You don't dare mention any of it.

Hoseok exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I just-” He pauses, voice lowering as he checks Jieun to make sure she's not listening, not that she would know or understand, but you appreciate that he does. “I know we’re not meant to talk about him–“

You push past it, giving a small dismissive shake of the head. Instead, you plaster on a small practiced smile, turning to glance down at the little girl beside you as well. It isn't something easy to avoid. But for the past four years, somehow, you’ve managed it. 

“Anyway. I am happy,” you say, voice softer now, steering the conversation elsewhere. “I get all the love I need from my little lovebug right here, don’t I?”

The little lovebug in question remains completely unaware of the heaviness of the conversation. Instead, her wide eyes are fixated on something outside, her eyes big and small fingers suddenly clutching your sleeve.

“Mommy, look!” She gasps, tugging desperately for your attention, she calls you again, tearing you away from your conversation. “The birdy!”

You follow her gaze, a small black bird just on the other side of the glass, and the simplicity of her joy softens you, eases the heaviness for a second. It really doesn't take much to amuse a child, and you’re glad to see at least someone enjoying her time here so far. “I see, baby.”

You smile with her, that is until, just a moment later, you notice… the small bird is no longer pecking at crumbs on the pavement. It’s… acting rather strangely. Its head twitches sharply to the side, body jerking with twitchy erratic movements as it flaps it’s wings like crazy, then suddenly, it freezes, before twitchting again.

Your brows furrow, unable to take your eyes off it. What the hell? Something about it sends a strange chill through you, suddenly understanding what had Jieun so surprised.

“Oh, I think that poor bird might have gone a little coo coo.” Hoseok turns his head to take a look himself, and you both exchange a puzzled glance, to which Hobi just shrugs with a mildly disgusted expression.

“What, you know I hate birds.” he whispers, shrugging like someone just walked over his grave, and you swat his arm and shush him, suppressing a laugh. You wouldn't want your sweet animal loving daughter hearing that. 

“Isn't that so weird. I’ve never seen one do that before.” You say, and hoseok tilts his head, staring at it with a mildly grossed out frown. “Probably has some kind of parasite or something. Not sure.”

“It’s gonna die?” she looks up at hobi, her little face full of worry. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her in closer.

“Not necessarily, bub. I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Hobi answers, trying to be tactful, however, Jieun doesn’t look convinced, but she nods sadly and resumes eating spoonfuls of her hot chocolate that's long gone cold. 

“Yeah, it’ll be fine baby.” You kiss the top of her head, as you glance out the window once again, only to see it’s no longer there. 

“So odd.” You shake your head, taking another sip of your coffee, and Hoseok nods and lets out a low hum, taking another sip himself.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day? Are you actually gonna start unpacking, or are you going to let those suitcases rot in your living room for another week?” He taunts.

You chuckle. “I’ll unpack eventually. This little girl and I have a long list of errands left to do today.”

“Uh-huh.” He gives you an unconvinced look, then looks at Jieun with a dramatic pout, cooing. “My poor little monkey. Prisoner to moms to do list. I remember that feeling.”

She giggles, and you speak up. “Shhh, she loves errands with mommy, don't you-”

Suddenly, a loud crash sound from the back of the café, startling you all.

The sharp clatter of metal rings out and you hear a young worker gasp, emerging hastily from behind the counter as the previous muffle of conversation begins to die down. Heads immediately start turning towards the scene unfolding before them. 

“What the hell?” you murmur as you hastily turn around yourself, pulse spiked from the jump.

Near the back of the cafe, a chair is knocked to the ground, a mans body hunched over on the floor, shaking and convulsing with an unnatural force that seems to take over him completely. The man sitting beside him instantly scrambles to the floor next to him, shaking his shoulders in a failed attempt to break him out of whatever is happening as he calls out for help in a trembling voice, panicked.

“Oh my god, Hobi-” You gasp and your stomach twists as you take in what is occurring, grip instinctively tightening around your daughter's hand, turning her away from the scene. One of the members of staff pulls out her phone, announcing that she will call an ambulance right away, the man on the floor now surrounded by two other workers that instantly made their way over to him.

Hoseok takes just a few seconds to register what’s going on. “Shit.” He mutters, “A seizure.”

Instantly, he’s up on his feet, leaving you and Jieun behind and rushes over to help, but before he can reach the man on the floor, a young worker steps in front of him, his hands raised. 

“An ambulance is on the way!” he blurts out, eyes darting between the unconscious man and the crowd gathering around him, Hoseok noticing his eyes full of panic. “Please, just give him space.”

“It's alright. I’m a nurse,” Hoseok urges, trying to step around him. “Please, let me-”

This time, there’s no resistance — only relief in the young man's panicked eyes as he steps aside, allowing Hoseok through to where the man is convulsing on the floor.

Jesus christ. On his one day off. He thinks internally.

Without hesitation, Hoseok drops to one knee. “Don’t hold him down,” he instructs the mans friend beside him as he proceeds to unbutton the first few buttons of the man's shirt to facilitate his breathing. He presses his fingers to his wrist as best as he can, taking a pulse. He attempts to roll him on his side, but he seizes with too much force, limbs jerking far too erratically for him to do so. 

“Has he ever had seizures before? Is he epileptic?” Hoseok asks without tearing his eyes away from the man.

The man's friend just shakes his head. “No…no- he was fine right before.”

“Ambulance is just two minutes away,” the barista yells, phone still pressed to her ear. Hoseok nods but keeps his focus on the young man. Face contorted in concertation as he's checking his pulse once again before tilting his head to ensure he’s breathing properly.

You sit speechless few tables away, watching the scene unfold, your heart erratic in your chest. But feeling so much relief Hoseok was here. Jieun's small hand holds yours tightly, grip strong. She shifts in her seat, trying to peek over the booth to the commotion, but you gently pull her in beside you. Pulling her close, you brush a soothing hand over her hair.

“It’s okay, baby,” your whisper. “That man wasn’t feeling very well. But uncle hobi is helping him. Isn’t that so good? He’s really good at helping people remember. It's okay.”

Jien nods slowly, though her brows are still drawn together in concern. She doesn’t fully understand, but she doesn’t doubt your word, or her uncle's abilities.

Across the large space, Hoseok presses his lips into a thin line, his eyes watching carefully as the man's convulsions finally begin to slow, the violent jerking finally seeming to ease up. But just as the worst seems to have passed…Hoseok stiffens. 

There’s a concerning, deep purplish hue creeping up the man’s neckline, peeking through the gap of his unbuttoned white shirt. Dark veins snaking against his pale skin, spreading like ink through thin cracks. Hoseok swallows hard, alarm bells ringing at the back of his mind. 

That…that doesn’t look right. His medical knowledge kicks in, a thousand possibilities racing through his mind, digging for the most fitting answer. Is it cyanosis? an undiagnosed vascular disease? Possibly an infected wound? blunt trauma?

His mind dashing for answers in an instant, but before he can take a better look and unbutton his shirt completely, after what feels like a lifetime, the piercing wail of sirens cuts right through his thoughts, and just moments after, paramedics burst into the café, pushing past the gathered crowd near the Hoseok and the patient on the floor. Hoseok quickly regains focus, stepping back to allow them to take over. 

“He had a seizure. Approximately a minute long. His breathing is stable but—“ He hesitates for a second, then presses on, giving them a brief diagnosis and rundown. “I think he may have another underlying condition. Possible hypoxia.”

The paramedic beside him nods, wasting no time as they swiftly load him onto a stretcher. He stands back, his jaw tight, fingertips tingling with the urge to do more, watching as they wheel him out through the entrance. The murmurs of the coffee shop begin to start up again, confused and concerned looks turning left and right, but Hoseok can’t shake all the questions in his mind. 

He just hopes the guy turns out to be okay. The same way it goes with every patient he sees. You have to do your part and let go. That's how it works. but this time, he's left with a weird feeling bubbling inside.

After a few minutes, Hoseok turns back to your table. The moment his eyes meet yours, you’re already standing and asking, “God, is everything okay? He’s okay, right?”

“It’s alright,” Hoseok reassures you, though his tone is softer than usual. “They've got it under control.”

His gaze flickers toward Jieun, who’s still clinging to you, her small face twisted in worry as she glances between the two of you. She tugs your sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mommy…what happened to the man?”

“The ambulance people will take care of him and take him to the hospital so they can help him.” You say gently. She blinks up at you, then glances toward Hoseok, as if waiting for confirmation.

Hoseok lips form a small smile, crouching slightly to be at her eye level. “Your mom is right,” he says carefully, patting her head. “Sometimes when people don’t feel well they need a little help. That’s what doctors and nurses are for Jieun. It’s okay.”

Jieun watches him for a moment, and gives him a slow understanding nod. He then straightens and exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking back toward the road in front of the entrance where the ambulance is now setting off.

You nod, now feeling a weight of unease in the crowded space. It would probably be best to give them space to handle the situation, and to get some fresh air after that. So you retrieve Jieun's little pink puffer vest from off hobis chair and gently help her arms into, zipping it up snuggly to keep her warm from the afternoon chill, before taking her hand in yours.

As the three of you finally step outside, you're grateful for the crisp autumn air that lifts some of the heaviness off you. God, that was stressful. The distant sounds of the city hum around you, and life moves as if nothing happened.

“God, I hope that guy is okay.” You say quietly only for Hoseok to hear, taking your daughter's hand as you let out a slow breath. “First that weird bird and then that poor guy.”

Hoseok hums in agreement and gives a small reassuring nod, pushing his concerns aside. But you know how hard it is for him to switch off. How even when the emergency is over, his mind replays it again and again, analysing— wondering if he could have done more, if he could’ve done better. Even when he deals with stuff like this everyday, it’s never been easy.

“Jesus Christ. What's that saying, bad things always come in two’s? Three’s? ” He chuckles, letting out a huff. “I told you, there’s never an uneventful day out here.” Hobi shakes his head, forcing a smile to lift the mood. But his body still buzzes with tension. Then, in one swift movement, he scoops Jieun up, swinging her into his arms. “Now, time for ice cream?”

Jieun giggles loudly, kicking her feet excitedly at his words, all her earlier worries forgotten. “Yes!”

“Hobi, she just had a hot chocolate. Do you even have space for ice cream, Jieun?” You say, trying to sound stern, but the sight of them giggling together pulls a real smile out of you. And something inside already tells you you’re going to give in.

“She’s with uncle hobi now, there’s no rules.” He sing songs, walking ahead of you with your daughter in arms, all smiles as she squeals at his gentle tickling. The spitting image of joy if you ever saw it.

And for just a moment, you try to push away the nagging feeling that’s been pressing at the back of your mind. 

Because maybe, just maybe, this time, everything will be just fine after all.

Jungkook steadies his hand, a quiet hiss of pain getting lost in the low thrumming of the tattoo gun that fills the quiet studio, lulling him into that comforting sense of calm he knows so well. It’s a fairly big piece, he’s been here hunched over for hours now, that familiar dull ache creeping up his back, but he barely registers it. Because all that matters is the art taking form beneath his touch. 

Here, in these moments, it's when the feels most himself. Distracted, at peace, In control. Something he’s never found that easy outside of these four walls.

Every stroke, every line falls exactly where he intends it to. In a way, the rest of the world seems to fade away — no worries, just ink and skin, art coming to life. And it grants him a satisfaction nothing else can quite offer. And if there’s one thing Jungkook prides himself on, it’s his work and dedication. He built this place with steady hands and relentless effort, and he knows damn well he’s good at what he does. Confidence hasn't always been second nature to him, but time and experience have definitely sharpened him.

He leans back slightly to take in the work before him, his disheveled strands of dark hair falling over his eyes as he uses a paper towel to wipe up some excess ink from the client's forearm before glancing up. “How are we holding up?”

The young guy shifts in the chair, letting out a breathy chuckle. “Let’s just say I felt that last bit there.”

Jungkook nods, noting the slight sheen of sweat on the guy's forehead. He’s just glad he’s not a squirmer. That shit makes his job so much harder than it needs to be. 

His own body is the canvas of plenty tattoos. All colours, shapes and sizes. He's more than numb to the pain now. But he gets it.

“You’re doing really well. I won’t torture you much longer. We’re almost done with the worst part.” Pressing the pedal again, he feels the familiar vibration travel up his arm, he tongues with his lip piercing, a habit that signals his concentration. His hair is dusting over his eyes as he continues with the last bits of shading and does the final touch ups of all the smaller details. Another forty five minutes pass, broken by lighthearted conversation here and there. Though Jungkook never used to be one for making conversation before, he has long mastered the art of letting his mouth wander while his hands and precision remain steady and focused.

“Alright, and we’re done,” he wipes down the fresh ink one last time before setting the tattoo gun aside, letting out a silent exhale as he wheels back, peeling off his black gloves to grab the aftercare instruction sheet, ready to spew his usual little lecture he knows most people don’t even pay much attention to.

“Sit up slowly.” Jungkook instructs.

When the guy finally stands, he marvels at his tattoo in the mirror. Jungkook feels a flicker of pride swell in his chest. No matter how many times he does this, seeing the completed, polished work and his client's expressions of amazement never gets old. “Looks sick man. Better than I imagined.” He beams, twisting his arm under the light, his smile spreading all across his face.

“Good choice with the design.” Jungkook replies with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He then places the protective film, gives him a quick rundown of the aftercare and hands him the sheet. “Take care of it. Follow the aftercare instructions and it’ll heal nicely. And you know, any issues just come by or give me a call and I’ll check it out.”

“Will do. Thanks man, it’s perfect.”

As the last client of the day slips out with a final wave and he hears the bell over at the entrance ding, Jungkook finally feels the exhaustion set in — the kind that only comes after hours of steady concentrated work. Fuck, he really does need to work on his posture. He stretches his back, then cracks his knuckles, stretching his toned, inked arms over his head. But despite the tiredness, he feels no rush no rush to get back to his empty apartment.

He never does.

Instead, he takes his time wiping down his station, tidying all his clutter and ink in the methodical and organized way only he understands — something Yoongi always grumbles about when borrowing his space. But this is his sanctuary. He makes the rules. And yoongi may complain, but he accepts it.

When he's done cleaning up, Jungkook emerges into the entrance area of the studio, rubbing the back of his neck and ruffling his hair at the nape.

Yoongi stretches in his chair behind the front counter, arms lifting above his head as he lets out as wide yawn, smacking his lips as his eyes land on the younger. “Christ, I thought you were dead in there,” he says deadpan, watching as Jungkook attempts to roll out the tension coiled in his shoulders, stifling a yawn himself. “Or are you? I genuinely can't tell.”

“Very funny.” Jungkook mutters, slumping onto the leather couch with an over dramatic sigh, throwing the back of his arm over his eyes as he lets his body sink into the plush cushion. It’s moments like this he’s really fucking glad they invested in a good sofa. He wants it to swallow him.

“Sure you can survive the schedule tomorrow? We’re fucking packed.” He says.

Jungkook’s brows knit together as his eyes dart over to Yoongi, eyeing the printed schedule in front of him as he rubs his jaw. “What? You think I can't handle it?”

Yoongi shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He coughs into his fist, a rough dry sound that echoes through the quietness of the now empty studio. “I know you think you’re some kind of machine,” he gives the younger a pointed look, “but let me just remind you that you are, in fact, very much not.”

Jungkook's lips quirk. “Woah, woah. I’ll be fine. Unlike someone who sounds like they've caught the plague.” Lifting his arms from his eyes just enough to peer at Yoongi, he swings his arm as if to push him away. “Stay away from me with that. I can’t afford a day off anytime soon.”

Yoongi scoffs, waving a dismissive hand as he coughs into his fist again. “Relax, it's just the dust. Or if you’re lucky enough I've caught that shit going around. Won't be on your case anymore for at least two weeks. That's if I survive.”

The sound is muffled by his arm as Jungkook lets out a tired chuckle, but his eyes remain closed. “Now you’re just trying to get out of work tomorrow, hyung. I know your little tricks.”

“If anyone should be trying to get our work, it should be you. Admit your running on fumes.” Yoongi drops the piece of paper to the desk and crosses his arms, looking right across to Jungkook, his eyes squinting lightly.

Jungkook feels his heavy gaze, but he's not in the mood to face one of Yoongis lectures right now. He can’t exactly argue that. Because he knows Yoongi is not entirely wrong. 

He's working six days a week, morning till night, barely stopping to take a breath. Hell, it would've been the entire seven days of the week if Yoongi hadn’t raised hell the day he suggested it. Jungkook had tried to reason with him, insisting that Yoongi would still get his days off as usual, that he’d open up the studio alone on weekends and get everything sorted for the week ahead. But it was never about that, and he knew it.

Jungkook has always had a knack for picking up self-destructive tendencies. A slow brewing kind of self destruction, pushing himself way past his limits, working himself down to the bone until he can barely function. And Yoongi simply wasn't going to stand back and watch it happen all over again right in front of his eyes.

Most days, he only eats because it’s Yoongi who shoves food his way, whether he wants it or not.  Prepping meals and stashing them away in their mini fridge in the back room where Jungkook can find them, labeled with a little note in his unmistakable messy handwriting that reads “eat.”

Because behind his serious facade, Yoongi had always tried his best to care for him. 

From countless nights of dragging his black out drunk body home back in college, and many times after college as well. To picking him up from the streets at 4 am after he got into a nasty fight, bruised and bleeding and sobbing his heart out alone on an empty sidewalk. Yoongi didn’t question it back then, didn't hesitate. He never does. He just helped quietly with no second thought, allowing him to sit with his silent sobs on the car ride home. He had always been there, offering him a home when he had nowhere else to go, offering everything he had if it helped Jungkook from drowning.

It was Yoongi that had seen the potential in him and had patiently guided him to finally see it for himself, helping him build this studio from nothing — helping him build every piece of furniture, putting up every shelf, painting every wall, making sure Jungkook finally had something to call his. 

And now, despite all the hardships, he’s come further than they both could have imagined.

Yet deep down, Yoongi knows no amount of help can stop Jungkook from being who he is, not when he has it so deeply rooted in himself to self sabotage in every way he possibly can. It's simply how he’s wired. Yoongi has long accepted that some things are simply beyond his reach, and that Jungkook won’t ever fully change. And he may never admit it out loud, but somewhere in his heart, as the eldest, he’s always felt an unspoken weight of responsibility for Jungkook. That's why he tries relentlessly to guide him towards better choices.

Even though Jungkook has matured and come a long way from his troubled past and the reckless kid he used to be, he’s far from eradicating his bad habits entirely. He knows he’s working himself down to the bone. He knows it's not healthy. Unrealistic for him to sustain in the long run. But he doesn’t like himself when he’s unoccupied. 

He doesn't like the quiet.

Because when there’s silence, there’s space for his mind to make noise.

So that’s what he does. He works, works until he can exhaust himself to the point of passing out, too drained to even feel. It means no thoughts can haunt him when his head hits the pillow. And he’s okay with that.

Besides, he loves his job. That's a fact. The only thing he’s passionate about. All he’s ever found himself to be good at. He doesn’t need anything or anyone else. 

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“Fumes are still fuel,” Jungkook shoots back. He reaches behind his head to grab an old vintage manga off the small side table, flipping through the pages without really reading.

Yoongi studies him for a moment, his sharp gaze softening just a fraction. He shifts in his seat, resting his elbows on the counter, zeroing in on him as if he were ready to throw out a serious scolding, like he did back when he was a kid. But his next words are nothing but gentle. “You know, if you wanna keep up with that schedule, you’re gonna need sleep. I can close up if you wanna head out first.”

Jungkooks expression falters — just a flicker. But he covers it with an exaggerated groan. It does get on his nerves ever so slightly, just slightly. What is it with everyone always underestimating him? Treating him like he's not capable of making his own decisions. But his tongue toys with his lip ring as he continues flicking through the pages, feigning nonchalance. “I’m good. I wanna sketch out a few new designs first. Got some ideas ratting around.”

Yoongi squints at him, clearly unconvinced. “You do know that old couch isn't a substitute for a bed, right? and you could just…do that at home.”

Jungkook tosses the comic aside as he shrugs, already bored of the conversation, his inked fingers drumming relentlessly against the worn red leather. “I focus better here.” Is his simple answer, but before Yoongi can speak, a loud siren cuts through their conversation, blaring jarringly as it flashes by across the street. Almost instantly another follows, and then another.

Instinctively, both of their heads turn towards the window, though it only gives view to a small glimpse of the larger front street, most of their view blocked by the building across from them, all they can see is the bright lights flashing as they rush past.

“The hell’s that about,” Yoongi mutters, straightening in his chair.

Jungkook furrows his brows, pushing himself up on his elbows to get a better look outside. But from what he can see, everything seems normal enough — cars passing by, people going about their night and a few students heading home from late study sessions. Nothing in particular out of the ordinary.

The studio is located on a fairly quiet smaller side street, on the outskirts of the city, just a little further from the booming heart of Seoul. It’s never as busy or chaotic here, much quieter.

“Accident, maybe?” Jungkook guesses, a tired breath slipping past his lips. It’s still Seoul after all. When is it ever completely quiet? 

Yoongi hums in agreement, but as if on cue, another set of sirens blares through the streets, overlapping with others as the noise grows, this time it’s police cars too, wailing violently and urgently before fading into the distance as they speed away. Jungkook glances at Yoongi, who meets his gaze with an equally puzzled expression.

“Must be pretty bad.” Jungkook says.

Yoongi just pulls out his phone to check the time and sighs. “Well, whatever it is, I'm not sticking around to find out.” He pushes himself to his feet, patting his back pocket to pull out his dented pack of cigarettes before reaching for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

A slight sense of uneasiness crawls up Jungkook's spine. That was about four ambulances and three police cars if not more. That’s….that’s a lot. But he soon brushes it off. “I’ll check the news later.” He mumbles, letting his heavy body drop back against the soft cushion, with no energy or intention to move.

Yoongi tugs his jacket on, tossing him a small glance. “Well, if you’re gonna stay here, at least don’t fall asleep on that damn couch again. You drool, and it’s gross.”

Jungkook chuckles, though it's half hearted. “I won’t ruin your sacred couch, hyung. Don't you worry.”

“Good.” Yoongi deadpans, heading toward the door. He flips the neon sign to closed before turning back to Jungkook once more, his tired features softening just a touch. “Don't stay too late. Tomorrow is fucking packed and you’ll regret it when youre half dead in the morning. And don’t forget about that girl you booked in at 9.”

He presses his eyes shut for a moment, letting out a breath. The girl needed some touch ups to her tattoo but had a busy schedule and no time to visit any other day or at ay other time. So Jungkook did the favour, and offered to book her in before opening time. But fuck. He really does need to stop bending his schedule for people.

He knows he’s going to regret it.

Jungkook just waves a dismissive hand, already getting comfy on the couch. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll leave soon.”

Yoongi doesn't believe him, but he doesn't argue, just pulls out a cigarette from the pack and raises his hands in surrender before he pulls open the door. “Alright. See you tomorrow.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgement. “Rest up, Hyung.”

The studio fades to dead silence once the door closes. Though sirens still echo faintly in the background.

Stretched out on the couch, Jungkook stares at the ceiling a little longer than necessary. His limbs feel heavy, exhaustion pressing down on him heavily. He wants to work on those sketches, he wants to push his limits a little further. But his body seems to know what's best for him. And within minutes, he’s passed out.

When Jungkook’s eyes crack open, it’s to the gentle sound of rain pattering against the windows. But it’s not rain the noise that woke him. Distant voices shout over one another, and the erratic wailing of car alarms and sirens blast in a near distance, sounding like he’s still stuck between consciousness and a dream. Jungkook blinks, then suddenly, screeching tires follow into a loud crash, something heavy and metal hitting the pavement. His heart spikes, and his body jerks up instantly before his mind can register what the hell is going on. The sudden movement makes him lightheaded, blinking as he tries to shake the disorientation fogging his mind.

Shit. How long had he been out?

He curses under his breath, his head throbbing. Did someone just fucking crash their car outside? In his dazed state his fingers fumble for his phone in the front pocket of his jeans. He squints, the bright screen glaring back at him painfully in the darkness of the studio.

11:48 PM.

The first thought that comes to mind is drunk people causing a ruckus. It certainly wouldn't be unusual for Friday night. But then… he stops to listen. Are they breaking in? then his mind steers more towards the possibility of some petty street fight, or some idiots causing trouble. It’s the only conclusion his sleepy can come to.

But then, he hears it. 

Raw, panicked, screams erupting from the streets outside. It sounds close. Really close.

What the fuck? 

Jungkook feels a sickening pit form in his stomach.

Because that's definitely not the drunken shouts of a fight, not the sound of some petty fight or a car accident. It’s the kind of scream that crawls under your skin. And Jungkook knows the sounds of panic when he hears it. He feels his heart beating in his chest now, fast and strong. Something isn’t right. Before his mind can think  further, he pushes off the couch and yanks his leather jacket from the armrest, pulling it on in a swift motion, feeling a little dizzy as the room slowly begins to spin from getting up so fast. 

Behind the front counter he crouches, reaching for his motorcycle helmet. But his grip isn't steady, his palms suddenly feel a bit sweaty. The air in the room slightly suffocating.

His mind scrambles as he finally strides for the door, all he knows something is telling him he needs to get out. He’s ready to leave and check on what's happening outside, but just as his fingers brush the cold metal door handle—

A loud bang crashes into the large front window of the studio.

The impact rattles the entire front window, the glass shuddering violently as something smacks right into it with bone crushing force, causing large cracks to expand from the center like a spiderweb, blooming outwards across the glass. The helmet drops to the ground with a loud thud and Jungkook stumbles back in the darknesses, almost crashing back into the front counter as his breath gets stuck in his throat.

Jungkook freezes. His entire body completely paralyzed as he watches a thick, dark gush of red begin to trail down the ruins of the window. His eyes slowly follow it upwards and then…then he sees it.

A face, wedged between the shards of glass.

Jungkook sees the face of a man...except, it can't be. The skin is unnaturally pale, sickly white, dark veins bulging beneath the surface, tiny pieces of glass wedged everywhere into its flesh. Blood coats its entire mouth, dripping to the floor beneath — but it's the eyes… They send a shot of terror right down Jungkook's spine. 

They’re clouded and gray, almost white and eerily vacant, yet somehow, they’re locked right onto him.

Jungkook feels like he can’t take a breath, his chest tight as his eyes grow with complete shock and confusion.

Then, it moves.

Its head twitches in a slow agonized form before it seems to fully register Jungkook's figure standing right across. It cocks his head towards him completely with a grotesque sound of craking and lunges forward, slamming its hands against the glass with inhuman strength. Giving it all his power to break inside. It lets out another groan, a guttural broken sound as it reveals a row of blood stained teeth, the deep red liquid dripping from its mouth.

Jungkook swallows hard. If he moves will it move too? Will it...chase him? He feels like no oxygen is reaching his lungs, or his brain, his mind struggling to even process what he is seeing. That…that can't be real. It can’t be human. All he can do is watch as his heartbeat pounds like a hammer in his chest, louder than the sirens and screams growing outside, louder than the animalistic banging against the window.

That…thing is trying to kill him. It’s going to kill him.

It doesn’t stop. It claws at the glass, smearing the blood, desperate, mindless — growing more violent as it seems to realise its stuck. But the glass creaks more with each hit, trembling under the pressure of each movement, and Jungkook realizes it might not hold up much longer. He has no time.

Move.

He has to move.

Like a spring snapping, his body finally kicks into action. He stumbles backwards, feeling glass beneath his shoes as he tries to hold in a breath, his eyes fixed on the creature as he tries to back away with steady steps. After a beat, he sprints towards the back of the studio, running as his body pushes through the beaded curtain into the back room. 

His hands fumble frantically in his pocket — keys, keys, keys — but his hands are trembling too much to grip them. Fuck.

Jungkooks mind races with a thousand questions colliding all at once. But none of them make sense. None of them are even remotely rational.

That thing. It wasn’t human. Then what the hell was it?

Another jarring bang echoes in the studio, followed by a loud screech. But Jungkook doesn’t look up. He doesn’t have time. His only thought is to get out of here. Fast. He needs to get away from whatever the fuck that is. He needs to get to his motorcycle. He needs to get the police.

His fingers finally curl around cold metal. The keys. With a sharp inhale, he yanks opens the heavy back door leading into the tiny side alley and slams it shut behind him as he rushes out.

It’s dim, lit only by a flickering street lamp near the end, casting eerie shadows across the brick walls. The air is cool and damp, the smell of rain fresh on the damp asphalt and the sound of sirens and shouting voices in the distance become even clearer than before. But Jungkook can't see the one thing he’s looking for. His gaze darts around frantically and he feels a dreadful realization claw at his throat. 

His motorcycle is gone. The spot where it’s always parked is empty. 

Jungkook panics, his hands coming to his hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. As he looks around helplessly, his breath only grows more erratic. He finds no other option but to run, so he runs to the end of the alleyway, running right towards the screams and tumult, and when he reaches the end, the scene unfolding before him almost kicks him to his feet.

The once quiet street had turned into a horrifying scene. People mindlessly running away from something. But what his eyes land on almost immediately is on a young woman in the middle of street, clutching her neck with both hands, her body swaying as she chokes out for help before she drops to her knees, her body shaking. Jungkook watches in horror as someone else runs right past her, coming from the same direction, white button up shirt soaked in something dark as his features display a kind of terror he’d never witnessed before. Across the street, an older man is pulling down the storefront gates as he locks himself inside, letting two kids in high school uniforms scream and kick as they beg to be let in, screaming and crying.

“What the fuck...” the words escape involuntarily in a quiet mumble to himself, his hands coming to his head.

Jungkook blinks repeatedly, completely aghast. But he doesn’t think— just moves, bolting down the street. His thick leather boots slam against the wet pavements as he runs, his dark hair blows in the air, his skin covered in a layer of sweat as he weaves past a fallen trash can and then a body, his breath ragged as he tries not to slip on the broken glass. The rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins too strong to even feel his body protesting.

Rounding a corner, he nearly collides into another person, but his hands instinctively come up to push them away, almost knocking them to the ground. He doesn’t have a space in his mind to think about it or time to dwell on it. His body acting on autopilot. The more he runs, the more people seem to be running in the opposite direction. Away from something. His legs burn as he sprints faster, but coming off onto the main street of Jongno, he comes to a halt as he takes in the state of the streets, pupils blown as something terrible dawns on his expression.

The city is in shambles.

Everything.

Chaos.

Cars sit abandoned in the middle of the road, their doors flung open, some have crashed into street lamps and traffic signs, into each other at intersections, even buildings, the smoke clouding up into the dark sky. Blending with the red and blue of wailing sirens. People are everywhere. Hundreds of people are running in all different directions — some screaming, some covered in blood, some sobbing and some seemingly unmoving on the ground. Pushing and tripping against each other, running, but most don’t even know what they’re running from, simply following the crowd. 

How many more of those rabid people were there? How far had this spread? 

He wants so badly to be wrong, but something deep inside him tells him this is something big.

He stills for an instant, trying to orientate himself. He scans the street hurriedly for the best route to avoid getting stuck in a crush, to avoid more of those things…but all he sees is the panicked chaos spreading by the second. 

Jungkook feels like he’s outside of his body, like this is a dream, a nightmare he’ll wake up from any second now. He closed his eyes for a second and inwardly prays for it to be just a bad dream. But the air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, and the pounding in his chest is too real. The world around him still screams, set aflame.

This can’t be real.

This…this can’t be happening.

Just a few meters away from him two figures wrestle on the ground — except one of them isn’t fighting back anymore, and the other is hunched over them, their head buried in the victim’s throat. Jungkook staggers back, his stomach lurching at the gut wrenching sounds of someone being mauled alive, bile burning the back of his throat when he watches infected pulls back, large chunks of flesh dangling from its bloody mouth, dripping crimson.

The truth slams into him, but his mind is till fighting to accept it.

People are killing people. Eating people. Except…they're not people. They’re monsters.

Jungkook scans the crowd for an escape route, desperate. After a moment, he catches sight of the least crowded street, it's right on the way to his place. He takes a sharp breath and runs, runs non stop down a dozen blocks. But as he navigates the frantic roads, he spots something as he runs past a small street. Stopping him in his tracks. He notices a tiny figure huddled up alone at the beginning of an alleyway, wearing bright pink, shoulders trembling and hands pressed over her ears as she sobs violently. 

A child, no older than three or four if Jungkook had to guess. He halts, heart pounding as he registers her small frightened face, streaked with tears. 

He should keep running, he knows he should. His body is urging him to just keep moving, his insides shaking with adrenaline. That’s not his responsibility. He hasn’t stopped for anyone. But the burning images of what he’s just witnessed flash fresh in his mind. And something deeper roots him in place. Something inside him twists, snaps almost, an unfamiliar instinct that overrides his own confusion and fear.

Ah, fuck it. 

Before his mind can catch up with what he’s doing, he rushes into the alley, approaching the child cautiously with slow steps as he gets closer. He crouches down to her level, looking over his shoulder nervously. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” his voice is gentle but hurried as he searches her face. “Where are your parents? Are you lost?”

The small girl just looks up at him with large, wet eyes and a trembling pout, her hands balled into tiny fists. She doesn’t answer, just stares, whimpering and hiccuping softly, like she’s been warned to not talk to strangers — especially not ones clothed head to toe in black, covered in tattoos and piercings like himself. He glances around, hoping to see someone rushing towards them, any sign of this child's parents so he can just hand her over and run, but there’s nothing, just the crowd at the end of the alley pushing past in frantic waves and yelling, no one stopping to even look in their direction. 

He has to do something.

“Do you…where did you see your parents last-” a loud metal bang echoes in the distance, making Jungkook and the child flinch, a heavy breath escaping him. Fuck, his mind races as he realizes she’s truly alone. The girl just sobs more and he curses under his breath, eyes pressed shut as his mind scrambles for what to do.

He can’t just leave her alone in whatever the hell this is. But what the hell is he supposed to do?

“Uh, alright,” he coughs, throat dry, and speaks softly but hurriedly, trying to mask his unease as he reaches out his hand. “Come with me. It’s not safe here. I’ll… I'll help you find your parents.”

He’ll take her home, get her out of danger and call the police. That’s what he should do. 

It’s the right thing to do.

Okay. 

He hopes she knows he’s only trying to help. God, his pulse races every second he’s standing here still. They need to move. Now. She just stares at him, uncertain, then slowly reaches out with her tiny fingers, clasping his much larger hand with a surprising grip. She must see past his intimidating exterior, or be so terrified that she’ll take up any offer of being reunited with her parents, either way, her innocence makes Jungkook's heart sting a little. He can't just leave a child out here, he has to help her before something terrible happens to her or she falls into the wrong hands. He doesn't know what the hell to do, all he knows is they have to run, run right now and get away from this, and-

Suddenly, a piercing, desperate voice breaks through the havoc of noise, loud enough to catch Jungkook's attention.

“Jieun!” 

The sound makes his entire body lock up, his heart jumping in his chest as he turns toward the voice. 

Running towards him, just feet away, eyes filled with worry and tears, he sees you.

Jungkook feels the blood drain from his face. 

For a split moment, the world seems to fall silent. The noise, the screams and chaos, the sirens — all of it blurs into a distant hum in the back of his mind. He feels like the air is knocked straight from his lungs as he slowly takes in your face, a slightly more matured version of a face he once knew every inch of, a face he’d buried away along with every memory he’d tried so hard everyday to annihilate ever since you disappeared from his life. A face he could never forget, not even after four painful years.

It can’t be.

No, no, no-

But it’s real, because there you are. Lunging forward and arms out reaching for the little girl beside him with thick tears of relief flooding from your eyes. The child lets go of Jungkook's hand instantly and her tiny feet pat across the concrete as she launches herself into your embrace, leaving him behind to watch, frozen and stone cold like a statue. 

“Mommy!” She cries.

Jungkook feels his stomach drop. He thinks he's going to throw up.

He must’ve heard that incorrectly.

Mommy? That child is…

He feels like he can’t move, blood cold as he watches you crumble to your knees, gathering the little girl into your arms with a grip that looks suffocating, as if she might disappear into thin air again. Your whole frame trembles as you hold her close, relief pouring from you in loud, choked sobs, your fingers getting tangled in her wet hair as you comb though it desperately.

That’s.. your child?

“Jieun, oh my god, baby. You’re here, you’re okay,” your voice cracks with all the pain your body just underwent, whispering against her temple. “Are you hurt? You’re not hurt are you, baby?”

The last thing you remember is being in the convenience store when the chaos began. When you walked out you had no choice but to run into the crowd. How Jieun was holding your hand and in the blink of an eye, her hand slipped from yours. You turned back, screaming her name, but she was gone, just another small figure lost in the stampede of a city falling apart.

By the time you fought your way out of the crowd, Jieun was nowhere in sight. Your heart is still hammering loudly between your ribs, mind stuck on the past horrifying minutes since she disappeared from your side.

But as you finally look up… all your relief shifts, eyes darkening with shocking realisation that mirrors the expression in the man standing just feet away when you. Heart hammering in your chest as if it recognized him before your eyes do.

You blink once, twice to make sure your eyes aren’t deceiving you. Completely distraught.

If Jungkook thought he was stuck in a bad dream before, he’s certain now this is all a cruel, sick and twisted nightmare. He feels his stomach churn. The weight of clashing emotions and utter disbelief thrown over him. So many questions he can’t yet voice crashing into him like a bucket of ice cold water, making his blood run cold.

This has to be some kind of sick joke. 

All of it. 

“Jungkook?” Your voice trembles, barely a whisper, as if the sound of his name out loud might shatter you to pieces.

He’s standing in front of you, drenched from the rain, his wet dark hair hanging messily in his face — so much longer than it used to be. He has new piercings on his face, and his features have definitely matured. He looks…different, yet somehow exactly how you remember him. His big dark eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, you feel your world stop. 

“Y/n?” His voice cracks slightly, like he’s just been punched in the gut. “Wh…what are you doing here?” but there’s no anger in his voice, just confusion, and perhaps, a hint of something painful. His words hang heavy between you, getting lost in the sounds of the burning city beyond this tiny street, and you feel a paralysing weight on your chest. Your mind reeling beyond comprehension.

You open your mouth to speak, ready to say something, anything. But you feel like you’ve forgotten how to form words. So you close it again, no words come out. His eyes flicker from your face to the little girl clutching your side, and you feel a pit sinking in your stomach. God, please no.

This can’t be happening — not here, not now. 

Not like this.

You want to bolt, to run and not look back like you always do. You wish the earth would just swallow you entirely. But all you can do is stand there, your heart pounding faster in your chest, mouth dry.

You try to step around him, desperate to move forward, to escape this horror. But before you know it, his hand catches your arm. He grips you gently, but with a force that indicates he won’t let you slip away again. His touch almost makes you fall to your knees.

“Come with me.” 

Your body stiffens at his words, and you swat your arm loose of his grip. You lift Jieun into your arms instinctively, fingers curling around her small body as if the mere act of holding her can shield you from everything. From him, from all the pain, from all of this living nightmare.

“No,” you say, the word coming out broken, like your breath is caught. “I can’t go with you. I need- I need to get hob-” 

“My apartment isn’t far,” he cuts in, not giving you space to say more. “We need to get off the streets.’’

You hesitate, watching his gaze scurry between you both again. Everything in you is telling you to just run, to put as much distance as you can between yourself and Jungkook. Willing this conversation to die before it can even begin. Before he can start asking questions you’re not ready to answer. Before you have to face things you’ve already buried deep. Before it’s too late. You need to leave. But Jieun is shaking, clutching onto you for dear life as she whimpers against your chest, and the sounds of screams still ringing in your ears. And there’s infected everywhere. You’re stuck in the middle of a warzone, and you have no idea what to do, no idea where to go.

All you know is you need to get Jieun out of this. Away from danger.

“Have you not seen what the fuck is going on? People have gone fucking insane!” His tone grows harsher now, trying to knock some sense into you. “We need to move.”

A gut wrenching scream echoes from somewhere beyond the alley, closer than before this time. Too close. 

Jungkook swears under his breath, running a hand through his hair, torn between a storm of brewing emotions and the immediate danger closing in. His jaw tightens as he looks behind him then back to you. “Y/n, we need to go. Now.”

You shake your head violently, and you can feel hushed tears burning behind your eyes. You can’t breathe, can’t think clearly. All you can feel is Jieun trembling in your arms.

“Please-” his voice drops, raw and desperate. Almost a plea.

And don’t know when or why it happens, but the next thing you know, your feet are moving. You’re running with everything you have left in you.

Somehow, the world is ending, and you’re allowing yourself to be guided by Jungkook down streets devoured by chaos, heading to the only safe place around you. 

His home.

➵ taglist: @amatun28 @ahgasegotarmy116 @knjs95s @jeoncookiebar @badaspice @lachimolalajeon @tearykth @lovingkoalaface @jcrl99 @hellbornsworld @mortqlprojections @xumyboo @honeymeraki @justanarchiveforfics @iamnotdrunk420 @iveivory @k-p0p-4ever @jksjx @yoonberriez @lotustv @hannahmae18 @eclipsethemagic @bybyash @rjooniesdimples @minimoninini @satisfied18 @pinkpunkdynamite @jheneeko @sungiesworld27 @neuviloved @somehowukook @iohwa-com @lola75111 @hanversace @ot7even @rie-pdf @futuristicenemychaos @chl0buggy @happycheesecakedelusion @busanbby-jjk @minyoongi7016 @stellamalonesolaria @qyurryus-m @ex7stance @dchimminie

[sabrinacocksucker]

The Fire Between Us

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: mafia au, yandere, exes to lovers, drabble

summary: he would have torn the world apart to find you. and when you left him—believing the worst of him, believing he was a monster—he simply waited. patient. certain.

because you were always his. you always would be.

the world can rage and rot outside these walls, but here, in the home he built for you, nothing will ever come between you again.

not fear. not doubt. not even you.

warnings: yandere hobi, breaking & entering but make it romantic, dubious consent, drugging (the water tastes funny), s m u t, clingy hoseok, feral possessiveness, dark fairytale ending 🙃

word count: 2,624

a message from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: when i saw this photo i went FERAL. i mean look at him, LOOK AT HIM!!! how could i not write something?! especially after the way he’s been edging me this entire tour. been holding onto this story for a bit, but i figured why not? i’ve been (forever will be) on a yandere kick so let’s add hobi to the mix. because in the words of my good sis on tiktok lovelymonroedoll88 ‘looks like a cupcake, WILL put you through a mattress’

that is all. hope you enjoy! ☺️💕

You knew something was wrong the second you stepped inside.

The air was too still, the kind of quiet that clung to the skin, heavy and expectant. Your groceries slipped a little in your hand as you cautiously nudged the door closed with your foot, eyes sweeping over the entryway.

And then you heard it.

The faint hum of the tv from your living room.

Your heart climbed into your throat.

No one should be here.

You eased toward the sound, pulse jackhammering against your ribs, each step a prayer. As you rounded the corner, the sight awaiting you made the breath catch painfully in your lungs.

Hoseok was lounging on your couch like he owned the place. One arm thrown lazily across the backrest, one leg draped over the other, a casual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A movie—something old, black and white—flickered across the tv screen, throwing soft light across his features. He twirled a silver lighter between his fingers, flipping it open and closed with a quiet click… click… click.

Like a metronome to your growing panic.

“You left the window unlocked,” he said lightly, as if commenting on the weather. His voice, oh, his voice, still made your stomach twist, even now.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” you breathed, hugging the grocery bag to your chest like a shield.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. Chilling.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. “You can’t just—just break into my place, Hoseok. That’s not—”

“Legal?” he supplied, amusement glittering in his eyes. Another flick of the lighter. Click.

You stared at him. At the perfectly tailored black slacks, the soft cashmere sweater he wore pushed up at the elbows, the watch glinting on his wrist. His hair was pushed back neatly, exposing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.

The mouth you used to kiss, the mouth you used to trust.

“I’m not here to scare you,” he said, voice softer now, coaxing. “I’m here to explain.”

You shook your head. “There’s nothing to explain.”

He leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees, lighter dancing between his hands like an afterthought. The sleeves of his sweater bunched, revealing strong forearms, a slim scar you’d once kissed without thinking.

“You left me because you thought…” His voice trailed off, and for a brief second, something dark flickered in his gaze. “You thought I was a monster.”

You flinched.

The truth hung between you, raw and ugly.

Hoseok smiled, slow and patient, like a man dealing with a frightened animal. “You think I just kill whoever I want, whenever I want.” His thumb flicked the lighter open—flame—then snapped it shut. Gone. “But you’re wrong.”

You tried to find your anger, your sense of rightness, but it was buried under layers of guilt, confusion, and a longing that hadn’t been fully snuffed out.

“I only eliminate people who would hurt others,” Hoseok said, tone gentle, persuasive. “Human traffickers. Child predators. Abusers. Men who’d rather see the world burn than lift a finger to save it.”

You stared at him, trying to process the weight of his words.

“I do what the system can’t,” he continued, voice steady. Click. “I’m not the villain, sweetheart. I’m the man standing between you and the real monsters.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, and the air shifted. Became heavier. Charged.

You stumbled back instinctively until your back hit the wall. Hoseok stopped a foot away, close enough that you could smell his cologne—amber, smoke, something clean and devastatingly enticing.

“You still love me,” he said, not a question. A simple statement of fact.

Your fingers curled tighter around the grocery bag. “Hoseok—”

“Shh.” His thumb brushed your lower lip, featherlight, stealing your breath. “You don’t have to say anything. I know you do.”

The lighter danced again in his hand, a steady beat behind his words.

“I understand your fear,” he whispered, leaning in until his forehead nearly touched yours. “But you need to understand something too.”

His free hand slid along your hip, warm and firm.

“I would burn the world down for you. And I would rebuild it from the ashes. Just to see you smile.”

Your defenses, fragile as they were, crumbled under the force of his devotion.

And then… he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t violent. It was slow.

A kiss that dragged every breath of resistance from your lungs, that mapped every remembered inch of your soul. His mouth slanted over yours with aching familiarity, the tip of his tongue coaxing you to open, to surrender.

When you gasped against him, he seized the opportunity, deepening the kiss, swallowing your soft, helpless sound.

The grocery bag thudded to the floor, forgotten.

Hoseok groaned low in his throat, pressing you harder against the wall, the lighter clattering onto the coffee table behind him.

“You’re mine,” he whispered into your mouth. “You’ve always been mine.”

And you—

You didn’t say no.

You couldn’t.

Your fingers fisted into his sweater, pulling him closer, erasing the distance that had carved itself between you. Hoseok gathered you into his arms with a ferocity that belied his calm exterior, lifting you slightly, grinding his hips against yours.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were dizzy, trembling, your mind a blur.

“You can lie to yourself,” he murmured, trailing his nose along your jaw, “but your body remembers.”

You whimpered as he found that tender spot just beneath your ear, nipping it gently.

“You miss me,” he said, voice a velvet promise. “You miss this.”

And God help you, you did.

You missed the way he worshiped you with his hands, the way his voice dipped when he whispered your name in the dark, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing worth waking up for.

You missed him.

And Hoseok, ever the predator, sensed it.

He smiled against your throat, victorious. “Let me come home.”

You barely had time to gasp before his mouth crashed onto yours again, fiercer now, hungrier, the careful patience he’d shown before cracking at the seams.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud as he pressed against you, every hard line of him fitting into every soft curve of you. His hands were everywhere—roaming your hips, your waist, sliding beneath your shirt to find bare skin like a man starved.

“Hoseok,” you breathed, but your protest dissolved into a moan when he slid a thigh between your legs, forcing them apart, grinding you helplessly against him.

“You have no idea,” he muttered against your lips, “how long I’ve needed this. Needed you.”

The kiss turned messy, all teeth and tongues, a desperate claiming. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard, and he growled—a low, raw sound that rumbled against your chest.

When he finally tore himself away from your mouth, his eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. He looked almost pained trying to rein himself back in.

“God, I’m trying to be gentle,” he panted, forehead pressing into yours. His hand fisted in the hem of your shirt, knuckles whitening. “I’m trying, baby.”

But when you whimpered and rocked against his thigh, any thread of restraint snapped.

He dragged you toward the couch with ruthless efficiency, yanking your shirt over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind him. His sweater followed, leaving him bare chested, ink glowing in the light of the tv, the golden skin of his torso flushed with heat.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he shoved you down onto the cushions and dropped to his knees between your legs.

“Need to taste you,” he rasped, voice ragged.

Fumbling, desperate hands unfastened your jeans, shoved them down your hips with little ceremony. He buried his face against the seam of your panties, inhaling deeply, groaning low like the scent of you was a drug.

And then without any warning he pushed the damp fabric aside and slid two fingers inside you, slow and deep.

You cried out, hips bucking, fingers scrambling for purchase on the couch cushions.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, kissing along your inner thigh, his voice trembling with something dangerously close to reverence.

His fingers pumped into you with slow, deliberate strokes, crooking just right to make your vision blur. You could barely think, barely breathe, gasping his name between broken sobs of pleasure.

When he felt you clench around him, his grin turned feral.

“You’re close already,” he said smugly. “My good girl.”

You should have been embarrassed, should have pushed him away, but your body betrayed you—arching, begging for more.

When your orgasm hit, it tore through you like a tidal wave. Hoseok watched you fall apart with predatory satisfaction, licking his lips like he wanted to devour you whole.

Before you could recover, he was lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

“Not done,” he murmured, voice hoarse with need.

He carried you toward the bedroom, but only made it halfway down the hall before he pinned you against the wall again, dropping to his knees without a word.

“Hoseok,” you gasped, but he was already hooking your legs over his shoulders, burying his face in your soaked cunt.

He devoured you like a dying man, tongue relentless, hands gripping your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises tomorrow—and you wanted them. You wanted proof that this wasn’t a dream, that you hadn’t conjured him from your loneliness and longing.

You fisted your hands in his hair, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, chasing the pleasure he gave so freely, so viciously.

“Missed this,” he muttered against your slick heat. “Missed you.”

It was only when you came again, trembling and sobbing his name like a prayer, that he rose to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes black with hunger.

He kicked open your bedroom door, tossed you onto the bed like you weighed nothing.

And then he was on you—stripping away the last of your clothes, shedding his own, caging your body beneath his. The weight of his cock was heavy against your thigh, steel covered silk, skin burning hot with hunger.

When he thrust into you in one desperate, punishing stroke, you both gasped. Two halves of the same broken soul.

“Perfect,” Hoseok growled, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re fucking perfect.”

He set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping against yours, every thrust a brand, a mark. He wasn’t just fucking you, he was carving himself into you, body and soul.

You clung to him, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his waist.

His hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back so he could lick into your mouth, swallowing your cries, your surrender. He whispered things against your skin—desperate promises, possessive oaths, dark confessions he couldn’t say in the daylight.

“Never again,” he panted, driving into you harder, deeper. “Never letting you go.”

Your body splintered around him, coming undone again, and this time he followed—biting down on your shoulder with a growl, pouring himself into you with a shudder that shook his entire frame.

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, your racing hearts.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t move at all—just buried his face in your neck, arms locking you against him like he feared you’d disappear if he loosened his grip.

When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft you almost missed it.

“I can live with you hating me,” he whispered. “But I can’t live without you.”

You turned your head, pressing your lips to his damp hair. And even though you knew you should run, should fight—

You held him tighter instead.

~~~~

You hung somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, your body still trembling faintly from the force of what Hoseok had wrung out of you.

He moved carefully now.

You barely registered the soft cloth he used to clean you, the warm water wiping away the evidence of your surrender. His touch was so gentle, so meticulous, as if each stroke of the cloth was a silent apology for the way he had shattered you.

“There we go, baby,” he murmured, voice low and thick with something heavier than satisfaction. Something closer to devotion.

He helped you into an oversized shirt, his, you realized hazily, swallowing you in warmth and his scent and eased you back against the pillows.

A glass of water appeared at your lips. His hand cradled the back of your head as you sipped, too pliant, too trusting to notice the faint metallic aftertaste hidden beneath the coolness.

“Good girl,” Hoseok whispered, kissing your forehead. “Rest now.”

You tried to ask something, what time it was, why he looked so tense, but the words tangled in your throat. Sleep weighed down your limbs, slow and syrupy, pulling you under before you could resist.

You barely felt it when he lifted you into his arms.

-

The hum of the truck engine was a lullaby you couldn’t hear.

Hoseok cradled you against his chest in the back seat of the blacked out vehicle, one arm wrapped protectively around your waist, the other stroking gentle patterns along your thigh.

Outside the tinted windows, the city faded into darkness, distant and irrelevant.

His lighter sat abandoned in his pocket now. He didn’t need it. All his restless energy was focused solely on you.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, closing his eyes.

You’re safe. He thought, words echoing silently in the dark. You’re home.

Hours later, the jet vibrated softly beneath his feet as it sliced through the night sky. Hoseok hadn’t let you go once.

Settled in the buttery leather of the jet’s wide seat, he held you across his lap like you were something fragile, irreplaceable. One hand rested on your hip, the other threaded through your hair, brushing it back from your sleeping face with infinite tenderness.

He kissed the crown of your head, breathing you in.

“My good girl,” he murmured into your hair. “Taking us home.”

Outside the windows, only darkness and distant stars bore witness.

-

When you finally woke, it was to a warm breeze and the scent of jasmine.

Disoriented, you sat up slowly, the unfamiliar sheets tangling around your legs. Your body still ached, delicious and sore, but your mind was heavy, foggy. Blinking against the morning sun, you stumbled to your feet, feet padding silently across the room.

The sound of birdsong lured you to the balcony.

You clutched the bannister, staring out at the scene below.

The lush garden was unmistakable—

The sprawling emerald lawns, the heavy trees drooping with ripe fruit, the koi pond gleaming like polished coins.

Hoseok’s estate.

Panic fluttered briefly in your chest—but it was muted, blunted by something else.

Something softer.

Something that felt suspiciously like peace.

Before you could spiral, warm arms wrapped around you from behind, strong and certain. Hoseok buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he could breathe you in.

“Shh,” he whispered against your skin. “All is right again. Things are exactly as they should be.”

You trembled in his arms, some part of you screaming that this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen—that you should fight, that you should run.

But another, quieter part.

The part that had never truly let him go, sank into his embrace like you were coming home after a long, bitter winter.

“I missed you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

You placed your hand over his, threading your fingers together.

And though your mind spun with questions and doubts, your heart knew only one truth:

You had never really left.

And now, you never would.

masterlist

[sabrinacocksucker]

۶ৎ A SYMPHONY OF TOUCH —

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growled, his voice shaking with need. “Look at you, falling apart just from this. You’re mine, flower, all fucking mine.”

pairing: husband dom!taehyung x wife sub!femreader

genre: established relationship, slice of life, domestic fluff, passionate love, erotica, smut

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, slight d/s dynamics, oral sex (f. receiving), sensual body massage, oil play, sensory experience, breast play, intense focus on nipple stimulation, clit play, heightened arousal, fingering, light non penetrative anal teasing, making out, hickies/marking, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, emphasis on heightened sensitivity due to oil, touch and prolonged foreplay, teasing, begging, intense reactions, crying and screaming in pleasure, dirty talk, passionate and possessive praising dialogues from taehyung, emotional and physical intimacy, vocalizations, oil slicked bodies, slight edging, body worship, emotional intimacy, showering together, loving and soft aftercare

wc: 4.80k

masterlist

۶ৎ

The apartment was a haven, steeped in the amber glow of the setting sun that seeped through gauzy curtains, painting the hardwood floor in warm, honeyed hues. The air was heavy with the delicate scent of lavender from the diffuser, laced with the faint, musky undertone of your perfume, now dulled by the relentless grind of a twelve-hour workday. Your body was a canvas of exhaustion—every muscle taut, your feet screaming from the confines of pointed-toe heels, and a dull, throbbing ache pulsing behind your eyes. You stumbled through the front door, your navy pencil skirt clinging to your thighs like a second skin, your cream silk blouse slightly unbuttoned, revealing the delicate curve of your collarbone. Too drained to even consider changing, you collapsed onto the bed, the downy mattress yielding beneath you, its cool, crisp sheets a fleeting reprieve against your overheated skin. A low, shuddering groan slipped from your lips, the sound swallowed by the quiet hum of the apartment.

Taehyung had returned an hour earlier, his tailored suit jacket slung carelessly over the armchair, his burgundy tie loosened to hang askew. His dark hair was tousled, strands falling into his eyes from the absent-minded habit of raking his fingers through it. He stood in the kitchen, the faint clink of a glass against the marble countertop punctuating the stillness, when he heard your footsteps—slow, dragging, each step a testament to your depletion. His heart twisted, a visceral pang of protectiveness and love. Setting the glass down with a soft clatter, he strode to the bedroom, his tall, lean frame filling the doorway. His eyes, deep and molten, softened as they landed on you, sprawled across the bed in your disheveled work attire, your chest rising and falling with shallow, weary breaths.

“My little flower,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety caress, rich with warmth that seemed to seep into your bones. He crossed the room in three fluid strides, kneeling beside the bed, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The pads of his fingers, warm and slightly rough, lingered on your cheek, their heat a stark contrast to the cool air. “God, you look utterly wrecked, love. I missed you so fucking much today.”

You cracked open your eyes, meeting his gaze—those dark, expressive pools that seemed to hold galaxies, pinning you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. A faint, tired smile tugged at your lips, though it took effort to muster. “I missed you too, Tae,” you whispered, your voice raw, frayed at the edges from exhaustion. “Today was… brutal. I feel like I’ve been run over, and I can’t even think about moving.”

His chuckle was a deep, resonant rumble, like the crackle of a fire on a winter night, warming you from the inside out. “I can see that, sweetheart. You’re still in those torture devices you call heels.” His eyes flicked to your feet, a flicker of sympathy crossing his features. “Let me take care of you, hmm? You don’t have to lift a finger.” His words were a vow, dripping with adoration, and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in his universe—made your chest ache with love. “How about a massage? I’ll make every ounce of that tension disappear, I swear.”

You nodded, too spent to form a proper response, but the idea of his hands on you, unraveling the knots in your body, was a siren’s call. “Please, Tae,” you breathed, your voice a fragile thread, barely audible.

He rose, retrieving a sleek bottle of massage oil from the nightstand, its amber liquid catching the light as he poured a generous amount into his palm. The air bloomed with the heady scent of jasmine and sandalwood, rich and intoxicating, wrapping around you like a silken veil. He rubbed his hands together, warming the oil, the soft sound of his palms sliding against each other filling the quiet. “Let’s get you out of these clothes first,” he said, his tone gentle but laced with a quiet authority that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

With reverent care, he helped you sit up, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your blouse. The silk whispered against your skin, cool and slick, as it slid off your shoulders, revealing your white lace bra, the delicate fabric clinging to the swell of your breasts. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing in their depths, but his touch remained tender as he unzipped your skirt, easing it down your legs. The fabric pooled on the floor, leaving you in your matching lace panties, the thin material hugging your hips. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking, but he didn’t linger, guiding you to lie on your stomach. “Lie down, love,” he murmured, his voice a soothing command, and you complied, the sheets cool and crisp against your bare skin.

Taehyung straddled your hips, his weight carefully balanced to avoid pressing too heavily, and began with your shoulders. His hands, strong and calloused from years of work, glided over your skin, the warm oil creating a slick, decadent friction. The scent of jasmine enveloped you, mingling with the faint musk of his cologne, grounding you in the moment. He pressed his thumbs into the knots at the base of your neck, working them with slow, deliberate circles, the pressure firm but exquisitely controlled. The tension unraveled, melting under his touch, and you moaned, a soft, throaty sound that vibrated against the pillow. The oil amplified every sensation, his rough palms contrasting with the softness of your skin, sending tingles radiating through your body.

“Fuck, that feel good, flower?” he asked, his voice low, husky, a trace of amusement curling the edges.

“So fucking good,” you slurred, your words thick with relief, your body sinking deeper into the mattress. “Tae, you’re a miracle.”

He laughed, a dark, warm sound that sent a pulse of heat through you. His hands moved lower, tracing the elegant curve of your spine with long, languid strokes. His fingers splayed across your mid-back, kneading the tight muscles with a rhythmic pressure that made you arch slightly, a louder moan spilling from your lips. The oil was warm, slick, and the glide of his hands was hypnotic, each stroke unraveling another layer of tension. He lingered on your lower back, his thumbs pressing into the dimples above your hips, and you whimpered, the sensation teetering on the edge of pleasure, your skin prickling with sensitivity.

“Taehyung,” you gasped, your voice trembling, “you’re killing me.”

“Patience, love,” he murmured, though his own voice was strained, a hint of his own arousal seeping through. “I’m just getting started.”

He moved to your arms, lifting one and starting at your shoulder. His fingers dug into the tight muscles, then slid down to your bicep, his thumbs pressing into the tender flesh with slow, circular motions. The oil made his touch glide, and when he reached your forearm, he massaged the muscles with a gentle intensity that made you gasp, the sensation almost ticklish but deeply soothing. He worked his way to your hand, kneading the palm, then rolling each finger between his own, tugging gently. The relief was so profound you moaned, a needy, high-pitched sound that made him pause, his breath hitching.

“Goddamn, those sounds,” he growled, his voice rough with desire. “You’re making it real hard to focus, flower.”

He repeated the process with your other arm, his touch unhurried, reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you. When he finished, he gently turned you onto your back, his eyes locking onto yours, the intensity in his gaze stealing your breath. He poured more oil into his hands, the liquid glistening, and started on your stomach. His palms glided over your abdomen, fingers splaying wide, the warmth of his hands seeping into your skin. The oil was slick, the scent of sandalwood heavy in the air, and the sensation of his hands moving in slow, deliberate circles was intoxicating. You let out a series of soft, breathy moans, your body trembling under his touch, your skin hypersensitive.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes drinking you in. “I could spend my whole life touching you like this and never get enough.” His hands moved to your thighs, and you tensed, the proximity to your core sending your pulse into overdrive. He kneaded the muscles there, his fingers brushing agonizingly close to the edge of your panties, the oil making every touch glide effortlessly. The roughness of his palms against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs sent sparks through you, and you let out an obscene whimper, your hips twitching involuntarily.

“Tae,” you whined, your voice thick with need, your body aching for more.

“Not yet, my love,” he said, though his voice was taut, and you could see the bulge in his trousers, his cock straining against the fabric. “I want to worship every fucking inch of you first.”

He moved to your calves, lifting one leg and pouring more oil, the liquid dripping onto your skin, warm and slick. His thumbs dug into the tight muscles, working out the knots with a firm, steady pressure, and you moaned, the relief so intense your toes curled. When he reached your feet, he took his time, cradling one in his hands, his thumbs pressing into the arch with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The sensation was exquisite, the pain from hours of standing melting away, and you let out a needy, high-pitched whimper, your body squirming. He moved to your toes, rolling each one between his fingers, tugging gently, the oil making his touch slick and decadent. The sensitivity of your toes sent shivers up your spine, and you couldn’t help the desperate, keening noises spilling from you, each touch making your core clench.

“Fuck, flower, those noises,” he growled, his voice low and rough, his eyes dark with hunger. “You’re driving me fucking insane.” He repeated the process with your other foot, lingering on your toes until you were panting, your body trembling, the oil and his relentless attention making you hypersensitive.

Your bra and panties were now drenched with oil, the white lace clinging to your skin like a second skin, nearly transparent. Your nipples were hard, straining against the fabric, and your pussy throbbed, the ache a pulsing, unbearable need. Every time his hands neared your breasts or inner thighs, you let out a keening, desperate sound, your head spinning with pleasure, your skin so sensitive it felt like you might shatter.

Taehyung’s breathing was ragged, his eyes molten with desire as he watched you writhe beneath him. “Jesus Christ, love,” he rasped, his voice shaking. “You’re a fucking masterpiece, you know that? Those sounds, that body… you’re killing me, and I haven’t even touched you where you want it most.”

“Please, Tae,” you begged, your voice breaking, tears of need pricking your eyes. “I can’t take it anymore. I need you, please.”

His smirk was dark, predatory, but his eyes were soft, full of love. “Oh, flower, I’m gonna give you everything,” he promised, his voice a low growl. He leaned down, his fingers brushing over your lace-covered nipples, the touch light but electrifying. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. “So fucking sensitive,” he murmured, his tone reverent. He pinched your nipples through the lace, rolling them between his fingers, and you sobbed, the pleasure-pain sending waves of heat through you. He teased you mercilessly, his fingers circling, tugging, until you were panting, your chest heaving, your body trembling.

Finally, he unclasped your bra, tossing it aside, the cool air hitting your bare skin. He peeled off your panties, the oil-soaked lace leaving you exposed, and held them to his nose, inhaling deeply. A guttural growl rumbled in his chest, his eyes flashing with raw hunger. “You smell like fucking heaven,” he said, his voice thick with lust, his pupils blown wide.

He poured more oil into his hands, the liquid dripping onto your breasts, pooling in the valley between them. His fingers found your nipples, slick and warm, and he cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks. The sensation was overwhelming, the oil making every touch glide, and you screamed, your hips bucking. He pinched and rolled your nipples, his touch firm but precise, and you writhed, your hands clutching the sheets, your voice reduced to sobbing his name. “Tae, oh God, Tae,” you gasped, your body trembling.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growled, his voice shaking with need. “Look at you, falling apart just from this. You’re mine, flower, all fucking mine.”

His hand slid lower, cupping your pussy, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, the oil mixing with your arousal. The sensation was decadent, slippery, and he circled your clit with slow, deliberate strokes, making you scream, your hips bucking against his hand. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you saw stars, your body trembling as he worked you toward the edge. His other hand kneaded your ass, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin, the oil making every touch electric.

Desperate for more, you pushed yourself up, straddling his lap, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him. Your lips crashed against his, the taste of him—mint, salt, and something darkly Taehyung—flooding your senses. The oil on your skin transferred to his, his dress shirt clinging to his chest, the fabric growing slick and transparent. Your breasts pressed against him, the oil making them slide, and you ground against his cock, still trapped in his trousers, the friction making you moan into his mouth. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you, raw and desperate.

“Fuck, flower, you’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, his voice rough with need. “Grinding on me like that, all slick and needy. You’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that?” He tore off his shirt, buttons scattering across the floor, and you ran your hands over his chest, the oil making his skin gleam, his muscles taut and defined. Your fingers traced the ridges of his abs, the slickness making every touch glide, and he groaned, his head falling back.

You fumbled with his belt, your hands trembling with need, and he helped you, stripping off his trousers and boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip glistening, and you whimpered, the sight making your core clench. He poured more oil over your body, the liquid dripping down your breasts, pooling in the hollows of your collarbone, and he growled, his eyes raking over you. “You’re a fucking vision,” he said, his voice shaking with desire.

He positioned himself between your thighs, his cock sliding through your folds, the oil making every movement slick and decadent. He thrust into you slowly, filling you inch by inch, the stretch exquisite, and you screamed, your nails digging into his shoulders. The oil amplified every sensation, the slide of his cock against your walls almost too much, each nerve ending alight. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, the oil making them glisten, and he growled, his eyes locked onto them, his hands gripping your hips.

“Goddamn, you feel like fucking heaven,” he groaned, his voice trembling, his thrusts deep and deliberate. “So tight, so perfect. Look at those tits bouncing for me, flower. You’re mine, every fucking inch of you.” His words were a litany, raw and possessive, and you moaned, needy and desperate, your body trembling as he fucked you. The oil made every movement slick, the friction both intense and luxurious, and you could feel every inch of him, stretching you, filling you.

“Tae, please,” you sobbed, your voice breaking, your breasts bouncing harder as he picked up the pace, his thrusts growing relentless. “I’m so close, I need you.”

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with slick, rapid strokes. “Let me feel you, let me hear you scream my name.” Your body convulsed, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, and you screamed, your walls clenching around him, your vision going white. He followed moments later, spilling inside you with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering, his cock pulsing.

As you collapsed, panting and spent, he pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing your forehead, soft and tender. “I love you, flower,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “More than anything.”

“I love you too,” you murmured, your body still humming, wrapped in the tapestry of his touch.

The room was hushed, the air thick with the lingering scent of jasmine and sandalwood, now softened by the musk of sweat and intimacy. The golden glow of the setting sun had faded into a twilight haze, casting the bedroom in a gentle, indigo light that danced across the rumpled sheets. Your body was a languid, sated weight against the mattress, every nerve still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, your skin slick with oil and glistening in the dim light. Your chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths, your heart still racing, and a faint, blissful ache pulsed between your thighs. Taehyung lay beside you, his own breathing heavy, his bare chest gleaming with the oil you’d transferred to him, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead. His arm was draped possessively over your waist, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles on your hip, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the aftermath.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence a tender cocoon that held the weight of what had just transpired. The only sounds were the soft rustle of the sheets beneath you and the distant hum of the city beyond the apartment walls. Taehyung shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, his eyes—deep, molten, and impossibly tender—roaming over your face. His gaze was a caress, drinking in every detail: the flush on your cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on your brow, the way your lips were still parted, swollen from his kisses. He reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, their roughness softened by the oil that still coated them.

“God, flower,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, thick with emotion. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. All soft and glowing, like you’re made of starlight.” His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, and the reverence in his touch made your chest tighten. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you. Not in a million years.”

You smiled, a tired but radiant curve of your lips, and leaned into his touch, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tae, you’re too much. I’m a mess right now, and you’re calling me starlight?”

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that vibrated through you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “A mess? No, love, you’re beautiful. My beautiful girl.” He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and slightly salty from sweat. The gesture was so tender it brought a lump to your throat, and you closed your eyes, savoring the feel of him, the scent of him—oil, musk, and something uniquely Taehyung—that enveloped you.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, his tone gentle but firm, the quiet authority you loved slipping through. He slid off the bed, his movements graceful despite the intensity of what you’d just shared, and disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the faint creak of the faucet, the rush of water, and moments later, he returned with a warm, damp washcloth and a fluffy towel, both folded carefully in his hands. The sight of him—tall, bare, his skin still glistening, his expression so full of care—made your heart swell.

He knelt beside you, his eyes locking onto yours as he gently took your hand, wiping the oil from your fingers with the washcloth. The fabric was plush, the water just warm enough to soothe, and he moved with meticulous care, cleaning each finger, then your palm, his touch as reverent as it had been during the massage. “You worked so hard today, didn’t you?” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with concern. “Tell me about it, flower. What made my girl so exhausted?”

You sighed, the weight of the day resurfacing but softened by his presence. “It was just… endless,” you said, your voice still hoarse from your earlier cries. “Back-to-back meetings, a client who kept changing their mind, and my boss piling on last-minute reports. I was on my feet all day, running between floors, and those heels were a nightmare. I feel like I aged ten years.”

His brow furrowed, a flicker of sympathy crossing his features as he moved the washcloth to your arm, wiping away the oil in long, slow strokes. The warmth of the cloth was heavenly, easing the faint ache in your muscles, and you let out a soft hum of contentment. “That sounds fucking brutal,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, but tempered with tenderness. “You shouldn’t have to push yourself that hard, love. Makes me want to storm into your office and tell them to back off my girl.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy despite your fatigue. “You’d cause a scene, Tae. My boss would probably faint if you walked in looking like you do now.”

He grinned, a flash of mischief in his eyes as he moved to your other arm, the cloth gliding over your skin, leaving it soft and clean. “Good. Let ‘em faint. No one gets to wear you out like that except me.” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge of possessiveness that sent a warm shiver through you. He leaned closer, his breath fanning across your cheek as he added, “Seriously, though, I hate seeing you this drained. You’re too precious for that shit.”

Your heart fluttered, and you reached up, cupping his face, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his jaw. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “How was your day? You got home before me, but you looked stressed when you walked in.”

He paused, the washcloth hovering over your collarbone, and his expression softened, a mix of vulnerability and love. “It was a lot,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more introspective. “Board meetings, budgets, some asshole exec trying to undermine my team. I was ready to lose it by lunch. But the second I heard you come through the door, it all just… melted away. You do that to me, flower. You make everything better, just by being you.”

His words were a balm, soothing the raw edges of your day, and you felt tears prick your eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming depth of his love. He resumed his task, the washcloth gliding over your chest, careful to avoid your sensitive nipples, though his eyes lingered there, a flicker of heat in their depths. “Tae,” you murmured, your voice trembling, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You make everything bearable.”

He smiled, soft and radiant, and leaned down to kiss you, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “You’ll never have to find out, love,” he whispered against your mouth, his breath warm and minty. “I’m yours, always. Gonna take care of you forever, you hear me?”

You nodded, your throat tight, and he continued cleaning you, the washcloth moving to your stomach, then your thighs, his touch gentle but thorough. The warmth of the cloth was soothing, the faint scent of lavender from the towel mingling with the lingering jasmine in the air. When he reached your feet, he took extra care, wiping away the oil from your toes, his fingers brushing over them with a featherlight touch that made you giggle, the sensation ticklish but grounding.

“Still sensitive, huh?” he teased, his voice light, but his eyes were warm, full of adoration. He finished with the washcloth and used the towel to pat you dry, the fluffy fabric absorbing the last traces of moisture, leaving your skin soft and warm. He draped the towel over your lap, then slid back onto the bed, pulling you into his arms, your back against his chest, his legs bracketing yours.

The heat of his body was a cocoon, his skin still faintly slick with oil, and you nestled into him, your head resting against his collarbone. His arms wrapped around you, one hand splaying across your stomach, the other tracing idle patterns on your thigh. The scent of him—musk, oil, and that indefinable essence that was purely Taehyung—enveloped you, and you let out a contented sigh, your body finally relaxing completely.

“Tell me more about your day,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low rumble that sent a pleasant shiver through you. “What was the worst part?”

You tilted your head, thinking, your fingers playing with his, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. “Probably the client meeting at three,” you said, your voice steadier now, warmed by his closeness. “They kept nitpicking every detail, and I had to redo the presentation on the spot. I thought I was going to scream. What about you? What made you want to lose it?”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your back, and pressed a kiss to your temple. “This prick in a suit who thought he could talk over my team. Took everything in me not to deck him. But I kept picturing you, coming home to you, and it kept me sane. You’re my anchor, flower. Always have been.”

His words wrapped around your heart, and you turned your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were soft, unguarded, and the love there was so palpable it stole your breath. “You’re mine too,” you whispered, your voice thick. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

He grinned, a boyish, radiant smile that made him look younger, softer. “I’m the lucky one, love. You’re my everything.” He tightened his arms around you, his lips brushing your shoulder, and for a moment, you just sat there, wrapped in each other, the world outside fading to nothing.

He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a glass of water he’d brought earlier, and held it to your lips. “Drink,” he said, his tone gentle but insistent. “You need it after all that.” You obeyed, the cool water sliding down your throat, crisp and refreshing, and he watched you with a satisfied smile, setting the glass down when you finished.

“Better?” he asked, his fingers brushing your hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“Much,” you murmured, leaning into his touch. “You’re too good at this, you know. Taking care of me.”

He laughed, a low, warm sound, and kissed the crown of your head. “Gotta keep my flower blooming, don’t I? Can’t have you wilting on me.” His tone was playful, but the love in his eyes was fierce, unyielding, and you felt it in every fiber of your being.

He pulled the duvet over you both, the soft, cool fabric settling over your skin, and you curled into him, your legs tangling with his, your head resting on his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat was a lullaby, grounding you, and his fingers continued their lazy dance on your skin, tracing patterns that felt like promises. The room was quiet now, the only sounds your soft breaths and the faint rustle of the duvet, and the world felt small, safe, contained in the circle of his arms.

“I love you, Tae,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he heard you, felt you, in the way his arms tightened around you.

“I love you too, flower,” he murmured, his voice a vow, eternal and unshakable. “More than words can ever say. Sleep now, love. I’ve got you.”

You closed your eyes, a smile curving your lips, and let the warmth of him, the scent of him, the love of him carry you into a deep, dreamless sleep, knowing that no matter how brutal the days might be, you’d always come home to this—to him, to love, to a haven woven from touch and tenderness. The night stretched on, soft and endless, and in his arms, you were whole, cherished, and utterly, irrevocably his.

[sabrinacocksucker]

۶ৎ A HAVEN IN YOUR ARMS —

“Take it, baby,” he growled, his voice thick with need. “Be a good wife and take your husband’s cock.”

pairing: dom!jungkook x housewife sub!femreader

genre: established relationship, age gap, slice of life, romance, smut, fluff, slight angst

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, oral sex (m. receiving), penetrative sex, breeding, missionary, rough sex, praise kink, dirty talk, light D/s dynamics, smoking (cigarettes), crying (in pleasure), nipple play, hickies, making out, emotional intimacy, slight cock warming, mild stress/depression (work-related), stress relief, aftercare

wc: 3.76k

a/n: hope you guys love this oneshot. I'm a new writer so please excuse mistakes or scenes not in the most perfect structure. Feedbacks and comments would mean a lot to me !!

masterlist

۶ৎ

The late afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of your cozy suburban home, casting a warm golden glow across the living room. The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional chirp of birds outside. You stood in the kitchen, barefoot on the cool hardwood floor, wearing one of Jungkook’s oversized black t-shirts that hung loosely on your petite frame, the hem brushing just above your knees. The faint scent of his cologne clung to the fabric, a comforting reminder of your husband, even as you busied yourself with preparing his favorite dinner.

Your delicate hands moved with practiced ease, chopping vegetables for a rich beef bulgogi stew. The kitchen was your sanctuary, a place where you poured love into every dish you made for Jungkook. Tonight, you wanted everything to be perfect. You had sensed his stress over the phone earlier when he’d called during his lunch break, his voice clipped and tired, a stark contrast to his usual warmth. He hadn’t said much, but you knew him well enough to recognize the signs of a bad day at work. As his shy, younger housewife, you took pride in creating a haven for him, a place where he could shed the weight of the world.

The counter was a canvas of ingredients: thinly sliced beef marinating in soy sauce, sesame oil, and garlic; vibrant green onions; mushrooms; and a pot of rice simmering on the stove. You hummed softly to yourself, a gentle melody that kept your nerves at bay. Cooking for Jungkook was an act of devotion, a way to show him how much you cared, even if your shyness sometimes made it hard to express in words. You stirred the stew, the rich aroma filling the air, and checked the kimchi pancakes sizzling in a nearby pan, their edges turning golden and crisp.

As the clock ticked closer to 6:30 PM, you glanced at the front door, your heart fluttering with anticipation and a touch of anxiety. Jungkook would be home soon, and you wanted to be ready for him. You smoothed down the t-shirt, suddenly self-conscious about how it dwarfed your frame, but you loved wearing his clothes—it made you feel closer to him. Your hair was loosely tied in a messy bun, a few strands framing your face, and you wore no makeup, your natural beauty glowing in the soft light.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway snapped you out of your thoughts. Your pulse quickened as you heard the engine cut off, followed by the heavy thud of the car door closing. You turned off the stove, wiped your hands on a dish towel, and took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever mood Jungkook might be in. The front door opened, and there he was—your husband, Jeon Jungkook, stepping into the house like a storm cloud in a tailored black suit.

Jungkook’s presence filled the room instantly. His broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his suit jacket, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled, as if he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed, and his dark eyes carried a weight that made your heart ache. He dropped his briefcase by the door with a careless thud and loosened his tie with a sharp tug, his movements tense and deliberate. The sight of him, so handsome yet so visibly exhausted and angry, sent a pang through your chest.

“Hey,” you greeted softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you stepped out of the kitchen, your bare feet padding quietly across the floor. You clasped your hands in front of you, a nervous habit, and bit your lip, unsure how to approach him when he was like this.

Jungkook didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he crossed the living room in long strides and sank onto the plush gray couch, his head tilting back against the cushions. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one with a flick of his lighter. The flame briefly illuminated his sharp features, casting shadows across his clenched jaw. He took a deep drag, the tip glowing red, and exhaled a cloud of smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling. The scent of tobacco mingled with the lingering aroma of dinner, and you watched him silently, your heart twisting at the sight of him so on edge.

You hesitated, lingering near the kitchen doorway, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. Jungkook smoked in silence, his eyes fixed on some distant point, his free hand resting on his thigh, fingers tapping restlessly. The cigarette was a rare indulgence, something he turned to only when the stress was too much to bear. You hated seeing him like this, but you knew he needed space before he’d let you in.

Finally, you gathered your courage and approached him, your steps slow and tentative. “Kookie,” you murmured, using the nickname that always softened him, even on his worst days. You stopped in front of the couch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, and looked down at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Are you okay?”

Jungkook’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, the hardness in his expression faltered. His eyes softened as they took you in—your small frame swallowed by his t-shirt, your bare legs, your flushed cheeks. He took another drag of his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray on the coffee table, the movement deliberate and controlled. Without a word, he reached for you, his large hands wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his lap.

You let out a soft gasp as he tugged you close, your body settling against his. His arms encircled you, strong and possessive, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of your strawberry lip balm mingled with the faint trace of his cigarette, and you felt his lips brush against your skin, a gentle kiss that sent a shiver down your spine.

“God, baby,” he murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough, laced with exhaustion. “You’re the only thing that makes this day bearable.”

Your cheeks flushed at his words, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your fingers threading through his dark hair. “I’m here, Kookie,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “Always.”

He kissed you then, his lips capturing yours in a slow, deliberate kiss that tasted of tobacco and something uniquely him. You melted into him, your shyness fading under the warmth of his touch. His hands roamed your back, pressing you closer, and you felt the tension in his body begin to ease, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he lost himself in you.

When he pulled back, his dark eyes searched yours, and he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I had a shit day, baby,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, less angry but still heavy. “Work was a fucking nightmare.”

You cupped his face gently, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Wanna tell me about it?” you asked, your voice soft and encouraging. You shifted in his lap, straddling him so you could face him fully, your knees pressing into the couch on either side of his hips. His hands settled on your thighs, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your bare skin, and you felt a flicker of warmth in your chest at the familiar intimacy.

Jungkook sighed, his head tilting back against the couch as he stared at the ceiling. “The new client we’ve been working with—they’re impossible,” he began, his voice laced with frustration. “They keep changing the terms of the contract, demanding more without wanting to pay for it. My team’s been busting their asses for weeks, and today, during the presentation, the client’s CEO had the nerve to call our work ‘subpar.’ Subpar, baby. After all the late nights, all the revisions, all the bullshit we’ve put up with.”

You listened intently, your heart aching for him. Jungkook was a senior project manager at a prestigious marketing firm, and while he thrived under pressure, the constant demands of his job sometimes took a toll. You reached for his tie, your fingers working to loosen the knot as he spoke, your touch gentle and soothing.

“That’s not fair,” you said softly, your voice laced with sympathy. “You work so hard, Kookie. They don’t appreciate you enough.”

He let out a bitter laugh, his hands tightening on your thighs. “You’re telling me. And then, to top it all off, one of my team members fucked up the financial projections during the meeting. I had to step in and fix it on the spot, in front of everyone. I looked like an idiot trying to cover for him, and the client just sat there smirking like they’d won some kind of power game.”

You frowned, your hands pausing on his tie. “That’s awful,” you murmured. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that. You’re always cleaning up other people’s messes.”

Jungkook’s eyes softened as he looked at you, and he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re too good to me, you know that?” he said, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “I come home ranting like this, and you just… listen. You make it better.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you ducked your head, suddenly shy under his gaze. “I just want you to feel okay,” you mumbled, focusing on unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt. “You do so much for us. I wanna take care of you too.”

He smiled then, a small, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. “You do, baby,” he said, his hands sliding up to your waist, squeezing gently. “More than you know.”

You finished loosening his tie and draped it over the arm of the couch, then slid your hands down his chest, feeling the firm planes of muscle beneath his shirt. “Why don’t you go take a shower?” you suggested, your voice soft but firm. “It’ll help you relax. I’ll warm up dinner, and we can eat together.”

Jungkook’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, dark and unreadable, before he nodded. “Alright,” he said, his voice low. “But only because you’re asking so nicely.”

You giggled softly, the sound lightening the mood, and slid off his lap, standing in front of him. He stood as well, towering over you, and leaned down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Don’t take too long,” you teased, your voice playful despite your shyness.

He smirked, a hint of his usual confidence returning. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving your waist a playful squeeze before heading toward the bathroom.

As Jungkook disappeared down the hallway, you returned to the kitchen, your heart feeling lighter. You turned on the stove to warm the bulgogi stew, the rich aroma filling the air once more. You set the table with care, arranging the plates, chopsticks, and a small bowl of kimchi in the center. The kimchi pancakes were reheated in the oven, their edges crisp and golden, and you poured two glasses of iced barley tea, knowing Jungkook loved the refreshing drink with his meals.

In the bathroom, Jungkook stripped off his suit, the fabric falling to the floor in a careless heap. He turned on the shower, the hot water cascading over his broad shoulders, washing away the grime of the day. He closed his eyes, letting the steam envelop him, and thought of you—your soft voice, your gentle touch, the way you looked in his t-shirt, so small and perfect. The tension in his muscles began to ease, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the water.

Back in the kitchen, you hummed to yourself as you plated the food, arranging the beef and vegetables neatly over a bed of rice. You added a kimchi pancake to each plate, the golden discs still warm and fragrant. When you heard the shower shut off, you glanced toward the hallway, your heart fluttering with anticipation.

Jungkook emerged a few minutes later, his hair damp and tousled, wearing a fitted black t-shirt and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He looked more relaxed, but the tightness in his jaw and the slight furrow in his brow told you he was still carrying some of the day’s weight. He walked into the dining area, his eyes softening as he took in the spread on the table.

“Baby, this looks amazing,” he said, his voice warm with appreciation. He pulled out a chair and sat down, his gaze flickering to you as you set his plate in front of him. “You didn’t have to go all out like this.”

You blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I wanted to,” you said softly. “You deserve it.”

He reached for your hand, tugging you closer until you were standing between his legs. “Sit with me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re eating too.”

You nodded, your cheeks flushing as you grabbed your plate and sat across from him. Jungkook didn’t start eating until you took your first bite, his eyes watching you with a mix of protectiveness and affection. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice low, and you felt a familiar warmth spread through you at the praise.

The meal was quiet at first, the only sounds the clink of chopsticks and the occasional hum of satisfaction from Jungkook. The bulgogi was tender and flavorful, the kimchi pancakes crispy and tangy, and you couldn’t help but smile as he took a second helping, his appetite a testament to your efforts.

“This is perfect, baby,” he said between bites, his eyes meeting yours. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you ducked your head, focusing on your plate. “I’m glad you like it,” you said shyly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled softly, reaching across the table to tilt your chin up. “Don’t hide from me,” he teased, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “I wanna see that pretty face.”

You blushed furiously, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Kookie,” you whined softly, embarrassed by his attention, but he just grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

The conversation flowed easily after that, a mix of light banter and deeper moments. Jungkook told you about a new project his team was starting, his voice growing animated as he described the creative aspects he was excited about. You listened attentively, asking questions and offering small words of encouragement, your shyness fading in the warmth of his presence.

“You’re so good at what you do,” you said at one point, your voice sincere. “I’m so proud of you, Kookie.”

He paused, his chopsticks hovering over his plate, and looked at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. “You have no idea how much that means to me,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Coming home to you, hearing you say that… it’s everything.”

Your cheeks burned, and you looked down at your plate, overwhelmed by the weight of his gaze. He reached for your hand, squeezing it gently, and you felt a rush of warmth at the contact.

When dinner was over, you cleared the table together, Jungkook insisting on helping despite your protests. “You cooked, I clean,” he said firmly, his hands brushing against yours as he took the plates to the sink. You stood side by side, washing and drying in comfortable silence, the domesticity of the moment grounding you both.

Later, as you sat on the couch together, Jungkook’s arm draped over your shoulders, you felt the tension in his body return. His fingers tapped restlessly against your arm, and his jaw was tight again, his earlier ease replaced by a quiet restlessness. You glanced up at him, your heart aching at the sight of him still struggling.

“Kookie,” you said softly, shifting to face him. “You’re still tense. Is there anything I can do?”

He looked at you, his eyes darkening with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “Just keep being you,” he said, his voice low and rough. “That’s more than enough.”

You nodded, your heart pounding as you leaned up to kiss him, a gentle, reassuring kiss that deepened as he pulled you closer. His hands roamed your body, sliding under the hem of his t-shirt to caress your bare skin, and you felt a spark of heat at the contact.

“Let’s go to bed,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with need.

You nodded, letting him lead you to the bedroom, your hand small and warm in his. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows across the walls. You climbed onto the bed, still wearing his t-shirt, the fabric riding up to reveal the absence of underwear beneath. Jungkook’s eyes darkened as he noticed, his gaze lingering on your bare thighs and the curve of your hips.

He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for another cigarette and lighting it with a flick of his lighter. He took a slow drag, his eyes never leaving you, and you felt a flush of heat under his intense scrutiny. The scent of tobacco filled the air, mingling with the faint strawberry sweetness of your lip balm, and you watched as he exhaled, the smoke curling upward in lazy tendrils.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, his voice low and rough, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “Sitting there in my shirt, looking like that.”

You blushed, tugging at the hem of the t-shirt self-consciously, but his words sent a thrill through you. He stubbed out the cigarette and reached for you, pulling you into his lap with a possessive grip. You straddled him, your legs wrapping around his waist, and he kissed you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours. The taste of tobacco and strawberry mingled, intoxicating and familiar, and you moaned softly into his mouth.

His hands slid under the t-shirt, palming your bare ass before moving to your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped, the sensation sharp and electric, and he groaned, his obsession with your body evident in the way he touched you. “These fucking tits,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. “So perfect, baby.”

He rolled your nipples between his fingers, pinching lightly until you cried out, a mix of pleasure and pain that made your core throb. You arched into him, your shyness melting under the heat of his touch, and he left a trail of hickies across your neck and cleavage, marking you as his.

You pushed his hands away, your cheeks flushed, and slid off his lap to kneel between his legs. His eyes darkened as you reached for his sweatpants, tugging them down to free his hard, throbbing cock. It was big, thick, and intimidating, but you took it in your hand, stroking slowly before leaning down to lick the tip.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his head falling back as you took him into your mouth, your lips stretching around him. You sucked him deep, your throat constricting as you fought to take more, and he tangled his fingers in your hair, guiding your movements.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice rough. “Suck your husband’s cock just like that. You’re so fucking good at this.”

You moaned around him, the vibrations making him curse, and he fucked your mouth with shallow thrusts, his grip on your hair tightening. Your eyes watered, but you didn’t stop, loving the way he unraveled under your touch, his stress melting away as you pleased him.

He pulled you up suddenly, his breathing ragged, and flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide. He pushed the t-shirt up, exposing your dripping pussy, and groaned at the sight. “So wet for me,” he muttered, sliding into you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you completely, his cock stretching you in the best way. He fucked you hard, his thrusts deep and relentless, his frustration pouring into every movement. “Take it, baby,” he growled, his voice thick with need. “Be a good wife and take your husband’s cock.”

You moaned, your body trembling as he pounded into you, your breasts bouncing with every thrust. He kissed you deeply, one hand wrapping your thigh around his waist, pulling you closer as he drove deeper. You scratched at his back, your nails leaving red marks, and he groaned, loving the sting.

You came with a cry, your body clenching around him, but he didn’t stop, chasing his own release. “Good girl,” he grunted, his thrusts growing erratic. “Take it all, baby.”

He came deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you, and he didn’t pull out, collapsing onto you with a heavy sigh. You lay there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, and he kissed your forehead, his lips soft and tender.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “So fucking much.”

You blushed, your shyness returning, but you whispered back, “I love you too, Kookie.”

He stayed inside you, cuddling you close, and you felt safe in his arms, the afterglow wrapping you both in warmth. When he finally pulled out, you whined at the emptiness, your body sensitive, and he chuckled, kissing your nose. “My needy baby,” he teased.

You curled up on his chest, your bare breasts pressed against his skin, and kissed the tattoo of your name over his heart, a delicate script he’d gotten on your first anniversary. He watched you, his eyes soft, and thought about how lucky he was to have you—his shy, sweet wife who loved him so fiercely.

As you drifted to sleep, your lips parted and cheeks flushed, Jungkook brushed a strand of hair from your face, his heart swelling. You were his everything, his haven, and in that quiet moment, with you naked and safe in his arms, he knew he’d never need anything more.

[sabrinacocksucker]

۶ৎ SUGAR AND SPICE —

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, stepping closer, cupping your face, his thumb parting your lips. “So shy, so sweet, and all mine.”

pairing: sugar daddy dom!taehyung x sub!femreader

genre: ceo!taehyung, college student!reader, age gap (19 years), slowburn, luxury lifestyle, sugar daddy x sugar baby, strangers to lovers, seoul setting, romance, erotica, smut, fluff, angst

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, power dynamics, emotional vulnerability, reassurance, insecurities, mentions of financial struggles, emotional bonding, tenderness, light mentions of argument, D/s dynamics, use of "sir", possessiveness, obsessive!taehyung, lingerie kink, multiple sex scenes, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f. receiving), cunnilingus, fingering, vaginal sex, missionary position, rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation (use of terms like "slut," "whore"), orgasm control, creampie, unprotected sex, clit stimulation, breast play, nipple play, nipple sucking, unprotected sex, doggy style, eating out, face riding, face sitting, tongue fucking, clit sucking, pussy worship, making out, hickies/markings, body worship, mentions of visiting a sex toy shop, mentions of dildo, blindfolds and vibrators, vibrator use (f. receiving), crying (in pleasure), vibrator used to stimulate nipples, vaginal penetration with vibrator, multiple stimulations, mild somnophilia, morning sex, missionary position, light choking, restraint play (implied with silk ties), consensual power imbalance, hair pulling, cum swallowing, oral sex (m. receiving), cock sucking, face fucking, several aftercare scenes, softest aftercare

wc: 10.1k

masterlist

۶ৎ

In Seoul’s pulsating heart, where skyscrapers gleamed like blades against the sky and the Han River shimmered under a neon glow, Kim Taehyung reigned as a titan. At 40, he was the CEO of Vante Enterprises, a conglomerate that dominated luxury real estate and high-end fashion. His life was a masterpiece of ambition, each decision a calculated step toward greater power. Standing at 6’1”, Taehyung’s presence was commanding—broad shoulders filling out bespoke suits, a lean frame sculpted by discipline, and hands that could seal a multimillion-dollar deal or silence a room with a gesture. His jet-black hair, lightly threaded with silver, framed a face both strikingly handsome and intimidatingly stern, with sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass. His deep brown eyes, often cold and piercing, held a storm of intensity, capable of unraveling secrets or freezing someone in place. His voice, a low, gravelly timbre, carried an authority that demanded obedience, whether he was negotiating with tycoons or dismissing an inept assistant.

Taehyung’s world was one of opulence, but it was a solitary empire. His penthouse, perched atop one of his own skyscrapers, was a study in modern elegance—polished marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Seoul’s glittering skyline, and minimalist furniture in stark blacks and ivories. The air was cool, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the city or the clink of ice in his whiskey glass. He had no family; his parents had passed a decade ago, and he was an only child. His relationships were fleeting, often transactional—women drawn to his wealth and charisma but deterred by his gruff demeanor and unrelenting standards. Taehyung was grumpy, his patience razor-thin, and his temper could flare at the smallest misstep. Employees tiptoed around him, rivals respected him, and the world saw him as untouchable. Yet, beneath the iron facade, there was a man who craved something real, a softness to balance the hardness of his existence, though he buried that longing deep.

Across the city, in a cramped dorm at Seoul National University, lived you—Y/N, a 21-year-old literature major with dreams as vast as the ocean but a life tethered by scarcity. Your dorm was a cozy chaos of secondhand books stacked precariously on shelves, fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, and a worn-out laptop that groaned under the weight of your essays. Petite at 5’2”, you had a heart-shaped face that radiated innocence, with wide doe eyes framed by long lashes and soft, wavy hair often tied back with a pastel ribbon. Your wardrobe was a patchwork of thrifted sweaters, flowy skirts, and scuffed sneakers, a reflection of your tight budget. You were painfully shy, your cheeks flushing at the slightest attention, your voice soft and hesitant when speaking to strangers. But your heart was warm, your kindness drawing people in, even if you were too timid to notice.

Your life was a delicate balancing act. Raised in a small coastal town by a single mother who worked two jobs, you’d grown up knowing sacrifice. Scholarships and part-time jobs funded your education, but money was a constant worry. You worked as a barista at Bean & Blossom, a quaint café near campus, where you spent evenings steaming milk, serving pastries, and scribbling story ideas in a tattered notebook. Submissive by nature—not weak, but deferential—you avoided conflict and sought approval, finding comfort in structure. You dreamed of writing novels that would touch hearts, but you also longed for stability, for someone to ease your burdens. Romance was a distant fantasy; your inexperience and shyness made intimacy both thrilling and terrifying. You’d never had a boyfriend, and the thought of someone wanting you felt like a story from one of your books.

It was a crisp autumn evening, the air thick with the scent of falling leaves and the promise of winter. Bean & Blossom was quiet, its warm lights casting a golden glow over the wooden tables. You were behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, your pale blue apron slightly askew, a smudge of flour on your cheek from baking muffins. Your shift was nearing its end, your feet aching, your mind drifting to a looming essay. The bell above the door chimed, a sharp sound that snapped you out of your thoughts. You looked up, and your breath caught as Kim Taehyung walked in.

He was a vision of power, his presence filling the small café like a storm. His tailored black overcoat brushed against his calves, the fabric catching the light as he strode toward the counter. His expression was stern, his jaw tight, as if the world had already tested his patience. He’d been at a grueling meeting with investors, his mood soured by their demands, and needed a black coffee to keep him sharp. You froze, your hands trembling as you met his gaze. His eyes were intense, twin pools of dark amber that seemed to see through you, and you felt small, exposed. Your heart raced, your pulse a frantic drumbeat.

“G-Good evening, sir,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper. Your cheeks flushed pink, and you ducked your head, fidgeting with your apron as if it could shield you from his intensity. “What can I get started for you?”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his stoic face. Your nervousness was refreshing, a stark contrast to the calculated flattery he was used to. “Black coffee, no sugar,” he said, his voice deep and clipped. “Make it quick.”

“Y-Yes, sir,” you replied, your voice trembling as you turned to the coffee machine. Your hands fumbled with the portafilter, nearly dropping it, and you cursed yourself for being so clumsy. The machine hissed as you tamped the grounds, your movements jerky under his gaze. Taehyung watched, his expression unreadable, his eyes lingering on your trembling hands, the flush creeping up your neck, and the way your lips parted as you focused.

As you prepared his coffee, you stole glances at him, your curiosity warring with your nerves. He was older, undeniably handsome, with an aura of power that made your stomach flutter. When you handed him the coffee, your fingers brushed his, the brief contact sending a jolt through you. You gasped, pulling back, your cheeks crimson.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone softer. He noticed the flour on your cheek and, without thinking, reached out to wipe it away with his thumb. His touch was warm, firm, and you froze, your eyes wide. He paused, realizing what he’d done, and withdrew his hand. “You had something on your face,” he muttered, clearing his throat.

“T-Thank you, sir,” you whispered, mortified, your body tingling from his touch. He nodded, paid with a crisp bill, and left, the bell chiming as the door closed. You stared after him, your heart pounding, your mind replaying the feel of his thumb.

Taehyung, in his chauffeured car, couldn’t shake your image—your wide eyes, trembling hands, soft flush. You were a breath of fresh air in his sterile world, and he wanted to see you again.

Taehyung became a regular at Bean & Blossom, arriving late, just before closing, when the café was nearly empty, and ordered the same black coffee. Each visit, he watched you with an intensity that made your knees weak, his eyes tracking your every move as you worked. You grew accustomed to his presence, though you remained a nervous wreck around him. Your shyness manifested in small ways—stuttering when you took his order, avoiding his gaze, calling him “sir” in a voice so soft it barely carried. The honorific amused him, his lips twitching with a rare, fleeting smile that made your heart skip.

One night, as you were closing up, he lingered longer than usual. The café was empty, the lights dimmed to a warm amber, and you were sweeping the floor, the soft swish of the broom the only sound. Taehyung sat at a corner table, his coffee untouched, his eyes fixed on you. “You’re always so nervous around me,” he said suddenly, his voice low and teasing, cutting through the silence like a blade. “Do I scare you?”

You froze, clutching the broom so tightly your knuckles whitened. Your heart raced, and you felt heat flood your face. “N-No, sir,” you lied, your voice trembling. “I-I just… you’re very… um, intimidating.”

He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent shivers down your spine and made your core pulse with an unfamiliar heat. “Intimidating, huh? Most people say that.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze pinning you in place. “But you… you’re different. What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you said softly, barely meeting his eyes before looking down at the floor, your cheeks burning.

“Y/N,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a caress. He stood, his movements fluid, and approached the counter, leaving a generous tip—far more than the coffee warranted. “See you tomorrow, Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying a promise that made your pulse quicken. The door chimed, and he was gone, leaving you clutching the broom, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.

That night, you lay in your dorm, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of your interactions with him. His voice, his eyes, the way he said your name—it all felt significant, like a thread pulling you toward something unknown. You were intimidated, yes, but also curious, drawn to the enigma that was Kim Taehyung.

He returned the next evening, and the one after that, each visit stretching longer. He started engaging you in small talk, asking about your studies, your favorite books, your dreams. His questions were simple, but his attention was anything but. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving your face, and you found yourself opening up, your shyness easing slightly with each conversation. You told him about your love for literature, your dream of writing novels, the stories you scribbled in your notebook. He, in turn, shared glimpses of his world—tales of high-stakes deals, travels to Paris and Tokyo, the pressure of running an empire. He never spoke of his loneliness, but you sensed it in the way his voice softened when he talked to you, in the way his eyes lingered on you as if you were a rare treasure.

One evening, as you were locking up, he made an offer that changed everything. The café was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. You were slipping on your coat, your scarf tangled in your nervous hands, when he spoke. “Y/N,” he said, his tone serious, almost reverent. “I’d like to take care of you.”

You blinked, confused, your scarf slipping to the floor. “T-Take care of me, sir?” Your voice was small, your heart pounding as you tried to process his words.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, and you caught the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and musk, rich and intoxicating. “You’re struggling, I can tell,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “School, work, money—it’s too much for someone like you. Let me help. I’ll pay for your tuition, your rent, anything you need. In return, you spend time with me. Be mine.”

Your heart stopped, your breath catching in your throat. You’d heard of arrangements like this—sugar daddies, sugar babies—but you never imagined it happening to you. The idea was both terrifying and thrilling, a lifeline wrapped in danger. “I-I don’t know, sir,” you stammered, your mind racing. “I’ve never… I mean, I’m not sure if I’m… good enough for that.”

He reached out, his hand gentle as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. His touch was firm but not forceful, his thumb brushing lightly over your jaw. “You’re more than enough,” he said, his voice soft but resolute, a vow etched in every syllable. “I don’t want to pressure you, Y/N. Think about it. But know this—I see you. And I want you.”

You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, your eyes wide and glassy. He released you, stepping back, and gave you a small, almost tender smile. “Good night, Y/N,” he said, and then he was gone, the door chiming behind him.

That night, you tossed and turned, your mind a battlefield of fear and temptation. Taehyung was intimidating, a man who could command a room with a glance, but he was also kind to you, softer than you’d expected. The idea of being cared for, of not worrying about rent or tuition, was intoxicating. And deep down, you were drawn to him—his strength, his dominance, the way he made you feel safe despite your nerves. You imagined his hands on you, his voice praising you, and your body responded, your pussy growing wet, your clit throbbing with a need you didn’t fully understand.

The next evening, you gave him your answer. The café was quiet, the counter between you a fragile barrier. He stood there, his coat draped over his arm, his eyes locked on you as you spoke. “Okay, sir,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute. “I’ll… I’ll be yours.”

His smile was triumphant, possessive, a predator claiming his prize. “Good girl,” he murmured, the words sending a thrill through you, your core pulsing with heat. He stepped closer, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips. “You won’t regret this, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”

That was the start of your relationship, a dynamic built on his dominance and your submission, his gruff exterior melting only for you. It was a dance of power and trust, and you were ready to step into his world.

Taehyung was true to his word, transforming your life with a speed that left you dizzy. Within days, your tuition was paid in full, your cramped dorm replaced with a sleek one-bedroom apartment near campus. The apartment was a dream—hardwood floors, a plush sofa, a kitchen with gleaming appliances, and a bedroom with a bed so soft it felt like sinking into a cloud. He filled your wardrobe with designer clothes—silky dresses, cashmere sweaters, delicate lingerie that made you blush when you tried it on. He gave you a black credit card with no limit, slipping it into your hand with a low, “Spoil yourself, baby. You’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine.”

He was lavish, almost excessive. He bought you first editions of your favorite books, their leather bindings smelling of history. He gifted you a rose-gold necklace with a tiny diamond pendant, clasping it around your neck himself, his fingers lingering on your skin. When he noticed your laptop lagging, he replaced it with a top-of-the-line model, complete with writing software you’d only dreamed of. He took you to restaurants where the menus had no prices, ordering for you with a confidence that made your heart flutter. He loved controlling the details—picking your outfits, planning your dates, guiding you with a firm hand that was both possessive and protective. But he was never cruel; his dominance was laced with care, his grumpiness softening when he saw your shy smile.

You, in turn, became his sanctuary. Around you, Taehyung’s stern demeanor melted, his sharp edges dulled by your presence. He’d pull you into his lap after a long day, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in your hair, inhaling your scent—vanilla and jasmine, a fragrance he’d bought you. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he’d murmur, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. You’d nod, your heart swelling at his praise, your body tingling at his touch. Your shyness never fully faded, but you grew comfortable with him, learning to trust his commands and revel in his attention.

Taehyung took you to a rooftop restaurant, a haven for Seoul’s elite. The table was set with candles and white roses, the skyline glittering below. You wore a red silk dress he’d chosen, the fabric clinging to your curves, the neckline revealing the tops of your breasts. His eyes darkened as he saw you, pulling out your chair, his hand brushing your lower back, sending shivers through you.

“You look stunning, baby,” he said, his voice husky, taking your hand. His thumb brushed your knuckles, and your nipples hardened, pressing against the dress. “T-Thank you, sir,” you murmured, blushing, your core throbbing.

He chuckled, leaning back. “Still so shy, huh?” His eyes flicked to your chest, smirking. “I like that. Makes me want to ruin you.”

You gasped, your thighs pressing together, wetness soaking your panties. “Taehyung,” you whispered, forgetting the honorific.

His grip tightened. “What was that, baby? You know what to call me.”

“S-Sir,” you corrected, trembling. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He smirked, sipping his wine. “Good girl. Eat. You’ll need your energy.”

The promise hung heavy. You picked at your scallops and risotto, anticipation coiling in your gut. Taehyung watched, his gaze predatory yet tender, sensing your arousal. After dessert—a rich chocolate torte—he led you to a private alcove overlooking the city. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his hands on your hips, his breath warm against your ear.

“Look at that,” he murmured, his chest against your back. “All those lights, and you’re the only one I see.”

“Sir,” you whispered, leaning into him. “You make me feel so special.”

He turned you, cupping your cheek. “You are special, Y/N. You’re mine.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue claiming you. You melted, your hands clutching his shirt, your pussy throbbing as his hardness pressed against you. “Let’s go home, baby,” he growled. “I’m not done with you.”

One Saturday, Taehyung took you shopping, a whirlwind of indulgence that left you dizzy. You started at a boutique on Gangnam’s fashion row, where he sat convencen a plush armchair, watching as you tried on dresses. Each one—a flowy chiffon, a fitted velvet, a daring satin—drew a nod or a smirk from him. “That one,” he’d say, pointing to a emerald-green gown that hugged your curves. “It’s perfect for you.” You blushed, twirling for him, your heart fluttering at his approval.

He bought everything you tried on, the saleswoman’s eyes widening at the total. “Sir, I don’t need all this,” you whispered, clutching his arm as you left, bags in tow.

He stopped, tilting your chin up. “You deserve it, baby,” he said, his voice firm. “I want you to feel beautiful. Besides, I like seeing you in things I choose.” His thumb brushed your lips, and you shivered, your nipples hardening under your sweater.

The day took an unexpected turn when he led you to a discreet shop tucked away in a quiet alley. The sign read “Velvet Desires,” and your heart raced as you realized it was a high-end sex toy boutique. Your cheeks burned, your shyness flaring, but Taehyung’s hand on your lower back was steady, guiding you inside.

The shop was elegant, with dim lighting, black velvet walls, and glass cases displaying toys—vibrators, dildos, silk restraints. You froze, overwhelmed, but Taehyung’s voice was calm. “Relax, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “I want to pick something for us. Something to make you feel good.”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat. He led you to a case of vibrators, his eyes scanning the options. “What about this?” he asked, pointing to a sleek, rose-gold wand with multiple settings. “It’s versatile. I can use it on your clit, inside you… wherever you want.”

You blushed, your pussy throbbing at the thought. “I-I trust you, sir,” you whispered, barely audible.

He smirked, signaling the clerk to wrap it up. He also picked out a set of silk restraints, their deep burgundy color catching the light. “For when you’re feeling extra obedient,” he teased, making you squirm. The clerk rang up the purchase discreetly, and Taehyung paid with a card, his hand never leaving yours.

In the car, he pulled you close, his hand on your thigh. “Excited to try our new toys, baby?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

“Y-Yes, sir,” you admitted, your cheeks burning, your panties soaked.

“Good,” he said, kissing your temple. “Tonight, you’re all mine.”

Back at his penthouse, Taehyung’s demeanor shifted to commanding. The bedroom was vast, the king-sized bed draped in black silk, city lights casting a glow through the windows. He closed the door, his eyes dark with desire. “Strip,” he ordered, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his toned chest, his trousers hugging his thighs, his cock already straining.

You hesitated, shyness flaring. “S-Sir, I…” you started, clutching your dress.

His eyebrow arched. “Don’t make me ask twice, baby,” he said, his tone dangerous, sending a shiver through you.

You reached for the zipper, trembling as the silk pooled at your feet, leaving you in lacy black lingerie—a bra barely containing your breasts, lace teasing your hardened nipples, and soaked panties. Your skin prickled, your clit throbbing as he stared.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, stepping closer, cupping your face, his thumb parting your lips. “So shy, so sweet, and all mine.”

You whimpered, arching into him, your pussy dripping. He kissed you, slow and possessive, his tongue claiming you as his hands roamed. He unhooked your bra, groaning at your pink, puckered nipples. “Lie down,” he commanded, and you crawled onto the bed, the silk cool against your skin, your legs pressed together.

He parted your thighs, his hands firm. “Look at you,” he murmured, tracing your soaked panties. “Your pussy’s begging for my cock.” He slid them off, groaning at your glistening folds, your clit swollen. “So fucking wet,” he said, brushing a finger over your clit, making you moan.

Taehyung started slow, his fingers circling your clit, watching your reactions. “Such a pretty pussy,” he praised, slipping a finger inside, curling it to hit your g-spot. Your walls clenched, and he added another, stretching you gently. “So tight, so needy. All for me, right?”

“Y-Yes, sir,” you gasped, clutching the sheets as he pumped his fingers, his thumb brushing your clit. Your nipples ached, your pussy dripping as he worked you.

He leaned down, his tongue flicking your clit, and you cried out, your back arching. His mouth was relentless, sucking your clit, his fingers fucking you steadily. The wet sounds filled the room, mingling with your moans, and your orgasm built, intense and overwhelming. He added a third finger, the stretch burning deliciously, and sucked harder.

“Cum for me, baby,” he growled, his voice vibrating. “Let me feel you.”

You shattered, screaming his name, your pussy gushing as waves of pleasure crashed through you. He licked you through it, his fingers slowing, drawing out every aftershock until you were trembling, your clit throbbing.

He rose, shedding his clothes, revealing his toned chest, faint scars, and thick, veined cock, leaking precum. He positioned himself between your legs, his cock nudging your entrance. “Ready, baby?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Please, sir,” you whispered, trembling.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, the stretch intense but delicious. You whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders as he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he said, his voice strained. “So perfect.”

His thrusts were deep, controlled, hitting spots that made you see stars. Your pussy was soaked, the wet sounds obscene. You moaned, your legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper. His restraint slipped, his thrusts growing rougher, the bed creaking. “Take it, baby,” he snarled. “Take my cock like a good girl.”

You screamed, your nails raking his back as he pounded you, your breasts bouncing, nipples grazing his chest. Your second orgasm built, and he rubbed your clit, his fingers relentless. “Cum for me,” he growled, and you did, your pussy clenching, gushing as you screamed. He followed, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth.

Taehyung collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest heaving. “You were perfect, baby,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, his voice soft. He reached for a warm cloth, cleaning you gently, his hands tender as he wiped your thighs, careful around your sensitive folds. He checked for any discomfort, his fingers brushing your skin with care. “Feel okay?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, smiling shyly. “Just… wow.”

He chuckled, wrapping you in a blanket, pulling you against his chest. He stroked your hair, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back. “My good girl,” he murmured, kissing your temple. He offered you water, holding the glass as you sipped, his arm steady around you. He whispered praises, telling you how beautiful you were, how much you meant to him, until you drifted off, safe in his embrace.

One morning, you woke to Taehung’s lips on your inner thigh, his breath warm. The room glowed with dawn’s light, the city waking beyond the windows. His hair was tousled, his eyes dark with desire, his muscles flexing as he held your thighs apart. “Good morning, baby,” he murmured, his tongue teasing your clit, sending a jolt through you.

“Sir,” you moaned, your hands tugging his hair as he sucked your clit, his lips closing around it. He slipped two fingers inside, curling them to hit your g-spot, and you gasped, your pussy throbbing.

He ate you out lazily, savoring your moans, his tongue circling your clit. “You taste so fucking good,” he growled, licking a long stripe up your slit. His fingers pumped, the wet sounds mingling with your gasps, and your orgasm coiled tight. He sucked harder, and you came, screaming, your pussy clenching around his fingers. He licked you through it, drawing out every aftershock.

He flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up. “Ass up, baby,” he ordered, his voice rough. You obeyed, your cheek against the pillow, your pussy dripping. He entered you from behind, his cock sliding in deep, filling you. “Fuck, I love this,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts slow but powerful.

He leaned over, his lips brushing your ear. “This pussy was made for my cock,” he murmured, his words sending shivers through you. His thrusts grew harder, faster, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. “Cum again,” he ordered, and you did, your pussy gushing, screaming into the pillow. He followed, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing.

Taehyung pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you as he kissed your shoulder. “You’re amazing, baby,” he murmured, his voice soft. He cleaned you with a warm cloth, his hands gentle, checking your skin for marks. He massaged your hips, easing any tension, and offered you juice, holding the glass as you drank. He tucked you against him, stroking your hair, whispering, “You make me so happy, Y/N.” He stayed until you fell asleep, his warmth a cocoon around you.

One rainy afternoon, you were curled up on the penthouse sofa, a book in your lap, the city blurred by rain. Taehyung came home early, his suit damp, his hair tousled. He smiled—a rare, genuine smile—and joined you, pulling you into his lap. “Hey, baby,” he said, his chin on your shoulder. “What’re you reading?”

You showed him the romance novel, and he chuckled, kissing your cheek. “My little dreamer,” he murmured. “Always lost in stories.”

“They’re better than reality sometimes,” you said shyly, blushing.

He tilted your chin up. “Not anymore. Your reality’s with me, and I’ll make it better than any book.” You smiled, kissing him softly, your hands in his hair. It was a quiet moment, but it spoke volumes—his love, your trust, the bond growing stronger.

That evening, Taehyung decided to use the toys from Velvet Desires. The bedroom was dimly lit, the silk sheets cool as he sat on the edge of the bed, the rose-gold vibrator in hand. “Strip for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice low, his eyes dark with anticipation.

You blushed, your hands trembling as you shed your dress, revealing a sheer pink lingerie set, your nipples visible, your panties damp. “Fuck, you’re a vision,” he growled, patting his thigh. “Come here.”

You straddled his lap, your pussy throbbing as he kissed you, his tongue possessive. He turned on the vibrator, the low hum filling the room, and pressed it to your nipple through the lace, making you gasp. “Feel good, baby?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Y-Yes, sir,” you moaned, your hips bucking as he moved the toy to your other nipple, the vibrations sending sparks through you. He slid your panties down, exposing your dripping folds, and pressed the vibrator to your clit, the sensation intense. You cried out, clutching his shoulders, your pussy clenching.

“Look at you, soaking for me,” he murmured, circling the toy around your clit, teasing your entrance. He slipped it inside, the vibrations pulsing through your walls, and you moaned, your hips rocking. He fucked you with the toy, his other hand pinching your nipples, his lips sucking your neck.

“Sir, please,” you begged, your orgasm building. He turned up the intensity, the toy buzzing harder, and rubbed your clit with his thumb. “Cum for me, baby,” he growled, and you did, screaming, your pussy gushing around the toy, your body shaking.

He wasn’t done. He shed his clothes, his cock hard and leaking, and entered you, the toy still buzzing against your clit. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his thrusts deep, the vibrations amplifying every sensation. He fucked you hard, the bed shaking, his hand gripping your throat lightly, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re mine,” he snarled, and you came again, your pussy clenching, triggering his release, his cock pulsing inside you.

Taehyung was meticulous, pulling you into his arms, kissing your forehead. “You were incredible, baby,” he murmured, cleaning you with a warm cloth, his hands gentle, checking for sensitivity. He massaged your thighs, easing any strain, and offered you tea, holding the cup as you sipped. He wrapped you in a plush robe, pulling you against his chest, stroking your hair. “I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, the rare admission making your heart swell. He stayed, humming softly, until you drifted off, his warmth a shield.

The love between you and Kim Taehyung was a living, breathing entity—a fierce, all-consuming force that wove itself into every facet of your existence. Taehyung was a man of iron, his gruff exterior and commanding presence a fortress that only you could breach. His deep brown eyes, often cold to the world, softened when they met yours, revealing a vulnerability he guarded fiercely. You were his counterpoint—a shy, gentle soul with a heart that radiated warmth, your doe eyes and soft, wavy hair a vision of innocence that disarmed him. Your relationship, rooted in a dynamic of dominance and submission, transcended its transactional origins, blossoming into a profound connection built on trust, vulnerability, and an unspoken vow to belong to each other eternally.

Taehyung’s love was not confined to the lavish gifts that reshaped your life, though they were a testament to his devotion. The diamonds that glittered on your neck—a choker with a teardrop pendant that caught the light like a captured star—the designer dresses that clung to your curves like a lover’s embrace, the first-class trips to Paris, Santorini, and Kyoto—these were symbols of his desire to see you shine, to elevate you to the pedestal he believed you deserved. He took pride in adorning you, his fingers lingering as he fastened a sapphire bracelet around your wrist, the cool metal a contrast to the warmth of his touch. “You’re my princess,” he’d murmur, his voice a low growl, his lips brushing the pulse point at your throat, feeling it quicken under his attention. “I want the world to know how precious you are.” Each gift was chosen with care, a reflection of his meticulous nature—whether it was a first-edition novel by your favorite author, its leather binding smelling of history, or a pair of Louboutin heels that made your steps feel like a waltz, he saw you as a canvas for beauty, and he was the artist.

But beyond the material, Taehyung gave you something infinitely more precious—his time, his attention, his heart. After a day of boardroom battles, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight with the weight of his empire, he’d come home to you, and the moment his eyes found yours, the world’s chaos fell away. You were his soft spot, the one who could coax a rare, genuine smile from him, even when a deal collapsed or a rival tested his patience. He’d pull you into his lap, his arms a fortress, and bury his face in your hair, inhaling the vanilla-jasmine scent that had become his sanctuary. “You’re my peace, baby,” he’d whisper, his voice rough with emotion, his hands stroking your back, memorizing the curve of your spine. In those moments, the grumpy, intimidating tycoon melted, leaving only Tae, the man who loved you with a ferocity that stole your breath.

You adored him with a devotion that was both quiet and bold, your shyness a delicate thread that wove through your every interaction. Even after months together, you’d blush at his compliments, your cheeks flushing a soft pink as you ducked your head, murmuring, “Thank you, sir.” But beneath that timidity was a growing confidence, a strength nurtured by his unwavering support. You learned to tease him, to push the boundaries of your dynamic in playful ways. In public, you’d call him “sir” with a subtle smirk, a secret code that made his eyes darken with desire, his hand tightening on yours. In private, you’d whisper “Tae” against his lips, the name a sacred intimacy reserved for your most tender moments. You’d surprise him by wearing the lingerie he’d chosen—a sheer black set that left your nipples visible, your curves accentuated—and watch his composure falter, his cock hardening as he growled, “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby.”

Your relationship was a dance of contrasts—his dominance and your submission, his grumpiness and your gentleness, his world of power and your world of dreams. It wasn’t perfect, and you both bore the scars of its challenges. Taehyung’s temper could flare, especially when work piled up or a business rival pushed too far. He’d snap, his voice sharp, his words cutting, and you’d feel the sting, your insecurities whispering that you weren’t enough for a man of his stature. “I’m sorry, baby,” he’d say later, his voice soft as he pulled you close, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “You’re everything to me. Don’t ever doubt that.” You’d nod, your heart aching, and he’d kiss you, his lips gentle, his touch a vow to do better.

Your insecurities were a hurdle, the fear that you were too young, too inexperienced, too ordinary for someone like him. You’d lie awake some nights, the city lights filtering through your apartment’s windows, wondering if you were a fleeting obsession, a phase he’d outgrow. But Taehyung sensed these doubts, his intuition uncanny. One evening, after a quiet dinner at his penthouse, he caught you staring out the window, your expression distant. “What’s wrong, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low, his hand resting on your knee, his thumb tracing circles.

You hesitated, your shyness making the words heavy. “I just… sometimes I wonder if I’m enough for you, sir,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “You’re Kim Taehyung. And I’m just… me.”

His eyes darkened, not with anger but with resolve. He stood, pulling you to your feet, his hands framing your face. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice firm, each word a hammer striking your doubts. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re mine. You’re the one I come home to, the one who makes this empty fucking world make sense. Don’t you ever think you’re less than that.” He kissed you, hard and possessive, his tongue claiming you, his hands gripping your hips, anchoring you to him. “I love you, Y/N,” he said, the words raw, unguarded, a rare vulnerability that made your heart soar. “And I’ll spend my life proving it.”

That night, he made love to you with a tenderness that left you trembling, his touches soft, his words a litany of praise. “You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his lips tracing the curve of your breast, sucking gently on a nipple until you gasped. “My beautiful girl.” He took his time, worshiping every inch of you, his fingers teasing your pussy until you were dripping, your clit throbbing under his touch. When he entered you, it was slow, deliberate, his cock filling you as he whispered, “You’re everything I need,” his thrusts deep, his eyes locked on yours until you both came, your bodies entwined, your hearts beating as one.

To deepen your bond, Taehyung planned a weekend getaway to Jeju Island, a surprise he sprang on you one Friday morning. “Pack a bag, baby,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter, a mug of coffee in hand, his tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a sliver of his toned chest. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

You blinked, still in your pajamas—a soft pink set he’d bought you—your hair a messy bun. “S-Sir, where are we going?” you asked, your shyness flaring at the suddenness, your fingers twisting the hem of your top.

He smirked, stepping closer to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch sending a shiver through you. “It’s a surprise. Just trust me.”

The private jet was a revelation, its plush interior a world away from your modest life. You sat beside him, your hand in his, your heart racing as you watched the clouds through the window, the sky a canvas of blues and whites. “This is too much, sir,” you whispered, your voice trembling with awe, your fingers tracing the leather armrest.

He squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles, the calloused pad a contrast to your softness. “Nothing’s too much for you,” he said, his eyes soft, a rare warmth in them. “I want you to feel special, because you are.”

The villa in Jeju was a dream—white stucco walls, glass doors opening to a private beach, the ocean a symphony of blues and greens. Taehyung was relaxed, his grumpiness absent as he pulled you onto the sand, his laughter rich and unguarded as you squealed at the cold waves lapping your feet. “Come here, baby,” he said, tugging you into his arms, kissing you as the sun set, the sky ablaze with pinks, oranges, and purples, the colors reflecting in his eyes.

That evening, in the villa’s master suite, he was playful, teasing you with featherlight touches until you were giggling, your shyness forgotten. “You’re so cute when you laugh,” he murmured, pinning you to the bed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He kissed you deeply, his hands roaming, and you felt the shift, the playful lover giving way to the dominant one. “But I think it’s time my good girl gets what she needs,” he growled, his voice sending a thrill through you, your pussy already wet, your clit pulsing with anticipation.

The bedroom was bathed in moonlight, the sliding doors open to let in the rhythmic crash of waves, the air salty and cool. Taehyung stripped you slowly, his hands deliberate as he peeled off your sundress, revealing a white lace lingerie set he’d packed—a bra that barely contained your breasts, the lace teasing your hardened nipples, and panties that clung to your damp folds. Your skin prickled under his gaze, your nipples aching, your pussy throbbing as he stepped back to admire you. “Fuck, you’re a vision,” he growled, his voice rough, his linen trousers straining against his hardening cock, the outline thick and promising.

He laid you on the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin, and kissed you, his tongue slow and possessive, tasting of the wine you’d shared at dinner. His hands roamed, cupping your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples through the lace, the friction making you moan. He unclasped your bra, his lips closing around a nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the sensitive bud until you gasped, your hips bucking. “So sensitive,” he murmured, moving to your other nipple, his teeth grazing lightly, sending sparks of pleasure to your core.

He kissed a trail down your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. He slid your panties off, groaning at the sight of your glistening folds, your clit swollen and begging for attention. “Look at this pretty pussy,” he said, his voice dripping with praise, his breath warm against your skin. “So wet for me, so fucking needy.” He licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, his tongue flat and broad, savoring your taste—sweet and musky, a flavor he’d never tire of. He flicked your clit, the touch light but electric, and you cried out, your hands clutching the sheets, your pussy clenching with need.

He ate you out with reverence, his tongue circling your clit in lazy, deliberate patterns, then dipping to tease your entrance, lapping up your arousal. His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently, then harder, the pressure making you moan, your hips rocking against his face. He slipped two fingers inside, curling them to hit your g-spot, the stretch delicious, your walls so tight they gripped him. “You taste so fucking good,” he growled, his eyes locking on yours, his pupils blown with desire as he sucked your clit, his fingers pumping in a steady rhythm. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the room, mingling with your gasps, the ocean’s roar a distant echo.

Your orgasm was building, a tight coil in your belly, and he sensed it, adding a third finger, the stretch burning slightly but oh so good, your pussy dripping onto the sheets. “Cum for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice vibrating against your clit, his tongue relentless, flicking and sucking in a rhythm that drove you wild. You shattered, screaming his name, your pussy gushing as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your body convulsing, your clit throbbing under his tongue. He licked you through it, his fingers slowing, drawing out every aftershock until you were trembling, oversensitive, your pussy still pulsing with the echoes of your climax.

He rose, shedding his clothes, his toned chest gleaming in the moonlight, faint scars adding to his rugged appeal. His trousers fell, revealing his cock—thick, veined, and leaking precum, the tip flushed an angry red, so hard it curved slightly upward. He positioned himself between your legs, his cock nudging your entrance, the heat of him making you whimper. “Ready, baby?” he asked, his voice soft, checking in despite the hunger in his eyes.

“Please, sir,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your eyes glassy with need, your pussy aching to be filled.

He entered you slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch intense, your pussy clenching around him like a vice. You whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders, the fullness overwhelming but delicious. He groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers bruising as his control frayed. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he said, his voice strained, his forehead resting against yours, sweat beading on his brow. “So fucking perfect.”

His thrusts were deep, controlled, each one hitting your g-spot, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Your pussy was soaked, the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out obscene, filling the room with a primal rhythm. You moaned, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into his lower back. His restraint snapped, his thrusts growing rougher, his hips slamming into yours, the bed creaking, the headboard banging against the wall. “Take it, baby,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “Take my cock like the good girl you are.”

You screamed, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails, your pussy clenching as another orgasm built, faster and more intense. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your nipples grazing his chest, sending sparks through you. He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, rough circles, the pressure perfect. “Cum for me,” he growled, his voice a command, his thrusts relentless, his cock hitting every sensitive spot. You shattered, your pussy gushing around him, your scream echoing as your body shook, your clit pulsing under his fingers. He groaned, his thrusts faltering, and came, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, his release so abundant it leaked out around him.

Taehyung collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing your forehead, his voice soft as he murmured, “You were incredible, baby. So fucking perfect.” He reached for a warm cloth from the bedside table, cleaning you gently, his hands tender as he wiped your thighs, careful around your sensitive folds, checking for any discomfort. “Feel okay?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of concern in their depths.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, smiling shyly, your body still humming with pleasure. “Just… perfect.”

He chuckled, wrapping you in a plush blanket, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. He stroked your hair, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back, untangling the damp strands with care. “My good girl,” he murmured, kissing your temple, his lips lingering. He offered you water, holding the glass as you sipped, his arm steady around you, ensuring you felt secure. He whispered praises, his voice a low rumble— “You’re so beautiful, Y/N. You make me feel alive.” He massaged your shoulders, easing any tension, his touch gentle but firm, and stayed with you, the sound of waves a lullaby as you drifted off, his warmth a cocoon, his presence a promise of safety.

One night, after a grueling day, you found Taehyung in his home office, papers scattered across his desk, his brow furrowed, his tie loosened. You knocked softly, holding a mug of chamomile tea, the steam curling in the air. “Sir, I thought you might need this,” you said, your voice shy, your bare feet silent on the hardwood as you set the mug down, your oversized sweater—his sweater—slipping off one shoulder.

He looked up, his expression softening, the storm in his eyes calming. “Come here, baby,” he said, patting his lap, his voice a low invitation. You settled against him, your head on his shoulder, your legs curled up, and he sighed, his arms wrapping around you, his chin resting on your hair. “You always know how to make my day better,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, his lips warm against your skin.

You hesitated, your fingers twisting the hem of his sweater, your shyness making the words tremble. “Tae, I… I’m scared sometimes,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “That you’ll get tired of me. That I’m not enough for someone like you.”

He stiffened, his hand pausing on your back, then turned you to face him, his hands cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing your skin. “Y/N, listen to me,” he said, his voice fierce, each word a vow. “You’re not just enough—you’re everything. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. You’re my home, my reason to keep going.” His eyes were raw, vulnerable, a window to the man beneath the tycoon, and you felt tears prick your own. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You kissed him, soft and desperate, your hands clutching his shirt, the fabric crumpling under your fingers. “I love you too, Tae,” you whispered, the words a sacred promise. He held you close, his lips brushing your forehead, his arms a shield, and you knew your love was unshakable, a beacon in the chaos of your worlds.

Inspired by the passion of Jeju, Taehyung decided to revisit the rose-gold vibrator one evening in the penthouse, a night charged with anticipation. The bedroom was dimly lit, the city lights casting a soft glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the black silk sheets shimmering under the amber light. Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed, the vibrator in hand, its sleek surface catching the light, his eyes dark with hunger, his tailored shirt unbuttoned to reveal his toned chest, his trousers hugging his thighs, his cock already half-hard.

“Strip for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice a low growl, rich with command, sending a shiver through you. You blushed, your hands trembling as you shed your silk robe, revealing a sheer red lingerie set—a bra that left your nipples visible, the lace teasing their hardened peaks, and panties that clung to your damp folds, the fabric dark with your arousal. Your skin prickled, your pussy throbbing, your clit pulsing as he stared, his gaze predatory, his cock now fully hard, straining against his trousers.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he growled, beckoning you to the bed, his hand patting the mattress beside him. You knelt before him, your thighs pressed together, your pussy dripping as he kissed you, his tongue possessive, claiming your mouth with a hunger that made you moan. He turned on the vibrator, the low hum filling the room, a promise of pleasure that made your core clench. He pressed it to your nipple through the lace, the vibrations sharp and intense, making you gasp, your back arching, your pussy leaking onto the sheets. “Feel good, baby?” he asked, his voice husky, his lips curving into a smirk as he moved to your other nipple, the vibrations sending sparks through you, your nipples aching, your clit throbbing with need.

He slid your panties down, tossing them aside, and groaned at the sight of your glistening folds, your clit swollen, your arousal dripping down your thighs. “So fucking wet for me,” he murmured, his voice dripping with praise, his fingers spreading your folds, exposing you fully. He pressed the vibrator to your clit, the sensation overwhelming, a jolt of pleasure that made you cry out, your hands clutching his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He circled the toy around your clit, teasing your entrance, the vibrations pulsing through you, your pussy clenching with need.

“You look so pretty like this,” he growled, slipping the vibrator inside, the sleek toy sliding easily into your soaked pussy, the vibrations pulsing through your walls, making you moan, your hips rocking against it. He fucked you with the toy, slow and deliberate, his other hand pinching your nipples, twisting them just enough to make you whimper, his lips sucking your neck, leaving faint marks that claimed you as his. “Taking it so well, my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, watching every moan, every shudder, drinking in your pleasure.

“Sir, please,” you begged, your voice thick with desperation, your orgasm building, a tight coil ready to snap. He turned up the intensity, the toy buzzing harder, the vibrations overwhelming, and rubbed your clit with his thumb, his touch rough and precise, the dual stimulation driving you wild. “Cum for me, baby,” he ordered, his voice a command, his lips brushing your ear. You shattered, screaming his name, your pussy gushing around the toy, your body shaking, your clit pulsing under his thumb, your orgasm so intense it left you breathless, your vision spotting.

He wasn’t done. He shed his clothes, his cock thick and hard, leaking precum, the veins prominent, the tip flushed. He entered you, the toy still buzzing against your clit, the sensation amplifying every thrust, his cock filling you completely, the stretch delicious. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers bruising as he fucked you, his thrusts deep and hard, the bed shaking, the headboard banging. He gripped your throat lightly, his touch possessive but careful, his eyes intense, locked on yours. “You’re mine,” he snarled, his voice rough, his cock hitting your g-spot with every stroke, the toy’s vibrations pushing you to the edge again.

You came, your pussy clenching, gushing around him, your scream hoarse, your body trembling uncontrollably. He groaned, his thrusts erratic, and came, his cock pulsing, filling you with his release, the warmth spreading inside you, leaking out around him. He turned off the toy, tossing it aside, and collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his arms pulling you close.

Taehyung was meticulous, his touch tender as he kissed your forehead, his voice soft. “You were perfect, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing your sweat-dampened skin. He reached for a warm cloth, cleaning you gently, his hands careful as he wiped your thighs, your sensitive folds, checking for any discomfort, his fingers soothing. “Feel okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of concern mingling with adoration.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, your voice soft, your body still humming. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, wrapping you in a plush robe, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. He stroked your hair, his fingers untangling the damp strands, tracing soothing patterns on your back. “My beautiful girl,” he murmured, kissing your temple, his lips lingering, his breath warm. He offered you tea, holding the cup as you sipped, his arm steady, ensuring you felt secure. He massaged your shoulders, his thumbs kneading out any tension, his touch gentle but firm, and whispered praises— “You’re everything to me, Y/N. My heart, my home.” He hummed a soft melody, his voice a lullaby, staying until you drifted off, his warmth a shield, his presence a vow of forever.

One crisp autumn night, Taehyung took you to the rooftop of his penthouse, a private oasis he’d transformed with fairy lights and a blanket strewn with pillows. The city sparkled below, the stars faint but visible, the air cool against your skin. You wore a cashmere sweater and a flowy skirt, your hair loose, catching the breeze. He pulled you onto the blanket, his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Look at that,” he murmured, his voice low, his breath warm against your ear. “All those lights, all those lives, and you’re the only one that matters to me.”

You turned, your eyes meeting his, your heart swelling. “Tae,” you whispered, your shyness fading in the intimacy of the moment. “How do you always know what to say?”

He smiled, a rare, boyish grin that made him look younger, softer. “Because it’s you,” he said, his hand cupping your cheek. “You make me want to be better, to be the man you deserve.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer.

You talked for hours, sharing dreams—your novels, his legacy, a future together. “I want to build something with you,” he said, his voice earnest. “A life, a home, maybe even a family someday. If you want that.”

Your breath caught, tears prickling your eyes. “I do, Tae,” you said, your voice trembling. “I want everything with you.”

He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, revealing a delicate ring—not an engagement ring, but a promise ring, a simple band with a tiny diamond. “This is my vow,” he said, slipping it onto your finger. “To love you, to protect you, to be yours, always.”

You kissed him, your heart full, the ring a tangible symbol of your bond. The night ended with you curled in his arms, the stars above a witness to your love, a love that would endure through every storm.

Back in the penthouse, the mood shifted, Taehyung’s dominance resurfacing. The bedroom was dark, the only light from the city below, the black silk sheets cool and inviting. He stood by the bed, his shirt discarded, his toned chest gleaming, his trousers low on his hips, his cock already hard. “On your knees, baby,” he ordered, his voice a velvet whip, sending a thrill through you.

You obeyed, sinking to your knees, your sheer black lingerie clinging to your curves, your nipples hard, your pussy wet. He stepped closer, his hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head back. “Look at me,” he said, his eyes dark, predatory. You met his gaze, your pussy throbbing, your clit pulsing with need.

He unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock—thick, veined, leaking precum, the sight making your mouth water. “Open,” he commanded, and you did, your lips parting, your tongue darting out. He guided his cock into your mouth, the taste salty and musky, the weight heavy on your tongue. “Good girl,” he growled, his hand guiding you, his hips thrusting gently, fucking your mouth with controlled precision.

You moaned, the vibrations making him groan, his fingers tightening in your hair. He pulled out, his cock glistening with your saliva, and lifted you to the bed, positioning you on all fours, your ass up, your pussy exposed. “So fucking pretty,” he murmured, his hands spreading your cheeks, his thumb brushing your soaked folds, teasing your clit. He entered you from behind, his cock sliding in deep, the stretch intense, your pussy clenching around him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts hard, the bed creaking. He spanked you lightly, the sting blooming into pleasure, your pussy gushing. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled, spanking you again, his cock hitting your g-spot, the wet sounds filling the room.

“Yes, sir,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your orgasm building. He reached around, rubbing your clit, his fingers rough, the pressure perfect. “Cum for me, slut,” he ordered, his voice rough, his thrusts relentless. You screamed, your pussy gushing, your body shaking, your clit pulsing under his fingers. He came, his cock pulsing, filling you with his release, the warmth spreading, leaking out around him.

Taehyung was gentle, pulling you into his arms, his lips kissing your shoulder, your neck, your forehead. “You were amazing, baby,” he murmured, his voice soft, his hands tender as he cleaned you with a warm cloth, wiping your thighs, your sensitive folds, checking for any soreness. “Feel okay?” he asked, his eyes soft, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, smiling, your body sated. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, his voice raw, pulling you against his chest, wrapping you in a blanket. He massaged your back, his thumbs kneading out any tension, his touch soothing. He offered you juice, holding the glass, his arm steady, and whispered, “You’re my everything, Y/N.” He hummed softly, his fingers tracing your spine, staying until you drifted off, his warmth a promise of forever.

Your love with Taehyung was a symphony, each note a moment of passion, vulnerability, and growth. His grumpiness, your insecurities, the challenges of your disparate worlds—they were the dissonant chords that made the melody richer. You faced them together, your bond a quiet strength that weathered every storm. He was your protector, your lover, your sugar daddy, but more than that, he was your partner, the man who saw you as his equal, his home.

As the months turned to years, you built a life together. You published your first novel, dedicated to him, and he stood beside you at the launch, his pride palpable, his hand on your lower back a silent vow. He expanded his empire, but made time for you, for quiet nights and grand adventures, for promises kept under starlit skies. The ring on your finger became an engagement ring, then a wedding band, each a symbol of a love that grew deeper, stronger, with every shared breath.

In the quiet moments, when the world was still, you’d lie in his arms, his heartbeat a steady rhythm under your cheek, and know that this—your love, your life together—was the story you’d always dreamed of writing. It was a love that endured, a flame that burned eternal, a tapestry of sugar and spice that would never fade.

[sabrinacocksucker]

۶ৎ SHADOWS OF OBSESSION | m. list

In a gritty city, a ruthless criminal's obsession with a shy medical student ignites a dangerous, passionate dance of desire and darkness. As their worlds collide, secrets unravel, and the line between love and possession blurs, pulling them into a thrilling, heart-wrenching saga. Will their twisted bond survive the chaos, or will it consume them both?

pairing: criminal dom!jungkook x student sub!femreader

genre: criminal au, dark romance, forbidden attraction, enemies to lovers, murderer!jungkook, stalker!jungkook, innocent shy!reader, virgin!reader, medical student!reader, violence, stalking and obsession, contrast of worlds, crime, thriller, smut, angst, fluff

warnings: 18+, several explicit sex scenes, mature themes, dark content, graphic violence and gore, non-consensual and dubious consent, cnc, psychological and emotional abuse, kidnapping and captivity, substance use, mental health themes, each chapter contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advised due to the intense, dark and potentially triggering nature of the content)

status: ongoing

main masterlist

۶ৎ

— 01 ; "eclipse of envy"

— 02 ; "thorns of desire"

— 03 ; "ashes of devotion"

— 04 ; "embers of absence"

— 05 ; to be released.

[sabrinacocksucker]

۶ৎ LITTLE ONE AND THE GRUMP — "beneath the starlight of home"

“I don’t give a fuck what they think. I love you, and that’s all that matters. They’ll come around, or they won’t, but you’re mine, and I’m yours. No one’s changing that.”

pairing: ceo dom!jungkook x university student sub!femreader

genre: neighbors au, slowburn, age gap, grumpy x sunshine, forbidden desire, friends with benefits to lovers, established relationship, slice of life, romance, fluff, angst, smut

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, emotional intensity, parental disapproval, family tension and judgement, emotional vulnerability, defending, relationship anxiety, love and doubt, tender moments, romantic devotion, family pressure, mentions of disapproval, comfort, silent support, miscommunication, deep conversations, risky situations (sexual activity in family home), semipublic sex, slight d/s dynamics, possessive dynamics, passionate sex, penetrative sex, risky sex, unprotected sex, creampie, making out, hickies/marking, bruising, love confessions, emotional and physical connections during sex, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, eating out, face riding, face sitting, tongue fucking, cum swallowing, clit stimulation, breast worship, nipple play, use of nicknames like "sir", praise kink, dirty talk, teasing, edging, orgasm control, overstimulation, slight breeding kink, cum play, biting, body worship, missionary position, silent pleasure, mutual desperation, rough sex, pain and pleasure, forbidden vibes, romantic aftercare, they love each other so much

wc: 7.6k

a/n: I missed this couple so muchh that I couldn’t resist writing this little drabble for them! It’s full of tension and emotions. I absolutely adore the dynamic between these two, their chemistry is everything, and this drabble is all about how their bond remains unbreakable no matter what challenges come their way. I poured my heart into this, and I hope you love it as much as I do ! <3

series m. list | main masterlist

۶ৎ

The winter air bit at your skin, sharp with the scent of pine and frost, as you stood outside your cozy, pastel-hued apartment, your breath clouding in the late January chill. The neighborhood lay hushed under a blanket of snow, streetlights casting golden pools that shimmered on the icy ground, the world wrapped in a stillness that felt both serene and charged with anticipation.

Tonight, you were in his living room, the fire crackling, casting flickering shadows across the dark hardwood, the air thick with the scent of burning cedar. You wore his black hoodie, the sleeves drowning your small hands, and cotton shorts, your hair in a loose braid, stray strands framing your face. Jungkook lounged on the couch, his white t-shirt clinging to his sculpted chest, joggers low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his pelvis, his dark hair slightly tousled, falling over his forehead. You were discussing a trip to your hometown, a three-hour drive, to introduce him to your parents. The idea twisted your stomach—your parents, traditional and protective, might not understand the eleven-year age gap or his intense, commanding personality. Jungkook sensed your nerves, his hand reaching for yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles, the calluses rough against your soft skin.

“Little one,” he said, his voice low, grounding, cutting through the crackle of the fire. “You’re shaking. Talk to me.”

You sighed, tucking your legs under you, the hoodie pooling around your thighs. “I’m just… scared, Koo,” you admitted, voice small, almost swallowed by the warmth of the room. “My parents—they’re sweet, but they’re old-fashioned. You’re older, and you’re… you. All intense and powerful. What if they don’t like you? What if they think you’re not right for me?”

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking, but his eyes softened, pulling you into his lap, your knees straddling his hips, his hands warm on your waist. “Baby, I love you. More than anything. I’d burn the fucking world down for you,” he said, voice fierce, his breath hot against your forehead as he kissed it, his lips lingering, soft and firm. “If they don’t see that, that’s their loss. But I’ll be good, yeah? For you, I’ll play nice.” His smirk was playful, but his eyes were deadly serious, a promise etched in their depths.

You melted, your fears easing, your hands clutching his shirt, the cotton warm under your fingers. “I love you, Kookie. So much. I just want them to see how happy you make me,” you whispered, voice trembling, your heart swelling with the weight of your feelings.

He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours, tasting the strawberry lip balm you wore, the faint sweetness mingling with his minty breath. “They will, little one. I’ll make sure of it. Now stop worrying. We’ll drive up tomorrow, and I’ll be on my best behavior,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours, his hands tightening on your hips, grounding you. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting his sharp jaw, the intensity in his gaze softening just for you.

The next morning, you woke in his bed, his arms wrapped around you, his chest warm against your back, the winter sun filtering through heavy curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You wore his t-shirt, the fabric soft and smelling of his cologne, your legs tangled with his, his morning stubble grazing your shoulder as he nuzzled you awake. He made your coffee, kissing your temple, his lips lingering, and you packed, your nerves buzzing like a live wire. The drive was serene, Jungkook’s hand resting on your thigh, his black SUV gliding through snow-dusted roads, the radio playing soft acoustic melodies, the heater warming your toes. You wore a cream sweater, its wool soft against your skin, a plaid skirt, and knee-high boots, your star necklace glinting in the sunlight, while he wore a tailored black coat, a crisp white shirt, and slacks, his silver watch gleaming, every inch the powerful CEO, his presence commanding even in the quiet car.

Your hometown was a quaint village, houses with snow-laden roofs, their chimneys puffing smoke, streets lined with bare trees, their branches dusted with frost. Your parents’ house was a two-story cottage, its brick exterior warm against the snowy landscape, fairy lights twinkling on the porch, their golden glow a beacon of home. You clutched Jungkook’s hand as you approached, your heart pounding, your boots crunching in the snow. He squeezed, his grip firm, his warmth seeping through your glove, and you knocked, the door opening to reveal your mother, her graying hair swept into a bun, her smile warm but cautious, her eyes flicking to Jungkook with a quick, assessing glance.

“Sweetheart!” she said, hugging you, her lavender perfume enveloping you, familiar and comforting. Her hands lingered on your shoulders, but her gaze settled on Jungkook, her lips tightening slightly. “And you must be… Jungkook.”

He nodded, his smile polite, restrained, a stark contrast to his usual intensity. “Ma'am, it’s a pleasure. Thank you for having me,” he said, his voice deep, controlled, but you caught the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his side.

Your father appeared, his glasses perched on his nose, his sweater slightly worn, the faint scent of pipe tobacco clinging to him. “Welcome,” he said, shaking Jungkook’s hand, his grip firm, his eyes narrowing slightly, studying the man who’d claimed his daughter’s heart. “Come in, both of you.”

The house smelled of roasted meat, rosemary, and warm bread, the living room cozy with a crackling fire, its heat warming your chilled skin, family photos on the mantel glinting in the firelight. Your parents were polite but reserved, their smiles not reaching their eyes, their movements careful, like they were navigating a fragile truce. You sat on the couch, Jungkook beside you, his hand resting on your knee, a silent claim, his thumb brushing softly, grounding you. Your mother offered tea, her movements graceful, the clink of porcelain cups loud in the tense silence, while your father sat in his armchair, his fingers tapping the armrest, studying Jungkook with a scrutiny that made your stomach twist.

“So, Jungkook,” your father began, his voice measured, the fire popping in the background. “You’re in tech, I hear. Must be a demanding job. Long hours, I imagine?”

Jungkook nodded, his posture relaxed but alert, his hand never leaving your knee. “It is, sir. I run a company, so it’s relentless—meetings, calls, decisions that can’t wait. But I love the challenge. Keeps me sharp,” he said, his tone even, his eyes meeting your father’s without flinching, a quiet confidence in his gaze.

Your mother raised an eyebrow, pouring tea, the steam curling in the air, the faint scent of chamomile mingling with the fire’s cedar. “And you’re… quite a bit older than our daughter,” she said, her voice soft but pointed, her eyes flicking to you, then back to him. “How do you manage that difference? She’s still so young, finding her way.”

Your stomach dropped, your fingers tightening around your teacup, the porcelain warm against your palms. Jungkook’s hand squeezed your knee, his voice calm, unwavering. “Age doesn’t matter when it comes to love, Ma'am. Y/n is mature, brilliant, and she makes me better every day. I respect her, and I’m committed to her happiness—her dreams, her studies, her future,” he said, his eyes softening as they flicked to you, a warmth in them that made your heart ache. “She’s my equal, and I’m here to support her, not hold her back.”

You blushed, your cheeks hot, but your parents exchanged a glance, their silence heavy, the crackle of the fire loud in the pause. Your father leaned forward, his glasses catching the light. “It’s just… you seem very established, Jungkook. Our daughter’s still a student, still figuring things out. We worry she might get… swept up in your world.”

The words stung, implying you were fragile, naive, and you spoke up, your voice firm, cutting through the tension. “Mom, Dad, I’m not getting swept up. Jungkook supports me, believes in me. He’s not holding me back—he’s lifting me up,” you said, your hand finding his, your fingers lacing tightly. “I love him, and he loves me. Can’t you trust me to know what I want?”

Your parents fell silent, the clink of your mother’s spoon against her cup sharp, their eyes darting between you and Jungkook. He squeezed your hand, his eyes proud, but your mother’s lips pursed, her fingers twisting her napkin. “We just want what’s best for you, sweetheart,” she said, voice softer now, but the doubt lingered, unspoken but palpable.

Dinner was served in the dining room, the table set with your mother’s best china, their delicate floral patterns glinting under candlelight, the air thick with the aroma of roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, and buttery green beans, the scents mingling with the faint wax of the candles. You wore a soft smile, trying to ease the tension, but your parents’ disapproval hung like a fog, their questions probing, their politeness a thin veneer. Jungkook sat beside you, his presence a steady anchor, his hand brushing yours under the table, his touch a lifeline.

“Y/n,” your mother said, passing the potatoes, the serving spoon clinking against the bowl, “your studies are going well, yes? You’ve always been our little scholar, nose in a book since you were five.”

You nodded, spooning food onto your plate, the creamy potatoes steaming. “Yes, Mom. I’m doing great. Just aced a big exam, actually. Jungkook’s been helping me study, keeping me focused,” you said, your voice bright, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

Your father’s eyes flicked to Jungkook, skeptical, his fork pausing mid-air. “Helping how, exactly? You must be busy with your… empire,” he said, the word laced with a faint edge, his tone implying Jungkook’s world was too vast, too consuming for you.

Jungkook’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement, but he kept his tone even, his voice a low rumble. “I make time for her, sir. She’s my priority. I help her organize her notes, quiz her, make sure she eats when she’s buried in books. She’s incredible, and I’m proud of her,” he said, his eyes meeting yours, a warmth in them that made your chest tighten, his thumb brushing your hand under the table, a secret reassurance.

You smiled, your heart swelling, but your mother’s lips pursed tighter, her fork scraping her plate. “It’s just… you’re so established, Jungkook,” she said, her voice careful, like she was choosing each word. “Our daughter’s still finding her way, still so young. We worry she might get… overwhelmed by your lifestyle, your responsibilities.”

The word landed like a stone, and you bristled, your fork clattering softly against your plate. “Mom, I’m not overwhelmed,” you said, voice sharper now, your frustration bubbling over. “Jungkook supports me, believes in me. He’s not dragging me into his world—he’s building a world with me.”

The room fell silent, the candles flickering, casting long shadows across the table, the air heavy with unspoken words. Jungkook’s hand tightened on yours, his eyes blazing with pride, but also a flicker of anger, restrained for your sake. “She’s right,” he said, his voice low, directed at your parents, cutting through the silence like a blade. “I’d never clip her wings. Y/n’s my world, and I’ll do anything to see her shine. I know I’m older, and my life’s intense, but she’s my equal, my partner. I’m in this for keeps—forever.”

The sincerity in his voice, the raw devotion, made your chest ache, tears pricking your eyes, but your father sighed, pushing his glasses up, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “We just want what’s best for her, Jungkook. You understand, don’t you? She’s our only daughter,” he said, his voice softer but still heavy with doubt, his eyes searching Jungkook’s face.

Jungkook nodded, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking. “I do, sir. And I’m it. No one will love her more than I do. No one will fight harder for her happiness,” he said, his voice steady, unwavering, his hand squeezing yours so tightly it almost hurt, his love a tangible force.

Dinner continued, the conversation stilted, your parents’ questions probing but cloaked in politeness, the clink of cutlery and soft scrape of plates filling the silences. You shared stories of your studies, your baking, trying to lighten the mood, your voice bright despite the tension, but the undercurrent of their unease lingered, a shadow over the meal. Jungkook was courteous, his answers measured, but you saw the strain in his eyes, the effort to prove himself for your sake, his fingers flexing against your hand, a silent battle.

After dinner, you helped clear the table, the kitchen warm with the scent of dish soap and leftover spices, the sink gurgling softly. Your mother pulled you aside, her hands wringing a dish towel, the cotton twisting under her fingers. “He’s… intense, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice low, her eyes darting to the doorway where Jungkook’s low voice rumbled, talking to your father. “Are you sure about this? He’s so much older, and he seems… controlling. We just want you to be safe.”

You bristled, drying a plate, the towel rough against your hands. “He’s not controlling, Mom. He’s protective, and he loves me. You don’t know him like I do,” you said, your voice firm, your heart pounding. “He’s kind, and he makes me feel safe, like I can do anything. Please, give him a chance. He’s my home.”

She sighed, her shoulders sagging, but her eyes remained unconvinced, lines deepening around her mouth. “We’re trying, sweetheart. It’s just… a lot,” she said, her voice trailing off, the dish towel limp in her hands.

Back in the living room, Jungkook stood by the fire, his tall frame imposing, the flames casting shadows across his sharp jaw, his expression unreadable as your father offered him a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. They spoke in low tones, and you caught fragments—“responsibility,” “future,” “intentions”—but Jungkook’s posture was rigid, his control unwavering, his hand gripping the glass tightly, his knuckles pale.

Upstairs, your childhood room was a time capsule, its pink walls soft in the glow of fairy lights strung above, their golden light twinkling like stars, the air thick with the scent of lavender and old books, a comforting nostalgia that wrapped around you. The twin bed sat against one wall, its floral quilt slightly faded, the mattress creaking under your weight, stuffed animals perched on a shelf, their button eyes glinting faintly. You wore one of Jungkook’s t-shirts, the soft cotton loose on your petite frame, and cotton shorts, your hair loose, spilling over your shoulders in soft waves, while he wore black joggers and a fitted black t-shirt, the fabric straining against his muscles, his broad chest and biceps a stark contrast to the room’s delicate charm. You sat on the bed, the springs squeaking, your fingers twisting the hem of his shirt, your nerves fraying like a worn thread.

“They don’t like you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, your eyes downcast, the quilt’s soft texture grounding you. “I could see it, Koo. They think you’re too old, too… intense. I hate this. I wanted them to love you like I do.”

He knelt before you, his knees pressing into the plush rug, his hands cupping your face, tilting your chin up, his dark eyes intense but soft, a storm calmed just for you. “Little one, listen to me,” he said, his voice fierce, a low growl that vibrated in your chest. “I don’t give a fuck what they think. I love you, and that’s all that matters. They’ll come around, or they won’t, but you’re mine, and I’m yours. No one’s changing that. Not your parents, not anyone.” His thumbs brushed your cheeks, catching a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen, his touch warm, grounding, his breath minty and close.

You sniffled, leaning into his hands, your lips trembling. “I just wanted them to see how amazing you are, Kookie. You’re my everything—my safe place, my strength. I’m so proud of you, and they’re acting like you’re… wrong for me,” you said, your voice breaking, tears spilling now, hot against your cheeks.

He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips firm but gentle, his tongue teasing yours, tasting your tears, your strawberry lip balm, the intimacy grounding you. “Baby, I’m not wrong for you. I’m the man who’d die for you, who lives for you,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, his hands tightening on your face, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “They don’t get it yet, but they will. And if they don’t, fuck it. You’re my home, little one. My light. You’re all I need, and I’m not letting you go—ever.”

You clung to him, your lips trembling against his, the kiss turning desperate, your hands tangling in his hair, the strands soft and thick, your nails scraping his scalp. “I love you, Koo,” you whispered, voice breaking, your chest heaving, your heart so full it hurt. “So much. I’m sorry I dragged you here, put you through this.”

He pulled back, his eyes blazing, a mix of love and frustration, his jaw tight. “Don’t fucking apologize,” he said, voice low, almost a growl, his hands sliding to your shoulders, gripping firmly. “I’d go anywhere for you—through hell, through this. You think I care about a couple of disapproving parents? I’ve faced worse—boardrooms, deals, people who’d stab me in the back. You’re worth it, baby. Every second of this. You’re my reason, my everything.”

You nodded, tears slowing, your heart swelling, your hands clutching his shirt, the fabric warm and taut over his muscles. He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, the springs creaking softly, pulling you into his arms, his body a furnace, his scent—cologne, mint, and something uniquely him—enveloping you. You lay there, talking softly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back, the calluses rough against your skin, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady, a low thrum that calmed you. “Remember the cookies?” he murmured, voice fond, a smile in his tone. “You were so fucking cute, blushing, calling me sir, trembling like a little bird. I was gone for you right then, knew I was fucked.”

You giggled, tracing his jaw, the faint stubble prickling your fingers. “You were terrifying, Kookie. All grumpy and huge, like a storm in a suit. But… you took my cookies, and I saw you smile, just a little. I knew you weren’t as scary as you looked,” you said, your voice soft, the memory warming you, the fairy lights casting a golden glow across his face, softening his sharp features.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, kissing your nose, his lips soft, lingering. “You’re trouble, little one. Always have been, walking in with that damn tin, making me want you when I had no business wanting someone so sweet,” he said, his voice teasing but laced with truth, his arms tightening around you, his warmth a cocoon.

The house was silent, your parents asleep down the hall, the clock ticking past midnight, its soft clicks barely audible. The fairy lights cast a dreamy glow, their golden light dancing across Jungkook’s face, highlighting the curve of his cheekbones, the intensity in his dark eyes, now heavy with desire. A familiar heat stirred in your core, your body aching for him, your pussy throbbing with need, the air charged with unspoken want. You shifted, straddling his lap, the mattress creaking softly, your hands pressing against his chest, feeling the hard planes of his muscles, the steady thump of his heart under your palms.

“Koo,” you whispered, voice shy, trembling, your cheeks flushing in the dim light, “I need you. Right now.”

His eyes darkened, a storm brewing, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh, the bulge in his joggers hardening beneath you, pressing against your core through your thin shorts, sending a jolt of heat through you. “Baby, we’re in your parents’ house,” he said, voice rough, strained, a low growl that vibrated in his chest, his jaw tight with restraint, his cock twitching against you. “They’re right down the fucking hall. You sure about this?”

You nodded, biting your lip, your pussy already wet, slick with need, the ache unbearable, your hips rocking slightly, seeking friction. “I’ll be quiet, Kookie,” you whispered, voice desperate, your hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. “Please, I need you so bad. I can’t wait.”

He groaned, low and tortured, his hands sliding under your t-shirt, his palms warm against your skin, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples, the sensitive buds hardening instantly, a soft whimper escaping you. “Fuck, little one,” he muttered, voice thick with lust, his eyes locked on your chest, his obsession evident. “These tits—fuck, I’m fucking obsessed. So perfect, so mine.” He lifted your shirt, the cool air hitting your skin, your nipples pebbling further, and his lips closed around one, sucking slowly, his tongue swirling, hot and wet, drawing a sharp gasp from you, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle it, your body trembling.

His mouth was relentless, his lips sealing around your nipple, sucking with a gentle pressure that sent sparks to your core, his tongue flicking the bud, teasing, then lapping slowly, the wet heat making you squirm, your hips rocking against his hardening cock, the friction delicious but not enough. His teeth grazed lightly, just enough to sting, and you whimpered, muffled, your hand clamped over your mouth, your other hand tugging his hair, the strands soft and thick, your nails scraping his scalp. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your breast, low and primal, his hand kneading your other breast, his fingers rolling your nipple, pinching gently, the sensation sharp and electric, your pussy clenching, dripping onto your shorts, soaking through to his joggers.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice muffled, his lips glistening as he switched to your other nipple, giving it the same worship, sucking harder now, his tongue circling, teasing, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin, adding a delicious edge of roughness, your body arching into him, desperate for more. “These tits are gonna kill me, so fucking perfect,” he growled, his hand squeezing, his thumb brushing your wet nipple, the bud slick from his mouth, your breasts heaving, hickies blooming dark against your skin, a constellation of his claim.

“Kookie, please,” you whimpered, voice barely audible, muffled by your hand, your thighs trembling, your pussy throbbing, slick and swollen, the ache unbearable. “Need you… need you now.”

He chuckled, dark and fond, kissing down your stomach, his lips soft but searing, leaving a trail of heat, his breath hot against your skin, the faint scent of your arousal mixing with his cologne, heady and intoxicating. “Patience, little one,” he murmured, voice low, teasing, his hands sliding your shorts and panties down, the fabric catching on your thighs, the cool air hitting your wet folds, making you shiver, your clit pulsing with need. “Gonna take my time with you, make you feel so fucking good.”

He spread your legs, settling between them, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart, the mattress creaking softly, his breath hot against your inner thighs, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin, a delicious burn that made you squirm. His fingers parted your folds, revealing your swollen, glistening pussy, the slickness catching the fairy light, shimmering faintly, your arousal dripping onto the quilt, a faint wet spot forming. “Fuck, look at this pussy,” he whispered, voice reverent, his eyes dark with hunger, his lips hovering just above your clit, his breath teasing, making you tremble, your hands gripping the quilt, nails digging into the fabric, your heart pounding, terrified of making a sound. “So fucking wet for me, little one. So pretty, so fucking mine.”

You tried to close your legs, shy and overwhelmed, your cheeks burning, but he held them open, his grip firm, his fingers digging into your thighs, leaving faint marks. “Don’t hide, baby,” he said, voice firm, his eyes meeting yours, a command wrapped in tenderness. “You’re perfect. Let me see you, let me taste you.” His tongue flicked over your clit, slow and deliberate, a hot, wet caress that sent a shockwave through you, your body bucking, a soft cry escaping before you clamped your hand over your mouth, your eyes wide with panic, the silence of the house pressing against you.

He groaned, the vibration shooting through your core, his lips curling into a smirk against your pussy, his tongue relentless, circling your clit with slow, teasing flicks, then flattening, lapping broadly, the wet heat overwhelming, your thighs trembling under his hands. “Taste so fucking good,” he murmured, voice muffled, his tongue plunging inside, hot and probing, curling to stroke your walls, tasting your arousal, the slickness coating his lips, his chin, his stubble glistening, the sight so erotic you nearly sobbed, your hand muffling the sound, your other hand tugging his hair, desperate, needy.

His tongue fucked you, slow and deep, curling to hit spots that made your vision blur, his nose brushing your clit, the pressure perfect, relentless, your hips rocking against his face, chasing the pleasure, your body tense with the effort to stay quiet, your breaths ragged, your chest heaving. He sucked your clit into his mouth, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud, sucking with a gentle pressure that made you see stars, his tongue flicking in a rhythm that had you trembling, your pussy clenching, dripping, the wet sounds faint but dangerous, your fear of being heard warring with the pleasure consuming you.

“Sir,” you whimpered, barely audible, the honorific slipping out, muffled by your hand, your body arching, your clit throbbing under his tongue, your pussy aching for more. He growled, low and primal, the sound vibrating against your core, his tongue relentless, sucking harder, his lips working your clit with a precision that drove you wild, your thighs shaking, your nails digging into his scalp, your hand clamped so tightly over your mouth your jaw ached.

He added a finger, sliding it into your tight, wet heat, curling to stroke your walls, the stretch delicious, his calluses rough against your softness, the sensation grounding, intense, your pussy clenching around him, desperate for more. “So fucking tight,” he murmured, voice muffled, his lips brushing your clit, his breath hot, his finger pumping slowly, then faster, a second joining, stretching you further, the burn easing into pleasure, your hips rocking, chasing the friction, your hand muffling your desperate whimpers, your eyes locked on his, the fairy lights casting shadows across his face, his jaw tight, his cock twitching, leaking precum, his restraint fraying.

“Look at you, little one,” he whispered, voice rough, his eyes meeting yours over the plane of your stomach, his fingers curling, hitting that perfect spot, his tongue flicking your clit, relentless, teasing, then sucking again, his lips glistening, his chin wet with your arousal. “So wet, so fucking perfect, taking my fingers like a good girl. You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you? Gonna cum on my tongue, but you gotta be quiet, baby. Can’t let them hear how good I make you feel.”

You nodded, tears streaming, your hand over your mouth, your body trembling, your pussy clenching around his fingers, your clit throbbing under his tongue, the pleasure building, a tight coil in your core, your breaths ragged, your heart pounding, the silence of the house a pressure you could barely withstand. He added a third finger, stretching you further, the burn intense, his fingers curling, pumping faster, his tongue circling your clit, then sucking hard, the wet sounds of his mouth and your slickness faint but risky, your body rocking, desperate, your hand muffling your cries, your other hand tugging his hair, your nails scraping, drawing a low growl from him, the vibration pushing you closer.

“Cum for me, little one,” he growled, voice commanding, his fingers curling, hitting that spot, his tongue relentless, sucking your clit, flicking, lapping, his lips sealed around the bud, his eyes locked on yours, watching you unravel, his free hand gripping your thigh, bruising, grounding. “Be quiet, but cum for your sir. Let me feel this pussy squeeze me.”

You came with a stifled scream, your hand clamped over your mouth, your pussy pulsing around his fingers, clenching tight, your clit throbbing under his tongue, the pleasure blinding, a white-hot wave that crashed over you, your body convulsing, your thighs shaking, your nails raking his scalp, your vision blurring, tears streaming, the effort to stay quiet agonizing, your jaw aching, your lip bleeding where you’d bitten it. Your arousal gushed, soaking his fingers, his chin, his lips, the quilt beneath you, the wet spot spreading, the scent of your release mixing with his cologne, heady and overwhelming. He licked you through it, his tongue slow now, soothing, drawing out every shudder, every whimper, his fingers still curling, pumping gently, milking your orgasm until you were boneless, trembling, your hand falling from your mouth, your breaths ragged, your chest heaving.

He crawled up, his face glistening, lips curled into a satisfied smirk, his eyes dark with pride, love, and lingering hunger. “Good girl,” he whispered, kissing you, letting you taste yourself, your arousal sharp and tangy on his tongue, his lips soft but demanding, his hand stroking your hair, gentle now, soothing. “You did so fucking well, little one. So perfect, so quiet for me. I love you, baby.”

You panted, clinging to him, your voice barely audible, trembling, “Fuck, that was intense,” your words slurred, your body still buzzing, your pussy sensitive, throbbing, your hands clutching his shirt, your nails digging into his skin, your heart pounding.

He chuckled, low and fond, kissing your forehead, his lips warm, lingering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby, cumming like that, calling me sir,” he murmured, his voice teasing but laced with adoration, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your tear-streaked cheeks. “But we’re not done, little one. Need to fuck you, need to feel you around my cock. You ready for me?”

You whimpered, your eyes widening, a mix of awe and need, your pussy clenching at his words, still sensitive but aching for him, your body trembling with anticipation. “Koo,” you whispered, voice small, “it’s so big… what if I can’t stay quiet? It feels so good, I—”

He kissed you, cutting you off, his lips firm, possessive, his tongue teasing, swallowing your worries, his hands sliding to your hips, gripping firmly. “You’ll be quiet, baby,” he said, voice low, a command wrapped in tenderness, his eyes searching yours, watching for any hesitation. “You’ll be my good girl, take my cock, and stay silent. We’ll go slow, yeah? I’ve got you. Tell me if it’s too much, and we stop. Always.”

You nodded, blushing, your heart racing, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging in, leaving faint marks. “I’m ready, Kookie,” you whispered, voice trembling but sure, your pussy throbbing, slick and ready, your body aching for him. “I want you. Please, fuck me.”

He smiled, a rare, tender smile, his eyes softening, and stripped off his joggers and boxers, his cock springing free, hard, thick, the veins prominent, the tip glistening with precum, massive and intimidating, your eyes widening, a mix of awe and fear, your pussy clenching, desperate but nervous. “Fuck, Koo,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

He knelt between your legs, kissing you softly, his lips reassuring, his hand stroking your thigh, soothing, his cock brushing your entrance, the heat of it making you shiver, your arousal dripping, coating the tip. “We’ll go slow, baby,” he promised, voice gentle but strained, his eyes locked on yours, watching for any sign of discomfort. “Gonna stretch you, make you feel so good. You don’t have to do this, but if you want it, I’ll make it perfect. Tell me you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you whispered, voice stronger now, your cheeks burning, your hands clutching his arms, feeling the hard muscle, the strength beneath his skin. “I want you, Koo. Please, fuck me.”

He nodded, kissing you deeply, his lips possessive, his tongue claiming, his hands spreading your thighs, the cool air hitting your slick folds, your clit pulsing, your pussy ready, dripping. “Gonna stretch you first,” he murmured, sliding one finger inside, then two, then three, scissoring them, the stretch intense, your pussy clenching, slick and hot, your hips rocking, your hand over your mouth, muffling your soft whimpers, your eyes locked on his, the fairy lights casting shadows across his face, his jaw tight, his cock twitching, leaking precum, his restraint fraying.

“So fucking tight, little one,” he growled, voice strained, his fingers curling, pumping, stretching you, preparing you, his other hand palming his cock, stroking slowly, his eyes never leaving your face, watching your reactions, your flushed cheeks, your trembling lips. “Gonna feel so good around me, baby. My perfect girl, taking my fingers so well.”

He positioned himself, the tip of his cock brushing your entrance, hot and slick, the pressure teasing, your pussy clenching, desperate, your hands gripping the quilt, your heart pounding, the silence of the house pressing against you, the risk of being heard heightening every sensation. “Look at me,” he said, voice firm, his eyes intense, searching, his hand cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, grounding you. “We stop anytime you say.”

You nodded, your breath hitching, and he pushed in, just the tip, stretching you, the burn sharp, intense, your pussy clenching around him, your walls fluttering, the fullness overwhelming, a soft cry escaping before you clamped your hand over your mouth, your eyes wide, tears pricking, your body trembling. He paused, kissing your neck, his lips soft, his breath hot, whispering, “You okay, baby? You’re doing so good, so fucking perfect.”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, voice trembling, muffled, your hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, leaving red marks, your body adjusting, the burn easing into pleasure, the fullness grounding, his cock stretching you beyond anything you’d felt. “Keep going, please.”

He eased in, inch by inch, slow, deliberate, his cock filling you, stretching your walls, the heat of him searing, your pussy clenching, slick and tight, your arousal coating him, easing the way, your hips rocking slightly, seeking more, your hand muffling your desperate whimpers, your eyes locked on his, the intimacy overwhelming. He groaned, low and tortured, his jaw tight, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, his control fraying, his cock twitching inside you, the sensation sending a jolt through you, your pussy clenching, a soft moan escaping, muffled, your heart pounding, the bed creaking faintly, every sound a risk.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, voice rough, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his cock fully inside, filling you to the brim, hitting deep, your pussy stretched tight, the pressure intense, pleasure sparking with every slight movement. “You’re so fucking tight, so perfect. Feel so good, little one. My good girl, taking my cock like this.”

The pain faded, replaced by a throbbing need, your pussy pulsing around him, your clit aching, your body begging for movement. “Move, Koo,” you whispered, voice shaky, muffled, your hand over your mouth, your other hand gripping his arm, nails digging in, your eyes pleading. “Fuck me, please.”

He moved, slow thrusts at first, his cock sliding in and out, the friction delicious, each movement sending sparks through you, your pussy clenching, slick and hot, the wet sounds faint but dangerous, your hand muffling your gasps, your body rocking with his, the bed creaking softly, the silence of the house amplifying every sensation, your fear of being heard making you tremble, your heart racing. “Quiet, baby,” he murmured, kissing you, swallowing your soft moans, his lips firm, possessive, his tongue teasing, his cock hitting deeper, filling you completely, your walls fluttering, your clit throbbing, neglected but aching.

“So wet for me,” he growled, voice low, his thrusts quickening, the slap of skin faint but risky, his cock hitting that perfect spot, making you see stars, your pussy clenching, your arousal dripping, coating him, the quilt, the scent of sex mixing with the lavender and books, heady and overwhelming. “My tiny little one, taking my cock so well. Look at you, so fucking small, and you’re mine,” he said, his voice thick with lust, his hand sliding to your breast, kneading, his thumb brushing your nipple, the bud hard, sensitive, making you whine, your hand clamping tighter over your mouth, your eyes tearing, the effort to stay quiet agonizing.

“Sir,” you whimpered, barely audible, muffled, your body arching, your pussy pulsing around him, your clit throbbing, the honorific slipping out, a plea, a surrender. He groaned, low and primal, his thrusts harder, deeper, his cock hitting your cervix, the pressure intense, pleasure bordering on pain, your walls clenching, your arousal soaking him, the wet sounds louder, your heart pounding, the bed creaking, the risk of being heard pushing you to the edge, your body trembling, your hands shaking, your nails raking his back, leaving red welts, your desperation palpable.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, voice strained, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, ragged, his control fraying, his cock twitching, his thrusts erratic, his hand sliding between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles, the sensation electric, your pussy clenching, your body bucking, a stifled cry escaping, your hand muffling it, your eyes wide, tears streaming, the pleasure overwhelming, the silence pressing against you. “My perfect girl, so fucking tight, so wet. This pussy’s mine, made for me, isn’t it? Gonna fuck you so good, little one.”

You nodded, tears streaming, your body trembling, your pussy clenching around him, your clit throbbing under his fingers, the pleasure building, a tight coil in your core, your breaths ragged, your hand clamped so tightly over your mouth your jaw ached, your lip bleeding, the metallic taste sharp on your tongue. “Sir, please,” you whimpered, muffled, your voice desperate, your hips rocking, chasing the friction, your body tense, the effort to stay quiet consuming you, your heart pounding, the fairy lights blurring in your vision, the room spinning, the pleasure blinding.

“Cum for me, little one,” he growled, voice commanding, his thrusts relentless, his cock hitting deep, filling you, stretching you, his fingers rubbing your clit faster, the pressure perfect, his lips brushing your neck, kissing, sucking, leaving hickies, his teeth grazing, his breath hot, ragged. “Be quiet, baby, but cum for me. Let me feel this pussy squeeze my cock, show me you’re mine.”

You came with a stifled scream, your hand clamped over your mouth, your pussy pulsing around his cock, clenching tight, a vice grip, your clit throbbing under his fingers, the pleasure blinding, a white-hot wave that crashed over you, your body convulsing, your thighs shaking, your nails raking his back, drawing blood, your vision blurring, tears streaming, the effort to stay quiet agonizing, your jaw aching, your lip bleeding, the metallic taste sharp, your arousal gushing, soaking his cock, his thighs, the quilt, the wet spot spreading, the scent of your release overwhelming, mixing with his sweat, his cologne, the lavender, the books, a heady cocktail that filled the room. Your body shook, your pussy milking him, your clit pulsing, your breaths ragged, your chest heaving, your hands trembling, your heart pounding, the silence of the house intact, barely, your relief mingling with the pleasure, the intimacy, the love overwhelming, your pussy full, dripping, the warmth of his cum grounding, claiming, his scent, his sweat, his breath enveloping you, a cocoon of safety, of love.

He groaned, low and tortured, his thrusts erratic, his cock twitching, his control shattered, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his fingers digging in, his body trembling, his breath ragged, his eyes locked on yours, watching you unravel, his pride, his love, his hunger evident. “Fuck, baby,” he growled, voice rough, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, his cock pulsing, his thrusts frantic, chasing his release, the wet sounds of your pussy loud, risky, the bed creaking, the silence pressing against you. “Gonna fill you, little one. Gonna breed this pussy, make it mine. Take it all for me, my good girl.”

He came with a low, guttural growl, his cock pulsing, hot spurts filling you, coating your walls, the heat searing, his grip tightening, his fingers bruising your hips, his body trembling, his thrusts slowing, drawing out his release, your pussy clenching, milking every drop, your clit throbbing, sensitive, your body shaking, your hands clutching him, your nails digging in, your breaths ragged, your heart pounding, the silence of the house intact, barely, your relief mingling with the pleasure, the intimacy, the love overwhelming, your pussy full, dripping, the warmth of his cum grounding, claiming, his scent, his sweat, his breath enveloping you, a cocoon of safety, of love.

He collapsed onto you, careful not to crush you, his weight grounding, his lips kissing your tears away, his hands stroking your hair, gentle now, soothing, his breath ragged, his heart pounding against your chest, his cock softening inside you, the warmth of him a comfort. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice soft, tender, his lips brushing your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your tear-streaked skin, his eyes full of love, adoration, pride. “You did so fucking well, little one. So perfect, so quiet for me. I love you, baby. More than anything.”

You panted, clinging to him, your voice barely audible, trembling, your body still buzzing, your pussy sensitive, throbbing, your heart so full it hurt. “I love you, Kookie,” you whispered, voice slurred, your hands clutching his shirt, your nails digging into his skin, your tears slowing, your chest heaving, your lips swollen, your face flushed, your hair messy, your body spent. “Fuck, that was… I can’t even… I love you so much.”

He chuckled, low and fond, kissing your forehead, his lips lingering, his hands stroking your back, soothing, his warmth enveloping you, his scent grounding you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow, the room a haven, safe, warm, yours. “You’re gonna kill me, baby,” he murmured, voice teasing, his eyes softening, his love evident, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks, wiping away the last of your tears. “Cumming like that, so fucking tight, so quiet. My perfect girl, my little one. I’m so fucking in love with you, it scares me.”

You smiled, weak but radiant, tracing his jaw, the stubble prickling your fingers, your heart swelling, your body spent but content, your pussy full, sensitive, your clit still pulsing faintly, the aftershocks lingering, your love for him a fire that warmed you through the winter chill. “I’m scared too, Koo,” you whispered, voice soft, your lips brushing his, a gentle kiss, your hands stroking his hair, the strands soft, damp with sweat, your love a tangible force, a light in the dark. “But I’m yours, forever. No one else, just you.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips soft, his tongue teasing, his hands tightening, pulling you closer, his warmth a cocoon, his love a promise, his heart yours. “Forever, little one,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, his hands stroking your back, grounding you. “You’re my light, my home. No one’s taking you from me—not your parents, not the world. I’d fight for you, die for you, live for you.”

You nodded, tears pricking again, your heart full, your body spent, your love for him overwhelming, the fairy lights glowing, the room warm, safe, the silence of the house a fragile victory, your love a fire that burned bright. He cleaned you gently, using tissues from your nightstand, his touch careful, his kisses soft, his hands soothing, wiping away the slickness, the cum, his care a balm, his love a light. You curled up in his arms, the quilt pulled over you, the mattress creaking faintly, the fairy lights twinkling, the room a haven, his warmth a cocoon, his heartbeat steady, his breath soft, his love a fire that warmed you through the cold.

You talked softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your back, your head on his chest, his voice low, fond, his love evident in every word, every touch, every glance. “They’ll come around,” he whispered, kissing your temple, his lips soft, lingering, his hands stroking your hair, soothing, his warmth grounding you, the room a sanctuary, the night a promise. “And if they don’t, fuck it, baby. You’re my forever, my little one. No one’s taking you from me, not ever.”

You smiled, tracing his jaw, your fingers soft, your heart full, your body spent, your love a light that burned bright, your childhood room a haven, his arms your home, his heart yours, the winter night silent, the fairy lights glowing, your love a fire that warmed you through the cold, a promise, a forever, a home.

[sabrinacocksucker]

۶ৎ EMBERS OF UNSEEN LOVE [1] —

His lips on yours, hungry and desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, his voice a low rumble, “I need you, Y/N. I’ve always needed you.”

pairing: dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre: brothers bestfriend au, college au, forbidden love, slowburn, unrequited love, pining, coming of age, reserved!jungkook, friends to lovers, tattoo artist!jungkook, shy insecure!reader, romance, smut, fluff, angst

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, emotional vulnerability, mentions of body insecurity, character growth, mutual desire, slow burn sexual tension, solo masturbation, fantasy driven erotica, sexual imagery, imagined oral sex, imagined penetrative sex, body marking, making out, imagined rough sex, imagined body worship, non-physical intimacy (emotional connection in fantasies), non-consensual observation, clit play, fingering, nipple play, breast play, cock fisting, cock palming, guilt and shame after orgasm

wc: 10k

a/n: this one is for all the girlies who feels self-conscious or insecure about their bodies, you guys are absolutely perfect and sexy no matter what and don't let anyone tell you otherwise ! 🤍

series m. list | main masterlist

۶ৎ

The house on Maple Street was a tapestry of memories, woven from the threads of your childhood and the quiet moments that shaped you. It was a modest two-story home, its white exterior kissed by the soft gray of weathered paint, nestled in a suburban neighborhood where the hum of lawnmowers and the chatter of neighbors were the soundtrack of summer. Inside, the air carried the delicate scent of lavender, a lingering gift from your mother’s obsession with scented candles that flickered on the dining table during family dinners, casting warm, dancing shadows on the walls. The hardwood floors creaked underfoot, polished to a soft sheen by years of footsteps, and the windows—large and slightly warped from age—let in slants of golden light that painted the rooms in hues of amber and honey.

Your room, tucked at the far end of the upstairs hallway, was your sanctuary, a cocoon of comfort and solitude. The walls were a gentle pastel blue, adorned with fairy lights you’d strung up in a fit of teenage whimsy, their soft glow a balm on restless nights. Shelves sagged under the weight of novels—classics mingled with dog-eared fantasy paperbacks, their spines cracked from countless readings. A worn quilt, stitched by your grandmother, draped over your bed, its patchwork of blues and greens a reminder of her warm hugs. The window, framed by sheer white curtains, overlooked the ancient oak tree in the backyard, its branches swaying in the breeze, whispering secrets you liked to imagine were meant just for you.

You were fourteen, a freshman in high school, navigating the awkward terrain of adolescence with a quiet grace that often went unnoticed. You preferred the company of books to the clamor of your peers, your world a kaleidoscope of imagined adventures and unspoken dreams. Your body was a source of quiet discomfort—slightly overweight, with soft curves that felt like a betrayal in a world that worshipped sharp angles and slender frames. You hid behind oversized clothes, your wardrobe a fortress of baggy sweaters and loose jeans, each piece chosen to obscure the body you couldn’t bring yourself to love.

Your older brother, Minho, was your opposite in every way—a vibrant storm to your gentle breeze. Three years your senior, he was a junior in high school, his life a whirlwind of basketball practices, late-night study sessions, and friendships that seemed to bloom effortlessly. Minho was the sun, magnetic and warm, his laughter a beacon that filled the house with life. His dark hair was always slightly mussed, his eyes bright with mischief, and his grin could charm anyone, from teachers to the grumpy cashier at the corner store. He was your protector, your confidant, the one who’d sneak you extra cookies when your parents weren’t looking, but his boisterous energy sometimes overwhelmed your quieter nature, leaving you to retreat to the safety of your room.

It was Minho who brought Jungkook into your life, a moment that would carve itself into your heart with the precision of a sculptor’s chisel. It was a crisp autumn afternoon, the air thick with the scent of fallen leaves and the faint tang of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s fireplace. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the living room, where you were curled on the couch, a dog-eared copy of a book in your lap. The book was a familiar comfort, its pages soft from countless readings. Your oversized sweater, a faded navy blue, swallowed your frame, the sleeves dangling past your wrists, your knees tucked under you as you lost yourself in the book.

The front door swung open with a familiar creak, and Minho’s voice boomed through the house, shattering the quiet. “Yo, this is Jungkook,” he announced, his tone brimming with enthusiasm, as if he were unveiling a rare treasure. “He’s on the team. Dude’s a beast on the court.”

You glanced up, your heart giving a small, involuntary lurch, and there he was—Jeon Jungkook, standing in the doorway like a figure sculpted from shadow and steel. He was sixteen, tall and lean, with broad shoulders that hinted at the strength he’d later grow into, his frame still carrying the slight awkwardness of adolescence. His dark hair was a mess of waves, falling over his forehead in a way that looked effortlessly perfect, framing eyes so deep and intense they seemed to hold a universe of secrets. Those eyes were a rich brown, almost black, with a depth that made you feel like you could fall into them and never find the bottom. His skin was smooth, a warm golden hue, with a faint flush across his cheeks from the autumn chill outside.

He wore a black hoodie, the sleeves slightly too long, the fabric worn soft at the cuffs, and jeans that hugged his legs, the denim frayed at the knees. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his posture relaxed yet guarded, exuding a quiet confidence that made the air around him feel charged. A black backpack slung over one shoulder, its straps frayed, suggested he’d come straight from school or practice. There was something about him—something magnetic, something that made your breath catch and your palms tingle, though you couldn’t name it then. He was beautiful, in a way that felt dangerous, like a storm you wanted to chase despite the risk.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the first time you heard it, and it struck you like a chord, resonating deep within your chest, stirring feelings you didn’t yet understand. The word was simple, but the way he said it—soft, almost hesitant, yet weighted with an intensity that belied his reserved demeanor—made it feel like a secret meant just for you.

“Hi,” you mumbled, your cheeks flaming as you ducked your head back into your book, pretending to read. The words blurred before your eyes, your heart thudding so loudly you were sure he could hear it from across the room. Your fingers tightened around the edges of the book, your nails digging into the soft cover, a lifeline to ground you as you fought the urge to flee. You felt exposed, even in your oversized sweater, as if his gaze could see through the layers of fabric to the insecurities you hid beneath.

Minho laughed, a bright, carefree sound that broke the tension, and clapped Jungkook on the shoulder, his hand lingering in a gesture of easy camaraderie. “Come on, man, let’s grab some food,” he said, leading Jungkook toward the kitchen, their footsteps fading into the hum of their conversation. You sat there, frozen, the book forgotten, your mind replaying the brief moment his eyes had met yours—a fleeting glance that felt like a spark igniting dry tinder.

You didn’t know it then, but that moment was the beginning, the first thread in a tapestry of longing that would weave itself through your life. Jungkook’s presence lingered in the air, a quiet storm that unsettled you, stirring feelings you weren’t ready to name. You tried to focus on your book, but the words danced on the page, meaningless, your thoughts consumed by the boy who’d just walked into your world.

Over the next few weeks, Jungkook became a fixture in your home, his visits a rhythm that synced with the beat of your heart. He and Minho were inseparable, their friendship forged on the basketball court and cemented in late-night gaming sessions that filled the living room with the clatter of controllers and the glow of the TV screen. Jungkook was reserved, his words sparse, his expressions carefully controlled, but his presence was undeniable, a gravitational pull that drew your attention no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

You noticed everything about him, cataloging details with the intensity of a scientist studying a rare specimen. The way his jaw tightened when he was deep in thought, a muscle ticking faintly under his skin. The faint scar above his left eyebrow, a thin silver line you longed to trace with your fingertip, wondering how he’d gotten it. The way his fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh when he sat on the couch, his long legs stretched out before him, his sneakers scuffed from hours on the court. His laugh, rare and soft, was a sound you hoarded like a treasure, each chuckle a glimpse into a warmth he kept hidden.

You stayed in your room when he was over, too nervous to linger in his orbit, your shyness a shield that kept you safe but isolated. Your cheeks would flush at the mere thought of him, a betraying warmth that spread from your face to your chest, and you’d retreat to the safety of your books and music, where you could daydream without fear of rejection. But even from your room, you could feel him—his presence a quiet hum that vibrated through the walls, a reminder that he was there, just out of reach.

Your crush was inevitable, a seedling planted that first day and nurtured by every glance, every accidental brush of shoulders in the hallway. It was a silly thing, you told yourself, a childish infatuation you’d outgrow. Jungkook was older, cooler, his world so far removed from yours. He was Minho’s best friend, a star on the basketball team, the kind of boy who turned heads without trying. And you— you were just you, a shy girl with braces and a body you hid, a girl who felt like she’d never belong in his universe.

But that first meeting, that fleeting moment when his eyes met yours, had planted a seed you couldn’t uproot. It was a spark, small but fierce, that would smolder quietly for years, waiting for the right moment to blaze into flame. You didn’t know it then, but Jungkook had seen you too, really seen you, and that single word—“Hey”—had been the beginning of something neither of you could escape.

You were fifteen now, a sophomore still navigating the awkward terrain of high school, your shyness a steadfast companion that kept you tethered to the edges of social circles. Your smile that you rarely showed, your body still a source of quiet shame—soft and rounded, with curves you hid beneath layers of oversized clothing. Your wardrobe was a fortress of baggy sweaters and loose jeans, each piece a shield against the mirror’s judgment, a way to obscure the hips and stomach you couldn’t bring yourself to love. The sanctuary of pastel walls and fairy lights in your room a refuge from the fluttering in your chest his presence always stirred. Your cheeks would flush at the mere thought of him, a betraying warmth that spread like wildfire, and you’d bury yourself in books or music, hoping to drown out the silly crush you were certain you’d outgrow.

But there were moments—small, electric moments—that pierced the veil of your self-imposed isolation, moments that lingered like the aftertaste of something sweet and forbidden. These encounters were rare, fleeting, but they burned themselves into your memory, each one a spark that fed the quiet flame of your feelings for Jungkook.

One such moment came on a chilly autumn evening, the air outside crisp with the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke, the house wrapped in a cozy stillness. Minho and Jungkook were sprawled in the living room, the low drone of an action movie—explosions and gunfire—filtering through the walls. You’d been in your room, curled on your bed with a novel, but the call of clean laundry had pulled you out, a wicker basket balanced awkwardly in your arms. The basket was heavy, stuffed with folded towels and clothes, its weight making you clumsy as you navigated the narrow upstairs hallway, the hardwood floor cool against your bare feet.

You didn’t see Jungkook until it was too late. Your foot caught on the edge of the rug, a frayed runner your mother had been meaning to replace, and the basket tipped, towels spilling onto the floor as you stumbled forward. A soft gasp escaped you, your face flaming with embarrassment, but before you could hit the ground, strong hands shot out, catching you. Jungkook’s grip was firm but gentle, his fingers wrapping around your upper arms, steadying you with an ease that made your heart stutter. His touch was warm, searing through the thin fabric of your oversized sweater—a faded gray one, the sleeves dangling past your wrists, the hem brushing your thighs over loose leggings.

“Careful,” he said, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling across a stormy sky. It was deep, gravelly, with a softness that caught you off guard, and it sent a shiver down your spine, pooling heat in your stomach. His dark eyes locked onto yours, intense and unreadable, their depths holding a quiet storm you couldn’t decipher. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you—the faint scent of his cologne, a heady mix of sandalwood, musk, and something faintly smoky, wrapping around you like a warm blanket; the subtle flex of his fingers against your arms, strong yet careful; the way his breath hitched slightly, a barely perceptible pause that made you wonder if he felt the same electricity you did.

Your cheeks burned, your mouth dry, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “S-sorry,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes dropping to the floor, where the spilled towels lay in a chaotic heap. You pulled away, the loss of his touch a small ache, and dropped to your knees, scrambling to gather the laundry, your movements frantic, as if you could outrun your embarrassment.

“S’okay,” Jungkook said, his voice softer now, a velvet caress that made your skin prickle. He crouched beside you, his movements deliberate, his long fingers brushing yours as he handed you a stray sock, the contact fleeting but electric. You froze, your breath catching, your fingers tingling where his skin had touched yours. His hands were calloused, rough from hours on the basketball court and the weight room, but his touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he helped you gather the towels, stacking them neatly back into the basket.

You dared to glance at him, and your heart skipped at the sight of his lips quirking into a rare, small smile—a subtle curve that softened the sharp lines of his face, revealing a warmth you rarely saw. His dark hair fell into his eyes, a few strands catching the hallway light, and you noticed the faint scar above his left eyebrow, a thin silver line that seemed to tell a story you longed to know. His black hoodie was slightly rumpled, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the beginnings of a tattoo on his forearm—a small, intricate design you couldn’t quite make out, its edges peeking from under the fabric. The sight of it sent a thrill through you, a glimpse into a side of him you hadn’t seen, a secret etched into his skin.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible, your cheeks flaming as you clutched the basket to your chest, a makeshift shield. You stood, your legs unsteady, and fled to your room, the door clicking shut behind you. Leaning against it, your breath came in ragged gasps, the memory of his touch, his smile, his eyes searing into you like a brand. You slid to the floor, the basket forgotten beside you, your heart a wild thing in your chest, your mind replaying the moment—the way his fingers had felt, the intensity of his gaze, the quiet promise in his smile.

It was nothing, you told yourself, just an accident, a moment he’d already forgotten. But you couldn’t shake the way he’d looked at you, the intensity that made you feel seen, even if just for a second. You pressed your hands to your cheeks, feeling the heat there, and wondered if he’d felt it too—the spark, the connection, the unspoken something that hung in the air like a held breath.

Another moment came a few months later, in the dead of winter, when the house was cloaked in the stillness of a late-night snowstorm. Your body still a battleground of insecurities, your oversized T-shirt and pajama shorts doing little to hide the curves you despised. The house was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of streetlamps filtering through the windows, casting long shadows across the walls. You’d crept downstairs for a glass of water, thinking everyone was asleep, your bare feet silent on the cold hardwood floor.

You froze when you saw Jungkook at the kitchen counter, a bottle of soda in his hand, his silhouette lit by the soft glow of the refrigerator light. He was shirtless, his basketball shorts low on his hips, revealing the lean muscles of his back, the faint outline of abs that caught the light, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into the waistband. His skin was smooth, a warm golden hue, with a faint sheen of sweat, as if he’d just come from a late-night workout or a restless bout of insomnia. A small tattoo—a crescent moon—adorned his left shoulder, its dark ink stark against his skin, a detail you’d never noticed before, one that made your breath catch, your fingers itching to trace its curves.

He looked up, and the air shifted, heavy with unspoken tension, the quiet of the house amplifying the moment. His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, the way your T-shirt clung to your chest, the soft swell of your breasts visible in the dim light. You felt exposed, your arms crossing instinctively over your body, your cheeks burning under his gaze. It was like a physical touch, warm and heavy, making your skin prickle, your heart race, your thighs press together in a futile attempt to quell the heat pooling low in your belly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, a velvet caress that wrapped around you, low and intimate in the quiet. It was a voice that could unravel you, each syllable weighted with a warmth that made your knees weak. He leaned against the counter, the soda bottle dangling from his fingers, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching you with an intensity that made you feel like the only person in the world.

You nodded, unable to form words, your throat tight, your mouth dry. “Yeah,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper, your hands trembling as you reached for a glass from the cabinet, the clink of it against the counter loud in the silence. You filled it with water, acutely aware of his gaze on your back, the weight of it like a hand on your skin, making your movements clumsy, your breath uneven.

You turned to leave, the glass cold against your palm, but his voice stopped you, a quiet thread in the dark. “You don’t come out much,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something deeper, something that made your heart stutter. “When I’m here, I mean.”

You froze, your back to him, your fingers tightening around the glass, the cold seeping into your skin. “I… I’m just shy,” you said, your voice small, your eyes fixed on the floor, where the moonlight pooled in silver patches. It was a half-truth, a shield to hide the real reason—you were terrified of him, not because he was unkind, but because he made you feel too much, too deeply, a longing you couldn’t control.

He hummed, a low sound that vibrated in your chest, rich and warm, like the first note of a song you wanted to hear forever. “You don’t have to be,” he said, and when you dared to glance over your shoulder, his eyes were on you, dark and unreadable, a faint smile playing on his lips, soft and fleeting. “Not with me.”

The words were simple, but they landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through you, stirring something you weren’t ready to face. His smile was a rare gift, a crack in his reserved facade, revealing a warmth that made your heart ache. His eyes held yours, steady and piercing, and for a moment, you felt seen—not just noticed, but seen, every hidden part of you laid bare under his gaze, accepted, wanted.

You mumbled something incoherent, your voice lost in the rush of blood in your ears, and fled, the water forgotten on the counter, your bare feet slapping against the floor as you hurried back to your room. You closed the door softly, your breath ragged, your heart a wild thing in your chest. You leaned against the wall, the cool plaster grounding you, and pressed your hands to your face, feeling the heat of your cheeks, the rapid thud of your pulse.

You replayed his words, his smile, the way his eyes had seemed to see straight through you, peeling back the layers of your shyness, your insecurities, to find the girl beneath. It was nothing, you told yourself, just your imagination, your silly crush spinning fantasies out of thin air. But as you climbed into bed, the moonlight casting silver patterns on your quilt, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted, a quiet promise whispered in the dark, waiting for the right moment to bloom.

These moments were rare, but they were everything, each one a bead on a string you wore close to your heart. They fueled your crush, a quiet ache that grew with every glance, every word, every accidental touch. You told yourself it was foolish, that Jungkook—older, cooler, reserved—would never see you as anything more than Minho’s shy little sister. But in the shadows of the hallway, in the quiet of the night, you let yourself dream, let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he saw you too.

The crush you harbored for Jungkook grew like a hidden vine, its roots sinking deeper into your heart with each passing day, entwining itself around your thoughts until it was as much a part of you as your own breath. It was a quiet ache, a longing that pulsed beneath your skin, nurtured by every fleeting glance, every rare word he spoke in your direction, every accidental brush of his presence that set your nerves alight. You were sixteen now, a junior in high school, still cloaked in the shyness that had defined you since childhood, your world a delicate balance of books, music, and the safety of your room. Your body remained a source of quiet shame—soft and rounded, with curves you hid beneath oversized sweaters and loose jeans, a fortress of fabric to shield you from the mirror’s judgment. Jungkook, at eighteen, was a senior, his presence in your home a constant, a rhythm that synced with the seasons, his friendship with Minho an unshakable force that filled the house with life.

Jungkook was a study in contrasts—reserved yet magnetic, his words sparse but his presence commanding, a quiet storm that drew your gaze no matter how hard you tried to look away. You noticed everything about him, your senses attuned to his every detail like a musician to a favorite melody. The way his dark hair fell into his eyes, a messy cascade of waves that he’d push back with an impatient hand, revealing the faint scar above his left eyebrow—a thin silver line you longed to trace, to learn its story. The subtle flex of his jaw when he was deep in thought, a muscle ticking faintly under his golden skin, a sign of the intensity he kept tightly leashed. The restless drum of his fingers against his thigh when he sat on the couch, his long legs stretched out, his sneakers scuffed from hours on the basketball court. His laugh, rare and soft, was a treasure you hoarded, a sound that warmed you from the inside out, a glimpse into a side of him he rarely showed.

Your shyness a barrier that kept you safe but isolated. The mere thought of him sent a flush to your cheeks, a betraying warmth that spread from your face to your chest, and you’d retreat to the sanctuary of your pastel walls, where fairy lights cast a soft glow and shelves of novels offered escape. Your crush was a secret you guarded fiercely, a silly infatuation you were certain you’d outgrow, a childish dream you told yourself was pointless. Jungkook was too old, too cool, too unattainable—Minho’s best friend, a star on the basketball team, a boy whose quiet intensity made girls at school whisper and blush. And you— you were just you, a shy girl with a body you hid and a heart you kept locked away, convinced he’d never see you as anything more than the kid sister who blushed and stammered in his presence.

But there were moments—small, electric moments—that made it hard to bury your feelings, moments that slipped through the cracks of your resolve like sunlight through a shuttered window. These encounters were rare, but they were everything, each one a bead on a string you wore close to your heart, a reminder that maybe, just maybe, there was something there, something unspoken but real.

One such moment came late one spring evening, when the air was thick with the scent of blooming lilacs and the promise of summer. Minho and Jungkook had been playing video games in the living room, their laughter and curses a familiar soundtrack that filtered through the walls of your room. You’d been curled on your bed, headphones on, lost in a playlist of soft indie songs, when hunger pulled you downstairs, a quiet craving for something sweet. The house was warm, the windows open to let in the evening breeze, the curtains swaying gently, casting dappled shadows on the hardwood floor.

You crept down the stairs, your oversized T-shirt—a faded black one with a band logo you barely recognized—falling to your thighs, your pajama shorts hidden beneath, your bare feet silent on the cool wood. The living room was a mess of chip bags and soda cans, the TV screen paused on a racing game, its neon colors casting a faint glow. Minho was nowhere in sight—likely in the bathroom or raiding the fridge—but Jungkook was there, sprawled on the couch, his head tipped back, eyes closed, his breathing slow and even. The moonlight spilled through the window, painting his features in silver, a soft halo that made him look almost ethereal.

He was beautiful, a statue carved from marble, his dark hair falling over his forehead, a few strands catching the light, his lips slightly parted, soft and full. His black tank top clung to his frame, revealing the lean muscles of his arms, the faint outline of his chest, the beginnings of a tattoo on his shoulder—a crescent moon, its ink stark against his golden skin, a detail you’d noticed before but never tired of seeing. His jeans were low on his hips, the waistband revealing a sliver of toned stomach, the sharp V of his hips a quiet temptation that made your breath catch. He looked peaceful, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw, and you stood there, frozen in the doorway, your heart aching with a want you couldn’t name, a longing to step closer, to touch, to know him in a way you never could.

You moved silently, intending to slip into the kitchen unnoticed, but the floor creaked under your weight, a sharp sound that shattered the quiet. Jungkook stirred, his eyes fluttering open, and you froze, caught in the act of staring, your cheeks flaming with embarrassment. His gaze found you, dark and piercing, a slow blink as he registered your presence, his lips curving into a faint, sleepy smile that made your knees weak.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice thick with sleep, a low rasp that sent a shiver down your spine, pooling heat in your stomach. It was a voice that could unravel you, each syllable weighted with a warmth that made your heart stutter. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, his tank top riding up to reveal more of his stomach, the faint trail of hair disappearing into his jeans, a detail that made your mouth dry.

“S-sorry,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, your hands twisting together, your eyes dropping to the floor, where the moonlight pooled in silver patches. “I was just… getting something. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He stretched, his muscles flexing, the tattoo on his shoulder shifting with the movement, and you tried not to stare, tried to focus on the floor, the wall, anything but him. “You didn’t wake me,” he said, his voice softer now, a velvet caress in the quiet. “I wasn’t really sleeping. Just… resting my eyes.”

You nodded, your throat tight, your fingers itching to reach for something, anything, to ground you. “Okay,” you mumbled, taking a step toward the kitchen, but his voice stopped you, a quiet thread in the dark.

“You’re always sneaking around,” he said, a teasing edge to his tone, his lips quirking into that rare smile, the one that felt like a gift. “Like a ghost. I barely see you when I’m here.”

You froze, your back to him, your heart pounding, the words landing like a stone in still water, sending ripples through you. “I’m not sneaking,” you protested weakly, turning slightly to face him, your eyes flickering to his, then away, too nervous to hold his gaze. “I just… don’t like bothering people.”

His smile widened, a soft chuckle escaping him, a sound so warm and rare it felt like a secret shared just with you. “You don’t bother me,” he said, his voice low, his eyes softening, holding yours for a moment too long. “You never could.”

The words were simple, but they struck you like a chord, resonating deep within your chest, stirring a hope you weren’t ready to face. His eyes were steady, piercing, a quiet intensity that made you feel seen—not just noticed, but seen, every hidden part of you laid bare, accepted, wanted. The moonlight caught the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble that dusted his chin, and you felt a pull, a longing to step closer, to bridge the distance between you.

You mumbled something incoherent, your voice lost in the rush of blood in your ears, and fled to the kitchen, your bare feet slapping against the floor. You grabbed a bag of cookies from the pantry, your hands trembling, the plastic crinkling loudly in the silence. You stood there, leaning against the counter, your heart a wild thing in your chest, the cookies forgotten as you replayed his words, his smile, the way his eyes had seemed to see straight through you.

When you finally returned to your room, the bag unopened, you closed the door softly, your breath ragged, your mind a whirlwind of what-ifs. You climbed into bed, the moonlight casting silver patterns on your quilt, and let yourself dream, let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he meant it—that you didn’t bother him, that you could be more than a ghost in his world.

Another moment came a few weeks later, during a rare quiet afternoon when Minho was out running errands and Jungkook had stayed behind, waiting for him to return. You’d been in your room, sketching in a notebook, your pencil scratching softly against the paper, when you heard the faint creak of the floorboards outside your door. You glanced up, your heart skipping, and saw Jungkook in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching you through the open door.

You froze, your pencil hovering over the page, your cheeks flushing as you realized he’d been standing there, silent, for who knew how long. He was wearing a black T-shirt, the fabric clinging to his frame, his jeans ripped at the knees, his hair tied back in a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame his face. The tattoo on his shoulder was visible, the crescent moon a stark contrast against his skin, and you wondered, not for the first time, what it meant, what stories it held.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his voice low, a quiet rumble that sent a shiver through you. His lips quirked into a small smile, his eyes flickering over your notebook, the half-finished sketch of a tree, its branches sprawling across the page. “You draw?”

You nodded, your throat tight, your hands clutching the notebook, a shield against his gaze. “Yeah,” you said, your voice small, your eyes dropping to the page, where the pencil lines seemed suddenly inadequate under his scrutiny. “It’s just… something I do.”

He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer, his boots scuffing softly against the floor. “Can I see?” he asked, his tone curious, not demanding, a softness that made your heart stutter.

You hesitated, your insecurities flaring, but his eyes were steady, encouraging, and you slowly handed him the notebook, your fingers brushing his as you did, the contact sending a jolt through you. His hands were warm, calloused, the roughness of them a contrast to the gentle way he held the notebook, his fingers tracing the edges of the page with care.

“It’s good,” he said, his voice genuine, his eyes lingering on the sketch, taking in the details—the gnarled branches, the delicate leaves, the shadows you’d shaded in with care. “Really good. You’ve got talent.”

You blushed, your cheeks burning, your hands twisting together in your lap. “Thanks,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible, your eyes fixed on the floor, where the sunlight spilled in golden patches. “It’s not… I mean, it’s just for fun.”

He handed the notebook back, his fingers brushing yours again, a deliberate slowness that made your breath catch. “You should show it off more,” he said, his voice low, his eyes meeting yours, holding them with a quiet intensity. “You’re good at this, Y/N. Don’t hide it.”

You nodded, unable to speak, your heart pounding, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. He lingered for a moment, his eyes flickering over your face, as if memorizing you, then turned and left, his footsteps fading down the hall. You sat there, the notebook open in your lap, your hands trembling, his words echoing in your mind—Don’t hide it. It felt like more than a comment on your drawing, a quiet plea that reached deeper, touching the parts of you you kept locked away.

You overheard Minho one night, late, when you were supposed to be asleep, his voice carrying through the thin walls of your house. He was on the phone, his tone casual, talking to a friend. “Jungkook’s never been into relationships,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “Girls are all over him, but he’s too cold, scares them off. I think he’s been into someone for a while, though. No clue who.”

The words were a knife, sharp and bittersweet, lodging in your heart. You wanted to believe it could be you, that the moments you shared—the glances, the smiles, the quiet words—meant something. But the mirror told a different story, reflecting back a girl who felt too big, too soft, too invisible. You weren’t the kind of girl Jungkook would want, not when he could have anyone—slender, confident girls who moved through the world with ease, who didn’t hide behind baggy clothes and closed doors.

So you buried your feelings, locked them away in a box you swore you’d never open, convinced they were a childish fantasy, a dream you’d outgrow. But in the quiet of your room, when the fairy lights glowed and the world was still, you let yourself imagine—a world where Jungkook saw you, really saw you, and wanted you just as fiercely as you wanted him. Those moments, those whispers of want, were enough to keep the flame alive, a quiet hope that refused to die, waiting for the day it might burn bright.

Time had woven its subtle threads through your life, reshaping the shy girl of your adolescence into a young woman navigating the complexities of adulthood. At twenty, you were a college student, your days a vibrant mosaic of literature lectures, coffee-fueled study sessions in dimly lit campus libraries, and tentative steps toward carving out a life beyond the shadows of your insecurities. The house, with its familiar creak of hardwood floors and the lingering scent of lavender from your mother’s beloved candles, remained your anchor, a haven you returned to on weekends. But your world had expanded—your dorm room, a small sanctuary on campus, was now your primary refuge, filled with the hum of city life and the quiet rhythm of your own growth. Your smile a little more confident, though still guarded, your chestnut hair now cascading in long, soft waves that shimmered in the sunlight, framing your face like a gentle halo. Yet your shyness persisted, a soft undercurrent that kept you on the periphery, and your body—still soft, still rounded with curves you couldn’t fully embrace—remained a quiet battleground of self-doubt. You clung to oversized clothes, hoodies and loose jeans your armor, a shield against the mirror’s relentless scrutiny and the world’s unspoken standards.

Your crush on Jungkook had not faded, despite your best efforts to bury it, to dismiss it as a childish infatuation you’d outgrow. It was a persistent ache, a ghost that haunted the quiet corners of your heart, stirred by the memory of his piercing dark eyes, the rare curve of his lips, the low, gravelly timbre of his voice that seemed to resonate in your bones. You’d tried to move on, dipping your toes into the shallow waters of dating—brief, fleeting connections with boys who were kind but unremarkable, their touches soft but uninspiring, their words fading like echoes in a vast emptiness. None of them were Jungkook. None carried the weight of his presence, the intensity that made your breath hitch, your pulse race, your body hum with a longing you couldn’t name. You poured yourself into your studies, your friendships, your small victories—a well-received essay, a shared laugh over coffee, a moment of feeling enough—but Jungkook remained, a quiet melody woven into the fabric of your thoughts, a yearning that refused to be silenced.

Jungkook, now twenty-three, had forged a path that seemed to exist in a different universe from yours. He was a tattoo artist, his talent a whispered legend in the local underground scene, his name synonymous with artistry and precision. His arms were a living canvas, adorned with intricate ink—swirling constellations of stars, a fierce wolf baring its teeth, abstract patterns that flowed like water, each design a story etched into his golden skin. His body was a testament to years of discipline, lean and muscular, every movement deliberate, exuding a quiet strength that made the air around him feel charged. His dark hair, often pulled back in a loose bun, revealed the sharp planes of his face—the chiseled jaw, the faint stubble that dusted his chin, the silver piercing in his eyebrow that caught the light like a star. He was still reserved, a man of few words, but his presence was a force, his dark eyes capable of unraveling you with a single glance, their intensity a storm that left you breathless, your heart a captive to their depth.

You saw him less now, your schedules a tangled web of mismatched hours, your lives diverging like rivers seeking different seas. When you did cross paths, it was fleeting—a nod in the hallway of your family home, a small smile that felt like a rare gift, a moment that lingered in your mind long after he was gone. These encounters were scarce, but they were enough to keep the flame of your feelings alive, a spark that flared with every glimpse of him. You’d catch him at the house occasionally, dropping by to see Minho, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, his boots scuffed from city streets, his cologne—a rich blend of sandalwood, musk, and a faint smoky undertone—lingering in the air like a promise. Each time, you’d retreat to your room, your cheeks flushed, your heart pounding, convincing yourself it was nothing, that he was just Minho’s friend, that he’d never see you the way you saw him. But the distance only sharpened your longing, the absence of him a weight that pressed against your chest, a quiet ache that followed you through your days.

One spring evening, the air cool and fragrant with the scent of budding jasmine, you returned to your dorm after a grueling day of classes. Your backpack, heavy with textbooks and notes, thudded to the floor as you kicked off your sneakers, the soles worn from countless treks across campus. Your dorm room was a small, intimate space, a cocoon of comfort amidst the chaos of college life. The walls were adorned with Polaroid photos—snapshots of friends, sunsets, and quiet moments—pinned alongside strings of fairy lights that cast a warm, golden glow, their soft hum a soothing backdrop. The bed was a nest of pillows and a quilt in shades of blue and green, its patchwork pattern a gift from your grandmother, carrying the faint scent of her rosewater perfume. A small desk by the window was cluttered with notebooks, pens, and a ceramic mug stained with coffee rings, the city lights twinkling beyond the glass, a constellation of life moving on outside.

You sank onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, your body heavy with exhaustion but your mind restless, a familiar restlessness that always seemed to lead to him—Jungkook. You hadn’t seen him in weeks, not since a brief encounter at the house when he’d stopped by to see Minho, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, his hair tied back in a messy bun, a few strands falling into his eyes. His gaze had caught yours for a heartbeat, a fleeting moment that felt like a spark igniting dry tinder, before you’d mumbled an excuse and fled to your room, your heart racing. That moment had lingered, his eyes a flame that hadn’t faded, a heat that coiled low in your belly, persistent and unyielding.

You lay back, the quilt soft beneath you, its texture a gentle caress against your skin, the fairy lights casting intricate patterns on the ceiling, like stars scattered across a twilight sky. Your hoodie—a faded gray one, oversized and worn to softness—swallowed your frame, the sleeves dangling past your wrists, your leggings loose and comfortable, clinging to the curves you hid. You closed your eyes, letting your thoughts drift to Jungkook, his image vivid and consuming. You pictured his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble that roughened his chin, the silver piercing in his eyebrow glinting under the light. You imagined his eyes, dark and piercing, their intensity a quiet storm that saw through you, stripping away your insecurities to find the woman beneath. His voice, that low, gravelly rumble, echoed in your mind, saying your name with a softness that made your breath hitch, a promise woven into each syllable.

Your hand drifted to your stomach, your fingers tracing the soft curve beneath your hoodie, the fabric warm from your body, its texture a faint comfort against the rising heat. The thought of Jungkook was a spark, igniting a fire that spread through your limbs, making your skin prickle, your breath quicken. You imagined his hands—strong, calloused from hours wielding a tattoo needle, the fingers long and deft, marked by faint ink stains, the ones that had steadied you in a hallway years ago. You pictured those hands on you, peeling away your hoodie, your leggings, revealing the body you hid, worshipping it with a reverence that silenced your doubts. The fantasy was vivid, sensory—his cologne, rich and smoky, filling your lungs, the roughness of his stubble grazing your cheek, the warmth of his breath against your neck.

Your hand slipped lower, beneath the waistband of your leggings, your fingers brushing the soft cotton of your underwear, already damp with the evidence of your desire. The fabric was warm, clinging to your skin, the sensation sending a shiver through you, a quiet gasp escaping your lips, swallowed by the stillness of the room. You traced the edge of your folds through the cotton, teasingly slow, your fingers trembling with anticipation, the heat pooling low in your belly, a slow burn that made your thighs press together. You pushed the underwear aside, your fingers finding your slick heat, the texture soft and wet, a delicate sensitivity that made your breath hitch, your hips shift against the quilt, its patchwork pattern a faint friction against your skin.

You circled your clit slowly, the pressure light but deliberate, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure through you, your body responding with a quiet hum. The room was warm, the air thick with the scent of your lavender candle, its flame flickering on the desk, casting dancing shadows on the walls, their movement a soft counterpoint to the rhythm of your fingers. Your breath came in soft pants, your lips parting, a quiet moan slipping free as you imagined Jungkook’s lips on your neck, his tongue tracing the curve of your collarbone, his teeth grazing lightly, a delicious sting that made you arch into him. You pictured his eyes, locked on yours, dark and hungry, seeing you, wanting you, his voice a low growl, “You’re so fucking beautiful, Y/N. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Your fingers moved faster, the pressure building, your hips rocking against your hand, the quilt’s texture a gentle abrasion against your thighs, the fairy lights blurring into a golden haze. You imagined Jungkook’s hands on your hips, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours, the hard length of him evident through his jeans, a promise of what could be. You pictured the tattoo on his shoulder, the crescent moon stark against his golden skin, your fingers tracing its curves, feeling the warmth of him, the flex of his muscles as he moved. The fantasy deepened, his lips trailing lower, kissing the soft swell of your breasts, his tongue circling your nipple, the sensation sharp and electric, making you gasp, your fingers dipping lower, slipping inside your wet heat, the stretch a delicious ache.

The air was heavy with the scent of lavender and the faint musk of your arousal, a quiet intimacy that enveloped you, grounding you in the moment. Your moans grew louder, soft and breathy, filling the small room, your body trembling as the pleasure built, a wave cresting higher with every stroke, every imagined touch. You pictured Jungkook’s hands roaming lower, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples, making you arch into him, your body a live wire under his touch. You imagined his lips on yours, hungry and desperate, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, his voice a low rumble, “I need you, Y/N. I’ve always needed you.”

Your fingers worked in rhythm, circling your clit, dipping inside, the slick heat of your pussy a soft, pulsing warmth that made your head spin, your thighs tremble. The quilt was warm beneath you, its fabric a gentle anchor, the fairy lights casting a golden glow that felt like a lover’s touch. Your orgasm came suddenly, a white-hot wave that crashed over you, leaving you trembling, your breath ragged, your fingers slick as you rode out the aftershocks, your moans softening into quiet whimpers. Your body shuddered, your hips slowing, the pleasure lingering like the afterglow of a sunset, warm and golden.

You lay there, panting, your heart pounding, the room spinning slightly, the fairy lights a soft blur above you. The quilt was damp beneath you, the air heavy with the scent of your release, the lavender candle’s flame a steady flicker in the corner of your vision. Guilt crept in, a familiar shadow, but you pushed it away, letting yourself linger in the fantasy, in the imagined warmth of Jungkook’s arms, his voice, his love. You withdrew your hand, wiping it on a tissue from the bedside table, the paper soft but cool against your heated skin, and curled onto your side, pulling the quilt over you, its weight a comforting embrace. The city lights twinkled beyond the window, a reminder of the world moving on, and you closed your eyes, Jungkook’s face the last thing you saw before sleep claimed you.

Weeks later, a different night brought a new layer to the quiet longing that bound you to Jungkook, a moment that would sear itself into his memory with a ferocity he couldn’t shake. It was a rare weekend when you’d returned to the house on Maple Street, the familiar creak of the floors and the lavender-scented air a balm after a hectic week of exams. Minho had invited Jungkook over, their plan a late-night gaming session, but you’d retreated to your room early, exhausted, your body heavy with the weight of deadlines and unspoken desires. Your room was as it always was—a sanctuary of pastel blues, fairy lights strung along the walls, shelves groaning under the weight of novels, the quilt on your bed a patchwork of memories.

You’d fallen asleep without meaning to, your body sinking into the mattress, the quilt tangled around your legs, your oversized T-shirt—a soft, faded gray one—riding up to reveal the soft curve of your waist, the swell of one breast spilling free, its nipple hardened by the cool night air. The window was cracked open, letting in a gentle breeze that stirred the curtains, their sheer fabric swaying like ghosts in the moonlight. The fairy lights cast a soft glow, bathing you in a golden halo, your chestnut hair fanned across the pillow, a few strands clinging to your cheek, your lips slightly parted, a quiet sigh escaping in your sleep.

Jungkook, restless after Minho had crashed on the couch, had wandered upstairs, intending to grab a glass of water from the kitchen but drawn inexplicably to the hallway outside your room. Your door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the dark corridor, and he paused, his breath catching as he saw you—sprawled across the bed, vulnerable and breathtaking, your body a quiet offering to the night. His eyes locked on the exposed curve of your breast, the soft, creamy skin glowing in the fairy light, the nipple a dark, tempting peak that made his mouth water, his throat tighten. The sight was a punch to the gut, a surge of desire so fierce it nearly brought him to his knees, his cock stirring in his jeans, a heavy, insistent ache that demanded release.

He stood frozen, his heart pounding, his breath shallow, the air thick with the scent of lavender and the faint musk of your sleeping form. He knew he should leave, should turn away, but his feet were rooted to the floor, his eyes drinking you in, memorizing every detail—the soft rise and fall of your chest, the delicate curve of your neck, the way your fingers curled loosely against the quilt, as if reaching for something in your dreams. His hand twitched at his side, itching to touch, to trace the lines of you, to feel the warmth of your skin under his fingers, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. You were Minho’s sister, a line he’d sworn never to cross, but the sight of you—open, unguarded, beautiful—shattered his resolve, leaving him raw and wanting.

He retreated to the bathroom down the hall, locking the door with a soft click, his breath ragged, his body humming with need. The small space was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a nightlight, the air cool against his heated skin, the tiles cold under his bare feet. He leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the edge, the porcelain smooth and unyielding, his reflection in the mirror a shadowed figure, eyes dark with desire, jaw clenched with restraint. His leather jacket was slung over the towel rack, his black T-shirt clinging to his muscled frame, his jeans tight against the growing bulge of his cock, the denim a painful constraint.

He palmed himself through the fabric, a low groan escaping his lips, the sound swallowed by the quiet of the house. The pressure was immediate, a spark of pleasure that made his hips buck, his breath hitch, the denim rough against his sensitive skin. He unbuttoned his jeans, the zipper loud in the silence, and shoved them down, his boxers following, his cock springing free—thick, hard, the tip glistening with precum, a bead that caught the faint light. He wrapped his hand around himself, his grip firm, the callouses on his palm a rough contrast to the silken heat of his shaft, and began to stroke, slow and deliberate, his eyes closing as he let the fantasy take hold.

He pictured you, still sprawled on that bed, your breast exposed, your body soft and inviting, your lips parted in a quiet moan as he touched you. He imagined crawling onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, the quilt soft beneath his knees, your skin warm under his hands as he traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, feeling it harden further under his touch. He pictured your eyes fluttering open, dark and heavy with desire, your voice a soft whimper, “Jungkook,” as he leaned down, his lips capturing yours, the kiss hungry and desperate, his tongue tasting the sweetness of you.

His strokes quickened, his hand slick with precum, the wet sound of his movements filling the small space, a quiet rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart. He imagined spreading your thighs, the quilt falling away, revealing the glistening heat of your pussy, soft and wet, pulsing with need. He pictured his fingers slipping inside you, the warmth of your walls clenching around him, your moans loud and desperate, your hips rocking against his hand, your voice a broken plea, “Please, Jungkook, I need you.” He imagined taking you, his cock sliding into your wet heat, the stretch a delicious ache, your body arching beneath him, your nails digging into his back, leaving marks, your moans filling the room, a symphony of want.

The air was heavy with the scent of his arousal, the faint musk of his sweat, the cool tiles a stark contrast to the heat of his skin, the mirror reflecting his shadowed form, his muscles flexing with each stroke. His breath came in ragged pants, his lips parting, a low groan escaping as he pictured your body trembling beneath him, your pussy clenching around his cock, your voice a desperate cry, “Jungkook, I’m coming,” as you shattered, your orgasm pulling him over the edge, his release hot and thick, spilling over his hand, his hips bucking, his moans soft but fervent.

He leaned against the sink, his breath ragged, his body trembling, the aftershocks of his orgasm lingering like a fading echo. The tiles were cold under his feet, the air cool against his flushed skin, the mirror showing a man undone, his eyes heavy with desire and guilt, his chest heaving with the weight of what he’d done. He cleaned himself with a tissue, the paper soft but cold, and pulled his jeans back up, the denim rough against his sensitive skin. He stood there, his hands gripping the sink, his reflection a reminder of the line he’d crossed, the desire he couldn’t bury, the love he couldn’t voice.

He slipped out of the bathroom, the hallway dark and silent, your door still ajar, your sleeping form a quiet temptation he forced himself to ignore. He returned to the living room, sinking onto the couch beside a snoring Minho, his heart heavy, his body sated but his soul restless. He didn’t know it then, but that stolen glimpse, that moment of surrender, had bound him to you even tighter, a thread in a tapestry of longing that would soon pull you both into its embrace.

The weeks stretched on, and Jungkook remained a distant presence, a shadow you glimpsed in passing but never held. You saw him at the house sometimes, brief moments that felt like both a gift and a wound—him leaning against the kitchen counter, a bottle of water in hand, his eyes catching yours for a heartbeat before you looked away; him sprawled on the couch, his leather jacket draped over the armrest, his laugh a rare sound that warmed you from the inside out. Each encounter was a spark, a reminder of the feelings you’d tried to bury, the crush that refused to fade.

You threw yourself into your studies, your literature classes a refuge, the words a balm for your restless heart. You spent hours in the library, the scent of old books and coffee grounding you, your laptop open to essays and notes, your friends a quiet comfort with their shared laughter and late-night study sessions. You tried to build a life where you felt enough, where your body wasn’t a source of shame, where your shyness didn’t feel like a chain. But Jungkook was always there, a quiet ache in the background, a longing that followed you through the campus, the coffee shops, the quiet of your dorm.

You didn’t know it then, but he was watching you too, his own feelings a secret he kept locked away, a quiet storm brewing in his chest. The distance between you was a chasm, but it was one you’d soon cross, the weight of absence giving way to a collision neither of you could avoid. For now, you carried him in your heart, a ghost you couldn’t shake, a dream you couldn’t wake from, and in the quiet of your room, you let yourself want him, let yourself believe that maybe, one day, he’d want you too.

[sabrinacocksucker]

Bloodlines entwined: I | jjk

⤷ having a baby alone was supposed to be easy. but an accidental twist of fate pulled you into a hidden world of werewolves, and ancient bloodlines. navigating your already complicated life becomes even harder as you uncover your past; one tied to a legacy you never knew existed. and in the middle of this chaos stands jungkook, the werewolf king… and the father of your child. 

—  pairing: werewolf!jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: strangers to lovers, parents-to-be au, royalty au, werewolves au, soulmates au, angst, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  words: 7,213

—  warnings: strong language, mention of death, mention of murder, mention of loneliness, mention of blood, several mentions of abortion, and crying

—  author’s note: here it is the first chapter of this series! <3 i’m actually very excited about this entire universe, i’ve been working on it for a little while already & i’ve been taking my time to write each part 🤗 the beginning is inspired by Jane the Virgin and the Flash as they are both my favorite shows ✨ i hope you’ll enjoy this part & don’t hesitate to let me know what you think 😊  

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Chapter I: when worlds collide

SERIES MASTERLIST | next

Sitting in your car, you’ve been looking blinkingly at the windshield, hands trembling against the steering wheel. For ten whole minutes, you’ve been frozen like this as if moving would shatter the fragile sense of calm you’ve barely managed to hold together.

Your life is about to drastically change; you know it deep down.  

“The deed is done,” you whisper to yourself.

You let out a shaky breath, and your reflection in the rearview mirror catches your eye. You look exhausted, your eyes wide and glistening.

For two years, this moment has been building. You have thoughtfully considered having a child on your own. At first, it was just a random thought that crossed your mind, a curiosity born on one of those quiet, lonely moments where life felt both too much and not enough. Then, you deeply thought about it. The idea rooted itself deep within you, anchoring into something raw and tender: a longing to create a family on your own terms. 

After much research and consideration, you decided to go for it.

Many people couldn’t understand your choice, but honestly, you don’t give two shits about others’ opinions. What did matter to you was the support of close family and friends.

Felix, the man who raised you after your parents were stolen from you, proposed to accompany you to the fertility clinic, but you gently declined his offer. This was something you wanted to do by yourself. Well, you just came alone to be inseminated. Other than that, he has been by your side every step of the way.

He helped you to go through the countless donor profiles, and every document needed for this adventure of yours.

The process was a bit long and emotionally draining. The first steps were more like an evaluation, mostly for the clinic to understand your reasons and ensure you’ve deeply thought about all the aspects. Having a kid alone isn’t just about fulfilling your dreams but also about building a life for a child.

Once you’ve successfully completed those steps, you had to choose the donor. There were a lot of choices; it was like going grocery shopping. You were handed a catalog of potential donors with their medical histories and first names. It felt odd to be choosing the progenitor like this. After going through every profile, one of them stood out.

Following the donor selection, your cycles and hormone levels were tracked. When all was good, you’d get inseminated on your ovulation period, which technically is happening this week.  

So, ten minutes ago, you walked out of the clinic after being artificially knocked up.

If your egg is fertilized, in nine months, you’ll welcome your very much desired baby. A tiny human who will call you mom. You already picked the names, one for a girl, one for a boy. You simply can’t wait to welcome a tiny human in your life. Hopefully, the life of your baby will be better than yours.

You lean your head against the steering wheel, closing your eyes as the ghosts of your past surface.

Twenty years ago, your life was turned upside down when a terrible murderer put an end to your parents’ lives. Nobody ever found him or her; it’s like the person completely vanished into the night. That person left behind a little girl with questions nobody could ever answer and scars nobody could understand.  

Since you didn’t have any family left, you were raised by your father’s best friend, Felix. Over time, he became like a second father to you. Even though you were full of anger when he took you over, he stayed by your side and helped you navigate this sad reality; one where your parents weren’t part of anymore.

His daughter, Lexi is your age. You were already so close, and living under the same roof brought you even closer. She’s your super best friend, almost like a sister today. A smile grows on your face as you think of her. Your life would have been a nightmare without her.

Lexi was the first person to be aware of this desire to become a single mother. She even pushed you to do it as soon as you could, and she has encouraged you like nobody else. She also helped you select a donor; she even made fun of the names of some of them.

Your phone buzzes; the name and picture of Lexi appearing on the screen.

“Hi,” you say when you pick up.

“Soo,” she says. “How did it go?”

“Good, I guess?” you say with clear hesitation. “The doctor just inserted a thin catheter, looked at the screen, and said it was done,” you explain. “Now we just have to wait.”

Waiting is now the worst part, especially since you decided not to take any pregnancy test until the next appointment. Meaning, you have to wait two full weeks.

“Let’s hope the donor’s little swimmers are good ones,” she says.

While you always wanted to have a kid, Lexi never wanted one. You and her are total opposites but that’s what helped create such a strong bond between you. “Yeah, let’s hope for that,” you smile.  

Two weeks later

A couple of days ago, you took a blood test, and now, you’re in the waiting room, patiently waiting for the doctor to call you up.

These past two weeks, you’ve been internally battling to take a pregnancy test. It’s been hard to fight the urge to discover beforehand if you’re expecting or not. On your way to the clinic, your heart was beating extremely fast with nervousness. Even the music playing in the car didn’t seem to calm you down.

Even though you’re extremely nervous, a part of you knows. You can’t explain it, but you feel it deep down. Two nights ago, you were lying in bed completely exhausted after an intense day at work. The rhythm of your heartbeat was rocking you to sleep. Amidst the thrum of your own heart, you swear you could hear a faint, smaller, and quicker rhythm.

You instantly opened your eyes, scanning the room. The sound wasn’t coming from outside. It felt like it was inside you. You stayed perfectly still, listening to that tiny sound. That night, you were rocked to sleep by that new rhythm.

The morning after, as you caught your reflection in the bathroom’s mirror, something felt off. Your brows furrowed as you noticed your own scent was different. It felt like it was mixed with somebody else’s scent, but it wasn’t as strong as yours or any other living human. It was extremely odd.

After a little while, the doctor says your name, and with shaky legs, you walk to her office. Your heart is beating at a very crazy pace, ready to burst at any moment. This is so stressful; it feels like time is moving so slowly.

“Hello yn,” the doctor smiles at you while you’re entering the room. “How have you been feeling?” you now take a seat.

“I’m good, thanks,” you smile back at her.

She sits down at her desk and takes a look at her computer.

“So, did you take any pregnancy test?” she asks.

“No, no,” you answer. “I wanted to keep the surprise for today.”

“I see,” she looks again at her screen before taping on her keyboard.

She seems to quickly read something before her smile widens. Your heart is going completely crazy. It really makes you nervous, and you try to mentally prepare yourself to receive the bad news as well. It’ll definitely break your heart but you’ll try again.  

This entire process is quite expensive, but the payment can be spread out over time rather than made in one shot. With this first payment, you have the right to three attempts. If pregnancy isn’t achieved after those attempts, you’ll have to go through another round and pay for additional attempts.

The doctor mentioned that usually, it takes about three to six attempts to achieve a successful pregnancy. Hopefully, you’ll get pregnant within those first three tries. You’re not entirely sure you’ll be able to afford another round of insemination.   

“Well, it looks like it only took you one try to conceive,” she informs you.

And right there, your heart bursts with joy. There’s indeed a little human being growing inside you. You’ll become a mother in nine months. You can’t believe it.

A little tear runs down your face as you hear the good news. It’s such a relief. You won't have to worry about coming back for another round.

“That’s good news,” you clean the tear on your cheek.

“It is indeed,” she says. “In four weeks more or less, we’ll plan an ultrasound to confirm the embryo’s implantation and check for a heartbeat,” she adds.

Well, you’ll still get worried about that because maybe until there, your baby will not survive. But you need to remain positive. No need to start stressing about it; you promised yourself that you’ll try to remain calm the entirety of the process and pregnancy so you’ll offer a great beginning of life to your baby.

“I’m very hopeful everything will go well because both you and the donor are in good health,” she says.

“Let’s hope for that,” you answer.

You then proceed to schedule the next appointment in four weeks. You can’t hide the immense smile on your face. This is the best news you got today. Nothing else will ever be possible to ruin this day.

When you leave the clinic, you instantly call Lexi.

“I AM PREGNANT!” you scream with excitement.

“Yeeeah,” she screams as well. “I’m going to be an aunty!” she adds.

“I’m so relieved that this first attempt was successful,” you admit.

Once you get inside your car, you touch your belly to caress it.

“That baby is so lucky to have you as a mother,” she says after. “And even more lucky to join our family.”

For sure, your family will extremely love this baby. It’s such a desired baby, and everybody has been so excited.

“They’ll be so loved,” you reply.

“There’s absolutely no doubt,” she says. “Dad will be so happy about this news; he’s been so excited to become a grandpa.”

Felix has expressed lately that he couldn’t wait to welcome a baby and become a granddad. This man has raised you for twenty years, and you consider him as a second father. There’s no doubt that your baby will see him as their grandfather even if, biologically speaking, he isn’t.

When you hang up, you stare into the void for a couple of minutes. In this moment, you wish your parents would be here. They would have been so happy to become grandparents, but they won’t be by your side for this new chapter of your life.

They are also the reason why you’re doing all of this. Since they passed, there’s been a tremendous emptiness inside you that even the love of Felix couldn’t fill in. This void stems mostly from the fact that you were left alone when they were killed. You’ve been feeling so lonely since then.

Throughout your life, you tried to fill it with relationships but they all failed. As far as you can remember, you wanted to follow the traditional path to build a family. However, it never worked out. Then, one day, you saw a brochure about single mothers, and you’ve been thinking about it since then.

You’ve seen motherhood as a role that will fill this emotional void you’ve been carrying for years. Plus, you’ve also seen it as a way to finally control your life. Twenty years ago, someone decided for you what your life would become. This wasn’t fair.

And you also want to give your baby the life you never got. You want to give them a loving family that won’t disappear the second the parents die. Outside of your parents, you didn’t have a family. Based on what Felix told you, your grandparents were against your parents' relationship so they moved into another city to live freely and build a family.

Life hasn’t been fair for you, but you want to make it fair for your baby.

Two weeks later

The clinic called you this morning to urgently come in the afternoon, only making you grow concerned during the day. You kept wondering what the reason for such urgency would be. Did they notice something when they did the blood test? Did they get the wrong blood test? Are you even really pregnant? 

However, you’re a hundred percent sure you’re carrying a life inside you. You haven’t had the ‘normal’ early symptoms yet, but you can feel your baby inside you. The faint heartbeat can still be heard, and there’s still that subtle scent interwoven with yours.

For the past two weeks, you’ve repeatedly inhaled this new scent, almost to make sure you weren’t hallucinating. Most of the time, you wondered if it wasn’t something like blood, sweat, or the smell of your new shampoo. It was definitely an earthly one. One that only a human can possess.

Once inside the clinic, you’re instantly installed in the doctor’s room. Your heart is crazily beating inside your chest; you’re so nervous right now. Seconds later, a man joins you in the room.

At first glance, you’d think he is the CEO of a huge company. He’s fully dressed in a black suit with a white shirt underneath, his hands casually placed in his pants pockets. This man is extremely charismatic; something about him draws you in.  

The man looks at you while frowning, his eyes moving from your eyes to your belly. By reflex, you cover your stomach with your hands. He’s making you uncomfortable with his intense stare.

He has a very strong bestial scent, it predominates his cologne. Everything about him is imposing, even the way his heart beats; it’s so calm while yours is completely erratic. The man’s eyes are clued on you.

The doctor arrives right after and closes the door behind her. Her face is quite serious; she even seems concerned.

“Miss y/l/n,” she takes a seat at her desk. “Mister Jeon,” she looks at the man behind you. “Please take a seat.”

The two of you sit down next to each other with apprehension. You can hear his heart beating a little faster, but he remains extremely calm on the outside.  

“There’s been a mistake,” she starts saying.

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The doctor pauses, giving you time to absorb the gravity of the statement. Her tone is gentle, but at the same time professional.  

The sterile, cold walls of the room seem to close in around you as the doctor’s words pierce through your thoughts.

“There was a mix-up with the sample…” your breath is caught in your throat, your hands trembling. “We were supposed to inseminate you with the donor sample you selected. We still don’t know how but you got inseminated with Mister Jeon’s sample.”

Your eyes look at the man sitting next to you. All you can see in his eyes is the same disbelief that reflects your own. So, this is your child’s father.  

Many questions cross your mind, but they remain unspoken, lodged in your throat.

“We truly apologize for our mistake,” she says. “We were totally aware you both wanted to have a child alone.”

You desired nothing more than being alone in this adventure; you didn’t want a present father. That was the whole point of a donor. Now, you know the father of your child, and he’d probably like to be present.

For the past months, you went through a series of questions regarding the fact that you’ll raise your child alone. They asked you many times how you’d explain to your child that they don’t have a father. This now feels like a complete waste of time.

“We understand the nature of this situation. We will refund the totality of the treatment’s costs. We can also terminate the pregnancy if you both wish.”

Those words seem so heavy and yet, they represent the reality of the choice you now have to face. A knot tightens in your stomach at the thought of undoing something you wished for so long. The baby is now growing inside of you, you’ve got used to falling asleep with their tiny heartbeat. The only thought of not having it anymore breaks your heart beyond comprehension.

Right now, everything—your carefully constructed plans, your hopes, the small life growing inside you—seems to be slipping through your fingers.

Mister Jeon is silent beside you, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. He seems as stunned as you, but you can’t help but think that there’s something else there too. Something deeper and darker.

You ignore if he’s thinking the same thing as you, but you can feel it: the strange twist of fate pulling you both into an unknown world, one you both hadn’t planned for.

“You still have some time to decide, of course,” the doctor’s voice is still very soft.

Time seems irrelevant now. There’s a choice you need to make; a choice you didn’t expect to face. You swallow hard, your heart racing inside your chest. Your hands caress your belly through your shirt while you only hear the baby’s fragile heartbeat.

This isn’t supposed to happen. This can’t be real.

Jungkook’s face went pale as the doctor’s words sank in.

“There’s been a mistake,” she starts saying.

Just like you, the room’s white walls feel suffocating, the air thick with a tension he can’t shake. A mistake. His mistake. He tried to avoid this situation. He was supposed to go through surrogacy to guarantee a child that would uphold his lineage. His werewolf lineage, pure and untouched by human blood.

“There was a mix-up with the sample…” the doctor’s words hang up in the air like a death sentence. “We were supposed to inseminate you with the donor sample you selected. We still don’t know how but you got inseminated with Mister Jeon’s sample.”

His eyes quickly look at you, and he notices how much you’re shaking. It seems like you’re in a more devasted state than he is.  

“We truly apologize for our mistake,” she says. “We were totally aware you both wanted to have a child alone.”

Jungkook blinks, trying to absorb what is happening. A human child. Nonetheless, his child. Having children with humans isn’t just a personal choice; it’s a fundamental rule of the werewolf society. The very foundation of his power as the king depends on the purity of his bloodline. To break the rule is to risk everything.

He knows better than anyone what happens to the werewolf-human hybrid kids together with the parents. They are killed by the pack. Being a king doesn’t make him the exception to the rule. If this pregnancy goes to full term, not only will he be killed, but the baby and the lady sitting next to him will too.  

You didn’t ask for any of this. You don’t deserve to die because of a mistake. 

His gaze filled with frustration and panic moves toward you once more as his pulse quickens. He wanted control over the situation. He never intended to father a hybrid child. And now, not only is he involved in this pregnancy, but the child is going to carry his blood mixed with human genetics. God only knows what can happen to this kid, genetically speaking.

“We understand the nature of this situation. We will refund the totality of the treatment costs. We can also terminate the pregnancy if you both wish.”

‘This can’t be happening’, he thinks.

His eyes move back to the doctors, his hands clenched into fists. The thought of the entire werewolf community learning of this is unbearable. And what is his mother going to think of this?

She was the first person to support him in this surrogacy journey. She knew how important it was for him to have a child as soon as possible because he’d been struggling to find someone with whom he’d mate. Having an heir is the first thing a king should do to ensure the legacy.

Now, he’s about to have a child with a human. That’s not possible. This child won’t have a pure bloodline, this child can’t ever be an heir.     

“You still have some time to decide, of course,” the doctor’s voice is still very soft.

The idea of termination seems dreadful, but the possibility of a hybrid child heir seems even worse. His responsibility as king, and the traditions that have been in place for centuries don’t allow for such breach. To raise a kid with human blood would mean instant disgrace, not only for him but for his entire family. How could he even be respected after this?

His entire world is slipping through his fingers. His position as king is now in jeopardy. This baby will destabilize the entire werewolf community. Nobody will respect him and will only see him as weak. Weak for having a human child.

There’s no going back. His mind tries to find a solution to fix this, or how to undo this. The idea of raising a child with a human—no matter how much it is his responsibility—is unthinkable. He never desired this and hasn’t even considered it. He has been so focused on maintaining his bloodline that the idea of a mistake happening never crossed his mind.

Your presence beside him destabilizes him beyond comprehension. He can see the confusion in your eyes mixed with disbelief. You can’t comprehend the extension of this entire problem. You can’t even comprehend the danger of mixing bloodlines, because you aren’t a werewolf.

Jungkook stands in silence for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts. Terminating this pregnancy isn’t something he desires, but having a child with a human is simply impossible. His heart beats too crazily, and he can hear yours beating just as fast. His heart and duty are pulling him in two different directions.

Finally, his eyes meet yours. His voice is soft but it carries a heavy weight. “We need to decide. This affects both of us.”

After what felt like an eternity, you both leave the room completely shaken up by the news you just got. How could this be happening?

As you’re both walking in the clinic in the parking lot’s direction, none of you dares to speak. You’re a complete stranger to Jungkook. All he knows is that you’re a human carrying his child. 

“I can’t have that child,” he finally breaks the silence.

His words cause you to stop.

“It’s too early for me to consider terminating this pregnancy,” you admit. “I need time.”

Jungkook understands your perspective. It’s not a decision you lightly take, especially if you’ve come to this clinic to have a child. It’d be completely absurd to abort after going through this entire process.

“Of course,” he says. “But I want you to know my point of view.”

You nod, understanding his perspective as well. This is such a horrible situation. Jungkook wanted to have an heir while you simply wanted to have a child on your own. On top of that, he doesn’t look like the donor you selected.

“So if I decide to keep it, would you be out?” you ask.

Jungkook considers your words. There’s a possibility that the baby could still exist, but he wouldn’t be part of their life. He’d still be losing because he wants a child, but at least this way, his position wouldn’t be jeopardized, and no one would get hurt or killed.  

“It’s possible,” he honestly answers.

You nod once more. Even though he decides not to be part of his child’s life, he’d still know that he has a kid somewhere. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding you; he already knows your smell, and he has the means to find you.

“Okay,” you say.

Jungkook watches you take a pen and paper from your purse before writing something.

“This is my phone number,” you hand him the piece of paper. “In case you change your mind or take a decision.”

The man takes the piece of paper while you give him a small smile. You start walking away, his eyes following you until you disappear inside a car.

In this situation, he definitely would like to ask his mother for advice, but he can’t. He already knows the answer she’ll give him. ‘This baby can’t exist.’ And she’s right, but he can’t force you to terminate the pregnancy. It’s your body after all.

In the eventuality that you decide to proceed with the pregnancy, he guesses he’ll let you be a mother alone and pretend like this kid doesn’t exist.

You’ve spent the last two days crying in bed. The conversation with the doctor and this mysterious Mister Jeon has been playing over and over in your head. You can still picture everything so clearly; the white walls of the doctor’s room, the apologies from the doctor, and Mister Jeon’s piercing gaze.

‘There’s been a mistake,’ ‘There was a mix-up with the sample,’ the words still echo in your mind.

You’ve been trying to make sense of how such a monumental mistake has happened. But nothing seems to make sense. The clinic did this; the clinic took control over your decision. This chapter of your life was about you gaining control, but once more, someone decided for you. It’s been making you angry.

You’re furious at the clinic and their negligence. You trusted them with your project of building your own family. However, they decided otherwise.  

But underneath that anger, there’s another fury; one directed to yourself. You were so focused on having a child on your own terms that you didn’t stop to consider the what-ifs. You didn’t stop to consider that something might go wrong. And now, you are here.    

You’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours now, your mind trying to find a solution. Do you keep this baby? Do you terminate the pregnancy?

This choice feels impossible. It feels like no matter what your life will completely change.  

But deep down, you somehow feel some kind of relief. Because when Mister Jeon—this intense and charismatic man—said there was a possibility he’d walk away, that he’d leave you to raise this child alone, you felt lighter.

His potential absence is appealing. It aligns with your original choice, to be a single mother. A choice where your child is yours, and yours alone. But then, there’s also a possibility where he stays, or that he comes back later. What would happen then?

You press your hands against your face while a guttural growl leaves your lips. This is so damn frustrating. This should be simple. Because now, you’re left wondering what you want. Do you want to walk away from this and stick to the original plan? Or do you want to embrace this chaos, and see where this might lead?

Your hands slide down to your stomach, caressing it while you hear again the tiny heartbeat. This sound comforts you which makes you close your eyes.

For now, you don’t have any answers to all your questions. You’re not even sure you’ll have them tomorrow. For now, you’ll let yourself breathe. You’ll let yourself feel. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the answers.  

The sound of your phone ringing pushes you out of your own thoughts, informing you that you received a message. You sit on your bed before grabbing the phone on the nightstand. You received a message from an unknown number. By curiosity, you unlock your phone to read it. To your surprise, it’s the famous and mysterious Mister Jeon.  

From unknown: hi miss y/l/n, this is jeon jungkook, the father of your child. i’d like to meet you to discuss the matter. would you be free tonight?

Your heart hammers inside your chest, ready to burst at any second. He contacted you sooner than expected. You were thinking that you wouldn’t hear anything from him for at least a week. You thought you’d have more time to make a decision before meeting him. Now, it seems you don’t, and that you’ll have a very interesting conversation with him tonight.

With shaky hands, you start typing your answer.

To unknown: hello mister jeon, we could meet tonight

When you press ‘send’, you stare at the conversation, waiting for an answer. Mister Jeon responds instantly to your message, proposing to meet in a town square. You accept the suggestion and quickly go to your clothes cupboard to pick up an outfit.

The man seems very impressive, and you want to be presentable. He’s after all the progenitor of the life growing inside you.

A couple of hours later, you take the road to the meeting point. Surprisingly, you’ve remained calm for the entire drive. Driving is actually the only thing able to calm your tormented soul. Whenever you go through something very intense, you just drive to clear your mind.

However, since this pregnancy thing, even driving hasn’t been able to help you out. You tried to drive yesterday, but it only made things worse. So it definitely surprises you that you’ve been able to clear your mind before meeting Mister Jeon.

When you arrive, he’s already there waiting for you. He’s not wearing a suit, quite the contrary. His outfit is only made of a grey sweater with a blue pair of jeans. His hair isn’t perfectly pushed back as it was two days ago. It feels like you’re meeting a completely different person.

When he sees you, he stands up. As he does so, you notice he holds a box in his right hand. It’s a small one, but it still intrigues you.

“Good evening, miss y/l/n,” he says.

“Good evening, mister Jeon,” you say back.

His presence is still very imposing, but the fact that he isn’t wearing a suit anymore changes it a bit. He seems more approachable than he was in the clinic.

“Please call me Jungkook,” he offers you a small smile.

It’s the first time you see him smiling, and it feels like a very warm one. Beneath it all and in the midst of the city noise, you can perceive his heartbeat. It’s quite rapid which makes you tilt your head. Is he nervous?

“You can call me yn as well,” you smile back at him.  

“I’ve brought you a box with some pastries,” he hands you the box. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”

Your smile grows wider at his simple but heartwarming gesture. This wasn’t expected, but it lightens the mood. Jungkook seems to be a nice person which contrasts with the cold and unreadable person he seemed two days ago.

“Thanks,” you say while grabbing the little box. “You didn’t need to,” your eyes look up at him.

After that, you both sit down on the bench he was on before you arrived. By the way he rubs his hands on his tights, you can tell that he’s a bit nervous. You try not to overanalyze him, because you know your mind will go crazy, full of questions.

“What is happening is really crazy,” he admits with obvious nervousness. “I never imagined things would go this way,” you nod.

Jungkook looks everywhere, except at you. It seems like he isn’t brave enough to face you, almost like a teenager confessing his love.

“As I told you two days ago, I can’t have this child,” he finally speaks. “I really would love to, but I’d put the three of us in danger.”

Your heart starts beating rapidly. What does he mean by ‘putting you in danger’? Does he come from a crazy family? Is he part of the mafia? This is scaring the hell out of you.

“We didn’t know each other up until two days ago, and you don’t deserve to be put in danger because of a stupid mistake the clinic did,” he seems angry when he mentions the mistake. “But I can’t force you to terminate the pregnancy, it’s your body, and it was also your wish to have a child. I can’t take that away from you.”

It kind of surprises you how respectful he is. Any other man in his position could have forced or paid you to put an end to this pregnancy. It’s really admirable.

“In case you want to keep going with it, I just want you to know that I’ll step away, and I will never come back to reclaim a role I refused from the beginning.”

You wonder what the reasons behind his decision could be. This man desired to have a child but is now refusing to have one with you because of a mistake.

“To be honest with you, I don’t know what to do,” you admit.

His piercing eyes finally look at you. For a split second, you can swear that they were red. Red like blood. This destabilizes you, and you furrow your eyebrows. You’re not sure if you’re being delirious or if this is real.

“I wanted to become a mother, but not like this,” you continue, still destabilized by what you just saw. “So it leaves me wondering what I should do. But if you walk away, I’ll be more tempted to keep the baby because, in the end, it’ll go as I planned.”

In an unexplainable way, this man puts you at ease. It feels like you can confess how you truly feel about this situation without being judged by him. This man exudes serenity which draws you even more to him.

“I get that,” he says.

For a brief moment, you only look at him while your heart peacefully beats in your chest. His dark eyes stare right into your soul, and it feels like the world completely stopped. There’s just the two of you. But Jungkook breaks the contact, looking in another direction.

“If you decide to keep the child and need any financial help, I can give it to you,” he speaks.

This man definitely seems like a good guy, and you wonder even more why he’s walking away from this.

“I won’t,” you answer. “I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t have any means to take care of the baby.”

For sure you need financial stability to be a single mother, and you would have never embarked on this adventure without having it.

Jungkook runs his fingers through his fluffy hair, avoiding still your gaze. “Can I ask why you want to become a single mom?”

The question catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting this man—this stranger—to be interested in you.

“I didn’t have an easy life and I grew up without my parents,” you confess. “Motherhood was something I aspired to have in my life since I’m very young, and I’ve desired to give to my child everything I didn’t have. No matter if it was with someone or alone.”

Your eyes shift from Jungkook to the square full of people. It’s never easy to express out loud and to a complete stranger why you embarked on this adventure. Mentioning your parents is actually never easy; even after all this time.

Suddenly, you feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you in complete silence. For once in your life, people’s heartbeats and scents don’t suffocate you. You can hear and smell them, but it’s like it doesn’t matter.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve had those developed skills. You can hear stuff from afar, and you can strongly smell people’s natural body’s scent. Since it’s kind of ‘normal’ to you, you got used to it; but sometimes, and especially when you’re in the middle of heavy crowds, it suffocates you. It becomes simply too much.

This is something you never told anyone, too scared to be judged. Undoubtedly, people would say you’ve gone crazy due to the trauma of losing your parents. Not even Felix or Lexi knows about it. They just think you’re agoraphobic.

However, lately, you’ve been trying to go to some crowded place to overcome this suffocating feeling. You ignore why you’ve been doing it, but you’ve been doing it. It’s still too much, but today, next to this complete stranger, it doesn’t feel like it.

“I’m sorry you lost your parents,” he whispers.

You turn to look at him to offer him a little smile.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “Can I also ask you why you’re doing this?” you dare to ask.

Jungkook nods before looking away once more. It definitely looks like it’s hard for him to hold your gaze.

“In my world,” he starts saying. “I have heavy responsibilities, and having a child is one of them. But I can’t have one with anybody. I’m very limited in who is the biological mother so that’s why I can’t have one with you.”

You almost feel offended by his words. In which kind of world can’t you be the mother of his child? It’s completely crazy!

“Oh,” you simply say.

“You could have been the surrogate…” you can hear some kind of chuckle. “But never the progenitor.”

“It’s seems like a tough world.”

His eyes look again at you; you can see that he seems to hesitate with the answer.

“It isn’t,” he finally says. “But it is with me.”

Obviously, he carefully chose his words.

“Well, I hope you’ll find the right mother for your child,” you offer him once more a little smile.

“Thanks,” he smiles back at you.

The two of you look back again at the people walking in the town square. They are walking around you, ignoring totally what you’re going through, what tough decision you have to make. They ignore everything about you, just as you ignore everything about them…  

“I’m sorry about all of this,” he adds.

“It’s not your fault,” you answer. “It’s the clinic’s.”

Jungkook shifts uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on the people walking in front of you. His heart is racing and piercing through your ears. He’s even more nervous than he was before, and it concerns you a bit. But you don’t say anything, too afraid to scare him off if you reveal you can hear his heartbeat.  

“Yn…” he starts. “There’s something you need to know,” his voice is deep and low at the same time. It’s so low that it almost drowns out by the distant chatter of people passing by.

You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing. “Okay,” you whisper.  

Jungkook takes a deep breath, his jaw tightening before he exhales. His eyes don’t meet yours immediately, but when he does, there’s an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

“When I said my world is different,” he swallows with difficulty. “I don’t mean it in a metaphorical sense. My world, my reality is not the same as yours.”

You frown even more, confusion plastered all over your face. You’re definitely incredibly confused. How could his world be different than yours? You live on the same planet, and breathe the same air. How could it be not the same?  

“What do you mean?”

Jungkook gets closer, his voice dropping even lower, barely audible. However, you still hear it perfectly.

“I am not entirely human, yn.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. You stare at him while waiting for him to elaborate. However, Jungkook just stares at you, waiting for your reaction.

“What do you mean by ‘not entirely human’?” you tilt your head.

For a couple of seconds, he doesn’t speak, almost as if he’s scared to reveal his true nature to you.

“I’m a werewolf.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and impossible to ignore. It leaves you wondering if this man is of sound mind. Right now, you’re slightly concerned about his mental health, and the future of your child, if you keep them.

Your first reaction is to laugh, dismissing his words as if it is some kind of twisted joke. But the look on his face tells you that he’s deadly serious. This isn’t a joke.

“A werewolf?” you repeat to make sure you hear it well.

Jungkook nods. He looks tense and he maintains his deep glance on you.

“It’s why I can’t have this child,” he starts to explain. “In my world, bloodlines matter. Werewolf bloodlines are sacred, and the continuation of my lineage isn’t just about having a child. It’s about having the right child with the right kind of mother.”

The weight of his words crashes over you like a tidal wave. You stand up, your hands running through your hair. Your mind is spinning, and your pulse thunders in your ears. This is something you definitely weren’t expecting to hear today.

Werewolves? You’re carrying the child of a werewolf?

This sounds like it comes straight from a fantasy movie.

“This doesn’t feel real,” you whisper to yourself but Jungkook hears it.  

“I didn’t want you to be dragged into this world, but you deserve the truth.”

You keep your back turned to him while you cross your arms against your chest.

“This is something you need to consider if you decide to keep the baby.”

At his words, you freeze. Instinctively, your hands down move to your stomach. Jungkook’s eyes follow your hands.

“Is this…” your voice trembles. “Is this a viable child?”

If you want to keep going with this pregnancy, you need to know if this baby can survive.

“There wouldn’t be any reason why this child wouldn’t survive because of mixed blood,” he stands up and gets close to you. “But as they grow up, they’ll develop werewolf abilities. And, one day, they’ll probably turn into one. It’s pretty unpredictable, though. There’s never been a human-werewolf hybrid before.”

Damn, this is leaving you speechless. How can this be real? Werewolves are supposed to exist in movies, not in real life.   

“This is insane,” you rub your hands on your face. “This can’t be real.”

Jungkook steps closer. His presence is grounding but nonetheless overwhelming.  

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” you demand, your voice filled with panic.  

Before you can blink, he gets even closer to you. He’s in front of you in an instant, his hand gently grabbing yours. Your eyes look down at his hand as you notice it changing. His fingers elongate, his nails sharpen into claws, and the texture of his skin turns into something more beastly. Slowly, your eyes look up, and what you see completely freezes your body.  His eyes glow a deep, predatory red, and there’s something undeniably wolfish about them.

You take a step back while setting your hand free. As you do so, Jungkook shifts back, his hand returns to its normal form, and his eyes fade back to a human form. The transformation is so quick that it almost feels like you imagined it.

“So what happens now?” you ask.

Jungkook’s gaze softens at your words.

“That depends on you, yn.”

Please note that the taglist is closed

[sabrinacocksucker]

next move; m | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 13.7k

tropes: hockeyplayer!jungkook, richgirlie!oc, college!au, fwb, brother's best friend

rating: 18+

warnings: alcohol consumption, lots of teasing, jk hooking up with someone else 🤢, oc goes a bit insane <3, smoking (ew), angry koo 😠, messy blow job, spit, cum on boobies, gagging, multiple orgasms, cum play, dick slaps on face n pussy, doggy, overstimulation, dirty talk, eating out, hair pulling, mirror sex, doggy, a few spanks, sum butt stuff, oc is addicted to shopping 🫂 (we both need help), pretends to help with uni stuff just to get dick, naughty thoughts abt jk at dinner with friends??, vulnerable oc <3, proud jk <3

summary: pov: you’ve spent so long pushing jungkook away, but now you’re the one trying to pull him back in.

a/n: i hope this feeds ur tummies well ! 😋

masterlist

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

“What is wrong with you?”

These being the first words Taehyung directs at you when you enter the kitchen at 9 in the morning makes you want to claw his eyes out and head back to bed again.

“I’d fight you if I wasn’t sleepy right now,” you mutter as you shove past him to get to the coffee machine.

“No, I’m being for real,” Taehyung says, inspecting you through critical eyes.

“I’m not wearing make-up. Get over it.”

“It’s not that,” he presses. “You’ve been acting strange the past few days.”

He catches you off-guard with that. You can’t think of a lie fast enough to cover up the fact that you’ve been kinda dumped by his best friend and are no longer fuck buddies, hard times, so you blink a few times to keep your composure.

Your brain, struggling to function at this hour, lands on the most groundbreaking response: “Huh?”

“You didn’t want chicken when I asked if I should bring you some yesterday.” Taehyung crosses his arms, leaning against the counter.

“I already ate when you called,” you quickly – maybe too quickly? You don’t know – defend yourself as you watch the coffee stream into your mug.

“Right. Tell me one time – just one – where you’ve turned down chicken.” He raises an eyebrow. “By the way, I still got you some. It’s in the fridge. But I knew something was up, because you never-”

“Wait, really?” you cut him off, perking up. “You got me chicken?”

You rush to the fridge, flinging the door open. There isn’t much in there to begin with, so it’s easy to spot your beloved meal. You grab it and get it ready for the microwave.

Taehyung completely ignores your excitement over the food and continues his questioning.

“You didn’t react when I switched one of your reality tv shows for something else the other day.”

Did he? You don’t even remember that happening.

“You came home after a long day. I was just being a sweet sister,” you deflect, waving him off.

“Point is – I can tell when my baby sister is sad. And I don’t need you to feign indifference for me, because it’s okay not to be okay,” he says, gentle. “And I wish you’d come to me about whatever this is to make you feel better, because, I don’t know, I thought that’s what we’ve been doing as siblings.”

Your heart squeezes.

He just wants to comfort you. Be there for you. And it clearly pains him that you’ve been keeping this from him.

“No, yeah, I know, it’s just.” God, you hate this. Having to lie to him. “It’s honestly not that serious, Tae. I’m just being dramatic about it, you know how I am.” You try to laugh it off, but he doesn’t let it deceive him.

“It’s about a boy, isn’t it?”

You need to tweak your acting skills. And your reactions too, because why did you look away after he asked you that?

“A boy?” You stretch the word out in an exaggerated drag to make his inquisition sound ridiculous. “There’s no boy in my life.”

“If I find out Eunwoo is causing trouble, I’ll-”

“God, no.” You shake your head vehemently. “He’s fine. He’s not doing anything.”

You retrieve the chicken from the microwave and set it next to your coffee. A questionable breakfast choice, but right now, comfort food is comfort food.

“Want some?” you offer, grabbing your chopsticks.

Taehyung sighs deeply, shaking his head. His lips press into a thin line, but there’s no anger – just concern softening his features. “Wanna talk about it?” He pauses, voice dropping lower. “Who do I have to fight?”

Your stupid best friend, who walked out on me because, apparently, he doesn’t like it when I’m with other boys and was so dramatic about it, but I lowkey do understand him because I don’t like seeing him with other girls too but I can’t tell him because I don’t want him to know that I care and maybe everything is my fault but I am sad and upset and I can’t tell you anything about it because you’d hate me for it.

You keep these thoughts to yourself though and bite into a piece of chicken instead.

“Tae, no.”

“To both of my questions?”

“Mhm-hmm,” you answer with your mouth full.

His shoulders slump in defeat.

Placing your chopsticks down, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

“You’re an amazing brother, Tae,” you mumble against his chest. “And I promise that I’m doing fine. You’d know if I wasn’t. I think I’m just getting my period soon, honestly. I’ve been hating everything and everyone lately.” You squeeze him tight. “But I love you.”

“I love you,” he replies, resting his chin on your head. “You’d come to me if you needed me, right?”

“Of course. I love to annoy you about my problems.”

You feel his chuckle rumble through his chest.

“You’re coming to dinner with us after the game, right?”

You draw you head back slightly, peering up at him.

“Define us.”

Taehyung’s brows knit together.

“Like, everyone.”

You so don’t want to see Jungkook. It’s been a week since he left you confused in your room.

Detangling yourself from Taehyung, you shoot him an unimpressed pout. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for that many people.”

“I’m not gonna let you lock yourself up in your room, ___,” he says, a slight edge creeping into his voice. “You can bedrot another day.”

He’s right – you probably should socialise a little more. And with so many people around, you might not even notice Jungkook’s presence.

“I’ll come,” you relent defeatedly, picking up your tray with breakfast. “Good luck with the game.” You reach up on your tippy toes to ruffle his hair with your free hand, earning an exasperated groan from him.

~

So, when you thought you could just ignore Jungkook at dinner, you failed to consider one crucial detail – the universe lives to humble you. Because, of course, out of all the empty seats, he had to take the one right next to you. Rookie mistake. Amateur behaviour. A tragic miscalculation on your part.

Now, you’re stuck playing the world’s most intense game of Pretending He Doesn’t Exist, which, unfortunately, is pretty difficult when he’s breathing in your general direction.

“Can you guys believe that I got a C for my essay?” Seokjin announces after chomping down a big piece of meat.

“Was it the one with the ducks?” Jungkook questions.

“Yeah, I was so excited to hand it in ‘cause I had so much fun writing, and then I get a C.” Seokjin tilts his head in remorse. “I was at a Lotte World parking lot when I got the notification, and it felt like someone stole my firstborn. I hope that never happens to me, I don’t think I could go through the emotions a second time. Honestly, not even the bumper cars could distract me after that.”

“Sure you don’t wanna sign up for drama class?” Taehyung teases. “You’d be such an asset to it.”

“I’m so close to doing it.”

“Wait, you wrote an essay about ducks?” you ask.

“Not just about ducks, silly,” Seokjin explains. “I wrote an essay on whether someone would rather fight 100 duck-sized horses or 1 horse-sized duck. You know, deep stuff like answering questions if it is morally better to fight one large opponent or many small ones.”

“What would the world do without you, Jin,” Yoongi chimes in.

“I’d choose one horse-sized duck, I think,” Eunji says, who thankfully sits next to you, so you’re not completely surrounded by people who you dislike (yes, you might’ve forced her to come with you – she wanted to study in the library, but you dragged her here with the promise of showering her with your never-ending love).

“But a duck so big is scary, no?” you ponder, tapping your chopsticks against your mouth as you think.

Listening in on your conversation, Jungkook says, “The horse-sized duck would be easier.”

You frown, turning to him. “That thing would be massive, and it’s a duck. Ducks are unpredictable.”

“Okay, but 100 duck-sized horses would overwhelm you,” he argues. “You’re assuming they’re just gonna stand there like cute little ponies. What if they’re really aggressive? They’d be all over you, biting, kicking. That’s chaotic.”

“How would you manage fighting a huge duck, though? I don’t see that happening,” you scoff.

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t be hard, but at least it’s just one thing to focus on. It’s straightforward.” Jungkook leans back, dragging his gaze over your face before he says, “But of course you’d prefer the more chaotic solution.”

You raise your eyebrows. “What are you on about?”

You’re talking about ducks and horses. Or so you thought.

Jungkook shrugs. “Nothing. I just think your decision is stupid.”

His eyes don’t waver, and you don’t back down either, because what the hell? Jungkook’s picking a fight over nonsense and has the audacity to glare at you like you personally offended him. His brows are drawn tight, frustration evident in the sharpness of his expression.

As you glare back, you can’t stop your brain from taking an unexpected detour to memories in which Jungkook wore a similar expression. On top of you, a little sweaty, cheeks flushed and – oh my god, you feel the heat rush to your cheeks and swiftly turn away.

“You’re annoying,” you mumble under your breath, picking up your chopsticks again.

Where did these thoughts come from? Do you miss him? It’s been one week. You need a distraction.

"See how riveting my essay topic is?” Seokjin chimes in, pointing his chopsticks at the two of you. “A C is criminally underappreciated.”

“I don’t think anyone can get under ___ skin like Jungkook,” Taehyung chuckles, placing more meat onto your plate.

“Oh no, don’t worry, you still take the first place,” you quip.

“Don’t say that too loud. Jungkook’s too competitive.”

“He’s a mini version of you.” You turn to Jungkook when you say it, scrunching your nose to display your dismay.

“There’s nothing mini about Jungkook,” Yoongi interjects.

The boys laugh while Eunji and you choke on your food.

“Okay, gross?” Eunji coughs.

“What? Have you not seen his muscles? He’s a big guy,” Seokjin defends, eyes wide as he studies Jungkook’s physique. “That’s no secret.”

“That’s why Sooyoung wants him again,” Jimin teases with a wicked grin stretching across his face.

“Oh, fuck off.” Jungkook kicks him under the table. “I said we’re not talking about this.”

At the mention of a name that rings a bell but you can't quite place it yet – one Jungkook clearly doesn’t want brought up – you perk up. “Not talking about what?”

It’s silent next to you.

Jungkook tenses, his posture stiff, the only giveaway a rough, forced clearing of his throat.

One game. You miss one game, and apparently, all the drama unfolds without you.

“You should’ve been there, ___,” Jimin drawls, eyes twinkling with mischief. “His ex was practically his personal cheerleader.”

Your brows lift as you turn to Jungkook. “Sooyoung, huh?”

You never got the chance to meet Jungkook’s ex. He was dating her during your senior year of high school, and they broke up while you were still in school.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at you. Instead, he focuses way too hard on his plate, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth like it’s the most interesting thing in the world and then finishing his beer in a few, big sips.

Jimin, on the other hand, is thriving on the attention. “Oh, yeah,” he hums. “Front-row seat. Didn’t take her eyes off him.”

At that, Jungkook kicks him again, harder this time. “Can you not?”

“Oh, come on, man. It was cute.”

You tilt your head, watching Jungkook’s reaction. “And you didn’t like that?”

His eyes finally flick to yours, the slight curve of his mouth betraying him. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“She waited outside the locker room for him,” Jimin continues.

You hold back a roll of your eyes. You don’t care. You don’t care at all.

“Did she?” Eunji fuels the fire with her excited question.

“She said hi. That’s it,” Jungkook mutters.

Jimin snorts at Jungkook’s reply. “Man, that’s not what I saw.”

“And you,” Jungkook directs at Jimin. “You were eye fucking her friend the entire time, so don’t act all high and mighty when you could barely keep your hands to yourself.”

“Sue me!” Jimin exclaims. “Yeah, I do think her friend’s hot, lock me up for it. I need her ig handle or something. I wanna see her again.”

“You’re both hopeless,” you comment, nails tapping against your glass.

“Hey, if she’s hot, she’s hot.” Jimin shrugs, grinning from ear to ear. “You can’t blame me for appreciating the view.”

Yoongi gives him a pointed look. “I’m pretty sure you’ve been ‘appreciating’ the view from every girl in the restaurant for the last hour.”

Jimin laughs loudly, clearly unbothered. “Guilty as charged.”

“What else is new?” Eunji asks. “Besides Seokjin thinking being unhinged will get him an A in his philosophy class, Jungkook having an over-attached ex, and Jimin being a total playboy? Anything else exciting happened this week?”

“I bought a blind box today,” you announce. “And got upset because I didn’t get the one I wanted.”

“The sonny angel figures?” Jungkook asks casually – way too casually.

His tone is so easy, so natural, that for a split second, you forget, just like he forgot. You almost answer just as effortlessly, almost fall into the usual rhythm of conversation with him. But then it hits you—the sharp, perfectly timed reminder that you’re pissed at him.

So instead, you hesitate, fingers tightening around your glass. “Yeah,” you say, a little clipped “Those.”

“I say you stop spending so much money for dust-collecting shit,” Tae comments, and you don’t even have the chance to defend yourself, because Seokjin calls him out for his own questionable spending habits.

While they bicker, you giggle at their antics, distracted for a moment. You reach to dip your dumpling into the sauce, but just as your fingers hover above the dish, you brush hands with Jungkook, who was doing the same.

You kick his hand with yours, expecting him to pull back, but he doesn’t budge.

“Do you ever stop being annoying?” you ask.

“Not when the person I’m annoying is you.”

“You gonna be like this all night?” Your hand sinks, touching the table. “I thought you were mad and would want to ignore me,” you say, much quieter now, even though everyone else is too caught up arguing whether Taehyung’s fifa pack spendings are justified.

“Weren’t you trying to do the same?”

Well, yeah. You were trying to ignore him – that was the sole reason why you even came – but you somewhere along the way, you veered off that plan, and now here you are.

“I guess you’re just too pretty for me to ignore.”

Jungkook freezes at that. You use the opportunity to nudge his hand aside and dip your food into the sauce.

“Funny, didn’t seem to be a problem when you were texting that dude next to me the other day.”

Your chewing slows. The words hit exactly where he intended, sharp and precise, a reminder of exactly why he’s pissed in the first place.

The conversation around you carries on, oblivious, but between you and Jungkook, the tension is suffocating.

You pull away completely, shifting in your seat so your legs are angled away from him and into Eunji’s direction.

Ignoring him is easier, less of a headache – and less of a heartache – than acknowledging his existence.

~

Later that night, you drown yourself in reality tv, letting the mindless drama fill the living room and keep your thoughts from wandering to the interactions you had with Jungkook tonight, because you really need a break from that boy.

You and Eunji had left the restaurant before the boys, her excuse being that she wanted to study, and yours being that you’d had done enough socialising for the day and it was time to go back home. Yeah, you do realise that you have a self-destructive tendency to isolate when things get difficult.

So, here you are, curled up on the couch, journaling about feelings and situations and –

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

You freeze, pen hovering above the paper as the sound of the front door code being punched in echoes from outside. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.

A familiar head of dark hair peeks inside first, followed by annoyingly familiar second one.

“You’re still up?” Taehyung asks, shrugging off his jacket and toes off his shoes.

“Tae,” you say slowly, looking at Jungkook. “Why is he here?”

“Figured we’d hang for a bit more. Play some fifa together.”

“You figured?” You turn to Tae with a deadpan expression.

Taehyung shrugs. “He looked sad.”

“I didn’t look sad,” Jungkook mutters, finally stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

“You looked all emo when everyone got up to leave,” Taehyung says.

“Whatever.” Jungkook rolls his eyes and heads towards the kitchen, like this is his house now.

You exhale through your nose, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Do we look like a halfway house for emotionally constipated men?”

Jungkook’s voice calls out from the kitchen. “I can hear you.”

“Good.”

“Please try and act civil while I go change,” Taehyung pleads, already disappearing down the hallway.

Jungkook emerges a second later, settling onto the couch, a glass of water in his hand. His tatted fingers wrap around it, long and steady, as he takes a sip. You watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs, the way his throat moves, how the tiniest droplet of water escapes before his tongue swipes it away – completely unbothered. Casual. Like he isn’t taking up too much space in your head already.

“Headache from all that beer?” you ask, trying – hoping – that you sound unaffected by whatever it is about him that’s making your stomach flip.

He exhales, tipping his head back against the couch, stretching his neck just enough to make it unfair. The angle sharpens his jaw line.

His gaze flickers to you. “Something like that.”

Jungkook looks at you. Really looks at you.

His eyes drag over your bare legs, stretched out in tiny shorts that are basically just suggestions of clothing. They hesitate on the curve of your thighs, the hem barely covering anything, before sliding up to the delicate strap of your camisole, the curve of your shoulder. His fingers tighten around the glass just enough for you to notice.

You meet his gaze, unblinking.

Jungkook’s fingers twitch.

You smirk, stretching deliberately, arching your back slightly as you reposition yourself.

And then – his eyes flick downward, landing on the open journal beside you.

You don’t think anything of it at first – until his brows furrow slightly, head tilting as he squints.

“Wait,” he mutters, leaning forward. “Did I just see my name in there?”

Your stomach drops.

Panic sets in at lightning speed.

You slam the journal shut so fast it’s borderline violent.

“Mind your business.”

Jungkook blinks, then grins, slow and smug. Oh, you hate him.

“There is literally nothing for you to see.”

“Oh, but there was something,” he muses, stretching an arm along the back of the couch like he isn’t about to drive you insane. “You wrote about me?”

You cross your arms. “What if I did?”

“Depends,” he says, just momentarily allowing his gaze to drop to your chest. “What exactly are you writing about me?”

Jungkook’s smirk deepens, eyes flicking between you and the journal.

“You’re acting awfully guilty right now,” he taunts, shifting slightly, his thigh pressing against yours.

“Because you’re being nosey.”

“No, because you’re hiding something.”

You roll your eyes, gripping the journal tighter. “You’re not that interesting.”

He hums, tilting his head. “Then lemme see.”

“Absolutely not.”

It happens so fast you barely have time to react. One second, Jungkook is sitting there, all relaxed and smug. The next, he’s lunging forward, reaching for the journal with one hand, the other bracing against the couch to trap you in place.

“Jungkook—stop!” you shriek, twisting away, holding the journal out of his reach.

But he’s relentless.

He shifts closer, practically caging you in, his body warm and solid against yours. His arm brushes your bare thigh as he reaches again, fingers grazing the cover. You twist further, laughing, but the movement only makes things worse—your back presses into the cushions, and suddenly, he’s right there, hovering over you, weight balanced between his knees and one hand pressed into the couch beside your head.

The laughter dies in your throat.

Because now it’s just you and him, tangled up, breathing the same air. His face is inches from yours, the heat of his body seeping into your skin, the scent of his cologne mixed with something distinctly him. His gaze flickers downward – just for a second – but it’s enough. Enough for you to feel the shift. Enough for the teasing to suddenly feel like something else entirely.

Jungkook swallows.

Your heart is in your throat.

His gaze drops to your lips.

You freeze.

His fingers tighten slightly where they rest near your hip. The journal is still caught between you, forgotten, and for the first time, neither of you moves to break the moment.

Until –

A door creaks open down the hallway.

You both jerk back at the same time.

Jungkook moves first, clearing his throat as he drops back onto the couch, running a hand through his hair like that’ll somehow erase the past ten seconds. You sit up just as Taehyung strolls back in, glancing between the two of you with mild suspicion.

“Did you guys kill each other yet?”

“Nearly,” you retort, fixing your hair.

Tae grabs two controllers and plops onto the couch next to Jungkook. “Why’d you scream?”

“Your idiot of a best friend is obsessed with me and tried to sneak a peek into my journal,” you huff, dramatically clutching said journal to your chest.

“Oh, boy,” Tae clicks his tongue. “She’s serious about this thing, Jk. Wouldn’t advise you to –” he waves a hand vaguely, “–poke the bear.”

Jungkook looks like he is actually considering telling Tae what he saw in your beloved journal. His lips party slightly, brows furrowing, before he shakes the thought off. Good for him. You wouldn’t even know where to begin explaining why Jungkook’s name is written in there.

Taehyung hands one of the controllers to Jungkook.

“Is this my cue to turn off my show?” you ask, lips forming a natural pout of disappointment.

“Sorry, spontaneous boys' night,” Tae says with a shrug.

“Please never say that again.”

Jungkook snorts, finally looking at you.

You raise a brow. Challenge him silently.

He just grins, popping his dimples, rolling his shoulders back like he has the upper hand.

God, you hate him.

You stay in the living room while they game – despite considering retreating to your room multiple times when Jungkook and Tae started yelling at each like an old married couple.

But you quickly realise how fun it is to mess with Jungkook, especially when he gets roasted for his lack of skills by an oblivious Taehyung. Which, judging by the way Jungkook’s jaw keeps ticking and his grip on the controller tightens, is absolutely getting to him.

“Want more snacks?” you ask sweetly as you rise to your feet, collecting the empty bowls. One slips from your grasp, landing on the carpet. You bend over to grab it, in front of Jungkook, and maybe, just maybe, you move slower than necessary. Maybe shifting your hips a little too much. Maybe giving him a view he definitely does not deserve.

Tae, completely unbothered, waves you off like a fly buzzing around his screen. “___, get out of the way,” he complains impatiently, fingers rapidly clicking on his controller. “But I’ll have some more chips, thanks.”

Jungkook, however, isn’t saying shit.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to catch the flicker of his eyes meeting yours before he collects himself and redirects his attention back to the game.

“You good, Jungkook?” you ask innocently.

His nostrils flare. Through gritted teeth, he mutters, “Just move.”

So you do, slow and smug, your shorts sliding back over your thighs as you pad toward the kitchen.

Right as you’re reaching for the drawer, you hear Taehyung ask, “What are you gonna do about that Sooyoung girl?” Your movements slow. “You interested?”

The nosiness and urge to gossip definitely runs through your genes.

“Nah, I don’t want her back.”

When you glance back, Jungkook’s still focused on the game, but there’s something absent in the way he’s holding the controller – like he’s playing on autopilot.

“That bad, huh?”

“Just wasn’t that deep.”

You busy yourself with the drawer, fingertips grazing over the handle as you bite back the urge to comment. Just listen.

“You never really said why you two broke up.”

“No, I did tell you,” Jungkook says, easy but firm. “You just never believed me.”

“That’s because it always felt like there was more.”

“There wasn’t. We just didn’t fit.”

Didn’t fit how?

You open the drawer and grab more snacks.

“Yeah...I don’t know. You never seemed truly happy with her.”

Jungkook exhales sharply through his nose. "I wasn’t miserable," he finally says.

“You weren’t happy either.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I stayed with Sooyoung because it was easy. No drama. No real emotions involved.”

With the snacks in tow, you walk back to the living room. “That sounds really sad, Jaykay,” you say, not trying to hide that you’ve been listening to them.

He shrugs. “Maybe. But at least it didn’t mess with my head.” His gaze lingers on you. “Didn’t make me feel like I was losing my mind.”

“Fuck, no, if someone makes you feel that way – leave, immediately,” Taehyung says.

You grab a bag of chips, tearing it open as you lean against the side of the couch. “You guys done being dramatic yet?”

Taehyung glances over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. “You’re still here?”

“I live here.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” you repat. “You were the one who happily agreed when mum and dad suggested that I move in with you. I wanted my own place!”

“Oh no, the princess didn’t get what she wanted. How dare they?” Jungkook mocks you.

You faintly remember the discussion of moving into an even bigger place, where all three of you would live together, but Jungkook denied that idea back then, saying the dorm that his athletic scholarship is providing him is good enough for him.

You scoff, shoving his shoulder as you pop another chip into your mouth. “Okay, first of all, you don’t get a say in this. Second of all, I’m not a princess.”

Jungkook tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Sure you aren’t.”

Taehyung snorts, eyes still glued to the screen. “You literally whined for two weeks straight about not having enough closet space.”

“That was a valid complaint,” you argue. “You take up, like, half of it with your stupid jerseys.”

“They’re collectibles.”

“They’re ugly.”

Jungkook laughs, finally leaning back into the couch, looking far too amused. “I see living together is going great for you two.”

“Oh, it’s fantastic,” Taehyung deadpans. “Every day is a blessing.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you mutter, but you can’t help the way your lips twitch. “I liked this conversation more when you gossiped about Jungkook’s life.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, then jerks his chin toward Jungkook. “Dude, hurry up and lose so we can switch games.”

Jungkook, who has barely been playing at all, huffs. “I’m not gonna lose on purpose.”

“You’re already playing like shit,” Taehyung points out. “What’s up with you? Did Sooyoung get into your head or what?”

“Quit mentioning her,” Jungkook grumbles, jaw tightening.

Sooyoung?

No, that is not who is on is mind.

Why would he be thinking about her when – okay, you need to calm down. It’s not that serious.

You just need to call it a night, crawl into bed, and sleep it off.

“Heading to bed,” you announce, grabbing your journal from the coffee table.

“Alright, sleep tight,” Taehyung replies.

“Night, princess.” You flick the back of Jungkook’s head for that.

~

“Okay, very out of character for me, but we need to stop drinking for a sec and you need to tell me why the hell you keep looking back at Jungkook?” Eunji asks you all of a sudden, voice barely carrying over the muffled bass shaking the walls of the packed frat house.

The kitchen is one of the only semi-breathable spaces in the frat house, though the counters are a war zone of spilled liquor, sticky cups, and questionably abandoned drinks. The air reeks of cheap booze and sweat, but none of that is stopping Eunji from interrogating you.

You blink perplexed. “Out of character for you?” you ask back, eyeing the way she pulls back the cup you were just mixing a drink in. “I think that is very true to your character – very you. I’d be out of character for me to stop us from drinking.” You snatch back your cup.

“Did I say that?” She’s lost in her mind for a moment. “I don’t even remember. Am I that drunk already? I don’t wanna wake up hungover tomorrow.” She laments. “I still got this assignment due, and I wanted to get most of it done tomorrow, but – oh my god. Do not distract me from the question I just asked you.” She stares at you with sharp eyes. “Why do you keep looking back at Jungkook?”

“Am I?”

She huffs. “You don’t get to play this game with me, ___.” She pokes your tummy. “Answer me.”

You fully turn to her, abandoning the cup with the godawful alcohol mix – yes, it’s your creation, no, you’ve never had any talent for mixing drinks.

“I might have to tell you something.”

Her eyes widen. Immediately. Mouth opening in an unbelievable expression of pure, unfiltered drama. One that belongs in a reality show confession booth.

“Shut up. You did not – did you? Oh my god, shut up!”

“We might have hooked up for, like, a good few months.”

Her palm flies to cover her mouth. “Behind Taehyung’s back?” she whisper shouts.

“Well, obviously.” You point to yourself. “You think I’d be alive if he knew? You think he’d be alive if Tae knew?”

“You whore!”

“For Jungkook? Kinda,” you admit defeatedly.

You take a glimpse into his direction. Eunji shoves you on the shoulder for that.

“Don’t make it obvious!” she exclaims. “But you need to tell me everything. Right now.”

You sigh, leaning against the counter.

“The first time we hooked up was before I enrolled in uni. It was the summer before when Tae and Jungkook spontaneously visited and-“

“Okay, I need you to stop,” Eunji interrupts, fingers massaging her temples. “The summer before uni?” she repeats, exasperated. “You’ve been keeping it a secret since summer? I need more booze before you continue.”

“I’m sorry for not telling you, but we didn’t want anyone to know. He’d be pissed if he knew I told you.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I get it, I really do. I just didn’t expect this at all.” After pouring something inside her cup, she takes big gulps from it.

“I mean, what was I supposed to do? He’s hot, he’s pretty, and I’ve had a crush on him since, like, forever. I had to give in when he showed interest. What’s a girl gonna do?”

“How have you been able to keep it from Taehyung? They’re with each other 24/7.”

“He comes over when I know Tae’s gonna be out for a while. Or the other way around,” you reply, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “You can make anything work if you really want to, and I really wanted Jungkook.”

Still do, if you’re being honest.

You pause, then wave it off dramatically. “But that’s ancient history. We’re totally over that weird situationship.”

“What?!” Another shocked gasp escapes her. “Why?!”

“I don’t even know, to be honest. He just – we fucked, and then he...I dunno.” You grab your cup and down the rest of your drink, grimacing at the taste of whatever you concocted. “He got mad at me for texting Eunwoo after we had sex. I didn't even think he’d be all sensitive about it, especially since, you know, he’s with other girls too. But he got so pissed and we argued. And guess what?!” You throw your arms out, face dramatically incredulous. “He just leaves me in bed! Like, straight up walks out, saying stupid shit like I sleep around and only text him when I’m bored. Acting like we’re some exclusive thing, which we’re not! How dare he get so upset?” you argue theatrically, voice rising in pitch. “I’ve got better shit to do than this,” you mimic in Jungkook’s deep voice, eyes rolling for extra effect. “He’s so annoying.”

Eunji scrutinizes you for a brief moment before coming to her conclusion.

“Oh, he wants you bad.”

“Huh?” Your brows furrow. “He left me.”

“Because he wants you two to be exclusive and you don't. Why should he stay?”

Why should he stay?

You stare at Eunji, her words settling over you like an unwanted truth.

“He did ask me to be exclusive before,” you admit, twirling the empty cup in your hands. “But I always thought it would be a bad idea. Because being exclusive is so much more serious, and I want to be anything but serious with him. We don’t work that way. I can’t have that happening and risking Tae finding out. It would ruin everything.”

Eunji gives you a long, unimpressed look. “But being exclusive friends with benefits doesn’t have to mean more. It could just stay that way. Why do you always make things complicated?”

You huff, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t know.” You drop your forehead against her shoulder.

She pats your back like you’re a lost puppy.

“You’re and idiot, babe.”

“I know.”

“You also like him.”

You groan into her shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Just saying,” she singsongs.

It’s only now that you realise just how much you needed this – to talk to someone. To get all these tangled thoughts out of your head instead of letting them fester in silence. You’ve spent so much time convincing yourself that none of it mattered, brushing it off like it was nothing, but saying it out loud makes it real. And weirdly, that feels... good. Cathartic, even. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

“Do you think I should-“ You start to lift your head, but Eunji pushes you back down with a firm hand.

“Everything will be fine, ___,” she babbles, patting your head a little too aggressively. “Just, you know, don’t be too sad.”

“What are you on about?”

“Just stay here for a sec.”

“Eunji.” You force yourself out of her grasp.

She’s looking somewhere past you, eyes flickering toward the living room, but when she realizes you’ve caught on, she quickly averts her gaze. Too quickly. Suspiciously.

You turn around, scanning the area to find what she doesn’t want you to see.

Your tummy churns in an instant when you see it.

Jungkook.

Heading up the stairs.

With Nayeon.

Even in the hazy lighting of the party, he stands out – broad shoulders wrapped in a dark, well-fitted tee, his silver chain glinting against his collarbone. He moves effortlessly, the easy confidence in his stride something you know all too well. His hand rests low on Nayeon’s back, fingertips grazing the thin fabric of her dress as she leans into him, whispering something into his ear.

Your throat tightens.

Eunji shifts beside you, watching your reaction carefully. “Hey, maybe it’s not-“

“I’m gonna throw up.”

The words leave your mouth before you can even think. You grab Eunji’s cup and down the last of her drink, but the alcohol does nothing to wash away the bitter taste in your mouth.

Your eyes scan the room frantically. “Wasn’t Eunwoo somewhere here too?” You rise onto your toes, searching the sea of bodies. “I think I just need to get my mind off things.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Eunji immediately cuts in, grabbing your wrist before you can make any rash decisions. “We are not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

She levels you with a look. “You are not about to make a dumbass decision just to get back at Jungkook. Not on my watch.”

“I really, really hate him right now.”

“I know,” she soothes. “But no petty comebacks for situations where we absolutely do not need to make fools of ourselves, yeah?”

Your brain is screaming at you to make Jungkook feel just as shitty as you do, to do something reckless and distracting, but deep down, you know Eunji’s right.

You steal another glance at the staircase. They’re gone.

The realization sinks in, and suddenly, the air in the frat house feels suffocating. The bass of the music thrums in your chest, the chatter around you blurring into an overwhelming hum.

“I need air,” you mutter, pushing past Eunji before she can stop you.

She sighs but doesn’t follow. She knows you need a moment alone.

You slip through the crowd, weaving your way toward the back door. The night air hits you instantly, cool against your heated skin, but it does little to settle the storm raging in your chest.

Leaning against the railing of the porch, you inhale deeply, forcing your nerves to settle.

This is fine.

~

“Can you promise you won’t puke on me?”

“I mean, I can, but I don’t know if I can keep the promise.”

You spotted Chanyeol with another guy—Jackson, you think—smoking and went over to chat with them. It wasn’t until they finished their joint that curiosity got the best of you. One thing led to another, and Jackson went inside to roll you one. Now, all three of you are standing outside, two pairs of curious eyes fixed on you.

“She’ll be fine,” Jackson says as he exhales a slow stream of smoke, watching it curl into the night air.

Chanyeol eyes you warily as he sparks up your joint. “I don’t know how much you drank tonight, but please tell me if you feel sick.” He holds it out for you.

You hesitate for half a second before taking it between your fingers. It feels weird, unnatural. “So I just…?”

“Inhale, but not too hard. Hold it for a second, then let it out,” Chanyeol instructs.

You follow his guidance, pulling in a slow drag. The taste is harsher than you expected, earthy and a little burnt, making you cough almost instantly.

“Classic first hit,” Jackson says, but it’s not as reassuring as he thinks. “Give it a sec.”

“How do you feel?” Chanyeol asks, watching you closely.

“Feels very icky,” you tell him, nose scrunched up. “But I’m feeling okay.”

“Yo, Jackson!” some dude yells from the back. Jackson disappears, leaving Chanyeol and you alone.

“You sure you’re fine?”

The night air feels heavier now, the music from inside muffled like you’re hearing it through a wall. Your fingers tingle slightly, warmth spreading through your limbs. You shift on your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your body moves.

You blink at him. “I think my brain is moving slower than my body.”

He laughs. “Yeah, that happens. Just ride it out.”

You exhale, watching the smoke swirl in front of you.

“The fuck?”

Your head snaps toward the voice.

Jungkook stands a few feet away, brows furrowed, looking like he just walked into some kind of crime scene. His eyes flick between you and the joint in your fingers, then to Chanyeol, before settling back on you.

For some reason, your eyes wander to his hands. He’s probably touched so many things tonight, so many body parts. Did he wash them?

“The hell you’re doing?” Jungkook asks, walking towards you.

“Uhm, having fun?” you try, watching his frown deepen.

“This is not something you do, ___.” Jungkook directs his glare at Chanyeol. “Why the fuck would you give this to her?”

“Fuck, Jungkook, if you wanna be angry be angry elsewhere,” Chanyeol says, rolling his eyes.

“You fuck off,” Jungkook counters.

“As if you have never smoked.” Chanyeol raises his brows.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Trying to maintain a squeaky-clean image for those scouts who might be watching?”

“Mind your fucking business.”

“Jungkook, you’re being rude.” You turn to him, pointing a finger at his broad chest. “You’ve been going around, having fun yourself but can’t let other people have fun. That’s not nice of you.”

You stare up at him, a sullen pout on your mouth before pulling another slow drag and trying hard to not cough, but a small cough slips out anyway.

“Get that shit away, ___,” Jungkook demands, unimpressed by the smoke surrounding his face.

“Why do you care? Lemme have fun.”

“This shit fucks with your head.”

My brain’s already fucked, you think. Thanks a lot.

“It’s just weed?”

“Taehyung will lose his mind.”

“Is Tae with us now?”

Jungkook arches his brow.

“Oh, you wouldn’t.”

“Stop right now or I’ll call him.”

You hold his gaze, daring him. “You’re bluffing.”

Jungkook pulls his phone out of his pocket without hesitation, thumb hovering over the screen. “Try me.”

You wait, staring at Jungkook’s screen until he actually calls Taehyung.

Before the call can connect, you groan and shove the joint into Chanyeol’s hand. “God, fine, I’m done.”

He hangs up before Taehyung can answer.

You glare at him, but he only tilts his head toward the house. “Let’s get you some water.”

He guides you towards the house with his hand splayed across your side. At first, you shy away from his touch, mind racing with thoughts you’d rather not acknowledge. But as the night air presses cool against your skin, you let yourself relax, leaning into him slightly as you walk up the stairs.

“You’re so mean, you know that?” you huff.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he replies, in a softer tone than before.

“You didn’t have to be mean with Chanyeol. It wasn’t his weed. Chanyeol was actually very kind, made sure I was feeling okay-“

Jungkook stops at the threshold of the house.

“I’m gonna have a little chat with Jackson.”

“How do you know-“

His hand slips from your waist. He turns, leaving you standing on the porch, and disappears in the crowd.

Because that’s just easy for him – leaving you.

Why should he stay?

You don’t care.

You don’t care.

And if you keep telling yourself that, maybe – just maybe – you’ll start to believe it.

~

Flash forward a week, and you can now say –proudly, with your full chest – that you do care.

You’ve never not cared. Pretended? Yes. But gotten over it? Not even close.

Which is why it’s not surprising that you find yourself at yet another party, drink in hand, scanning the room without meaning to. Or maybe you do mean to. Maybe you want to see him. Maybe you want him to see you. Maybe you want him to know that he didn’t get to you. Even though he did.

You’re sunk into the couch, surrounded by your friend group, half-listening as they go on about today’s hockey practice – boy gossip, oh how you love it.

“Coach told him he’s probably getting benched next game,” Jimin says, shaking his head as he leans back against the couch. “Too many penalties last match. Dumbass just keeps throwing hits for no reason.”

“That’s what happens when you let your ego get ahead of you,” Jin chimes in, stretching his legs out. “Coach is tired of his shit. And honestly? Fair.”

“I heard he almost fought Yoongi in the locker room,” Taehyung adds, arching a brow as he takes a sip of his drink. “Over something stupid too, like warm-up drills.”

“Swear to God, that guy needs to chill,” Jimin scoffs. “He’s got all the talent, but he plays like he’s trying to prove something every damn game.”

When Taehyung gets up to grab himself another drink, you catch him by the sleeve.

“Can you get me one too, please?” You hand him your empty cup.

Taehyung eyes the cup. “You’ve been drinking a bit more lately.”

“It’s just my second drink?”

His sharp eyes linger on you for a moment before he reluctantly takes your cup and walks off. He hasn’t missed the shift in your behaviour these past few weeks. You try to hide it, but there’s only so much you can do.

“Could say the same thing about Jungkook, though,” Jin says.

Jin’s words linger in the air, but you don’t dare react.

“Jungkook’s always been like that,” Jimin says, tipping his drink back. “Plays like he’s got something to prove, but I guess he kinda does. He wants to go pro, so it’s not like he can afford to slack off.”

It’s stupid, silly even, how easily his name can unravel you. How even when he’s not here, he’s everywhere.

“Isn’t your dad gonna come to the next game?” Jimin directs at you.

You shrug. “Maybe? I dunno.”

Given that your dad is an NHL executive, former team owner, he tries to find time in his busy schedule to attend the hockey games. The boys probably see him more than you do.

“Where is Jungkook anyway?” Hobi asks. “Is he gonna come over at all?”

Dear god, you hope, pray, he won’t.

You can’t live through seeing him disappear with another girl upstairs. You don’t have Eunji with you today to keep you from doing reckless decisions.

“He’d be all over Nayeon anyway. Doubt he’d even remember we exist,” Jin chuckles, unknowingly ruining the rest of your night.

The sound of their laughter grates against your nerves. The more you sit here, the more unbearable it becomes. The thought of him, of her, of what they could be doing, poisons your mind until you can’t take it anymore.

Taehyung returns, pressing a fresh drink into your hand. He barely gets a word in before his gaze sharpens. “You okay?”

You nod stiffly. “Yeah.”

“Liar.”

His voice is quiet enough that no one else hears, but it makes your stomach flip. He knows you too well. And if you sit here any longer, he’s going to drag the truth out of you, whether you like it or not.

So you stand abruptly, mumbling something about fresh air before slipping through the crowd, out into the cool night. The moment you’re alone, you let out a breath, pressing your fingers to your temples. It doesn’t help. Nothing does.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pull out your phone, scroll down to the name you should ignore, and press call.

Jungkook answers on the second ring.

“Did you call me on accident?”

You ignore his question, your fingers tightening around your phone as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. Instead, you ask, “Are you gonna come to the party?”

“No, I have some assignments to do,” he answers, hesitantly. “Why’d you ask?”

“Are you sure?” Your eyes close, waiting for the confirmation that you won’t have to see things (Jungkook and a girl that isn’t you) that you don’t want to see (him hooking up with someone that isn’t you).

“Yeah, positive.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, “Is there something you don’t want me to see? Or—wait, are you just making sure I won’t be around to ruin your night?” Jungkook laughs and you realise how you’ve missed that sound. “It’s your lucky day. You won’t see my face poking around in the crowd. You can have fun.”

You frown at the nonsense he’s saying. He couldn’t be more off.

“No, you don’t get it.”

“What am I not getting?”

You stare into the night sky, the stars blurred by the city lights. You consider hanging up, letting the moment pass, but then you remember what Eunji told you. Talk to him. Get the discomfort out of the way.

“You know I’m not an insecure person.” You cross one arm over your body, rubbing your bare skin against the rising cold. “Like, I’m confident in who I am. I don’t compare myself to others because, y’know, I don’t care enough about stuff like that.”

“Yeah, of course I know that. You’re a confident girl. Have always been.”

“But you know what makes me go crazy?”

“What?”

“Seeing you with someone else.” The words slip out before you can catch them, but now that they’re out in the open, you can’t take them back. You don’t want to. Or – I dunno if it’s just that. I want you to want me. And you don’t. Which I get, I’ve been a bit shitty, so you deserve to want someone that isn’t like me, but – it just makes me go a bit insane, because I thought you did want me again the other night. At my place.” Your voice drops on the last sentence, barely above a whisper. “But then I see you with Nayeon and you just don’t care.”

You take a break, trying to organise your thoughts, but it’s fruitless because it’s just a tangled mess up there.

“Eunji said to talk with you but still give us a bit time, but oh my god I just want it to be okay between us again. I’m feeling so confused, and I don’t even really know what’s going on, but all I know is that I want things to be like before. When you still wanted me, and I wanted you and everything was good, easy,” you say, exhaling a helpless breath. “Do you think that’s possible?”

It’s silent for a beat. You don’t blame him – you couldn’t recite half the stuff that just poured out of your mouth.

“Fuck, ___.” He sounds a bit helpless himself.

Jungkook sighs on the other end, and you hear the faint rustle of fabric, like he’s shifting, maybe running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say to that,” he finally admits.

“Say anything,” you murmur.

“What do you want me to do, ___?” His voice is quieter now, more controlled, but there’s something simmering beneath the surface. “Stop seeing other people? Pretend like none of this ever happened? Or do you just want me to tell you that, yeah, I still want you?”

Your breath hitches. “Do you?”

“I thought I made that obvious,” he mutters. “But every time I think we’re on the same page, you pull away and act difficult. So, forgive me if I stopped trying to figure you out.”

“I don’t mean to act difficult.”

“Then why do you?”

You don’t have an answer. Or maybe you do, but you’re scared to say it.

Jungkook waits, but when you don’t respond, he lets out a dry laugh. “You know what’s funny? I wasn’t even gonna go to the party tonight. But now I kinda want to.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I wanna see what happens when you have to look me in the eyes.” His voice is lower now, rougher. “Because talking like this? It’s too easy for you.”

“No, don’t come.” You think of the worst-case scenario – arguing with Jungkook, him getting frustrated, turning to Nayeon because she’s easier, likes her more than you. And you couldn’t stand seeing that.

“Or maybe do, if you want,” you add, voice quieter. “I think I’m gonna leave anyway. Wanna go home.” Avoiding situations – your strong suit.

“How much have you had to drink?”

You stare at the untouched drink in your hand before lifting it to your lips. The sweetness hits first, masking the barely-there burn of alcohol (thanks, Tae). “Starting my third drink now.”

“I can walk you home,” he offers.

“It’s not a long walk to my place. You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” A rustle of movement on the other end before he adds, “On my way right now.”

“I’ll wait at the front for you.”

You weave your way back inside the house to find Taehyung, who’s still in the living room chatting with one of his teammates.

“Gonna go home, Tae,” you say, your voice cutting through their conversation. He glances up, distracted for a moment, before raising an eyebrow. “Also, here–” You hand him the drink he made for you. “This is not fun to drink at all.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at your sassy comment but takes the cup from your hand. “Learn how to enjoy a party without getting drunk.”

“You tell me to get out of my room more, and when I do, this is what you say? Pick a side,” you grumble.

“Why do you wanna go home?” His fingers adjust the top of your strapless dress absentmindedly as he asks. “You okay?”

“Eh, just a bit bored.”

“We’re gonna play truth or dare in a bit,” Taehyung’s friend pipes up, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. “Maybe you should stick around.”

“I think I’ll skip,” you say. “But please do me a favour and fill me in on all the drama I’ll be missing out on.”

He winks at you. “Will do.”

“I’ll walk you home,” Taehyung says, stepping towards you.

You know he won’t allow you to go home by yourself, so you opt for telling him the truth. “Jungkook’s coming to take me home.”

“Jungkook?” he asks, surprised. “Did you call him?”

“Yeah, I asked him. Didn’t wanna annoy you. Go have fun doing...” You glance over at Jimin and Hobi, who are holding an impromptu drinking competition. Hobi’s attempting to chug straight from a bottle of something clearly too strong for him, while Jimin’s pretending to be the host of a weird, offbeat game show. “...whatever that is,” you finish, trying to hold back a laugh.

“You really can’t leave those two alone for a second, can you?” Taehyung lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Tell Jungkook to swing by here once he drops you off.”

“He didn’t sound like he was in the mood to stop by, but I'll tell him.”

“Text me when you get home, yeah?” he says over his shoulder, already walking back toward Jimin and a very much unconscious Hobi, who’s sprawled out on the couch looking like he’s had one too many rounds.

~

Jungkook finds you almost immediately. You barely have time to register his presence before he’s already slipping his zip hoodie over your shoulders, his hands smoothing over the fabric like he’s tucking you in for the night.

“You should’ve waited inside,” he mutters, fingers lingering at the collar like he’s seriously considering zipping it up for you too.

You swat his hands away, glancing around quickly. “Jungkook, don’t – everyone’s watching.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Who’s watching?”

You look over your shoulder. “I dunno. People.”

Jungkook huffs a laugh, stepping closer. “Right. Because me making sure you don’t freeze to death is so scandalous,” he jokes. “But smoking weed the other day was okay to do outside? With all the people there?”

“As a friend you’re supposed to forget my mess-ups, not remind me of them.” You huff, faintly remembering when you tried weed for the first time. You did puke that night. Luckily not on Chanyeol. “You didn’t have to come,” you grumble, even as you tug the hoodie tighter around yourself, his warmth and the faint scent of his detergent wrapping around you like a second skin.

“I know,” he says, tilting his head. “But I wanted to.”

And then, because he’s annoying, he reaches up and tugs the hood over your head, effectively swallowing half your face in fabric.

You let out a muffled noise of protest, pushing it back down immediately. “Stop that.”

Jungkook just grins, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he starts walking. “You look cute like that, though.”

You glare at him but fall into step beside him anyway, the hoodie still draped around you like it belongs there. The night air nips at your skin, but his warmth lingers, and you swear he notices the way you pull the sleeves over your hands like it’s yours.

“So…” His voice is quieter now. “What you said on the phone earlier.”

Your stomach twists. “What about it?”

“I just—” He starts, then pauses. “I don’t know what you want from me, ___. One second, you’re pushing me away, and the next, you’re telling me you can’t stand seeing me with someone else. You –” He falters, his voice catching slightly. “Do you even know what you want?”

“I know that you ruined me for other boys, for one,” you say, sighing deeply before you continue. “I want things to be like before,” you reply. “When everything wasn’t so…” You gesture vaguely. “Complicated. I don’t like this. And I don’t like how I feel when I see you with –” You cut yourself off before the name can leave your lips. He knows anyway.

Jungkook watches you carefully, hands still stuffed into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. “I wasn’t trying to rub anything in your face,” he says after a pause. “I didn’t think it’d… affect you.”

“Well, it did,” you say, a little too fast, a little too defensive. “And I hate that it did, because it’s not like I have a right to be mad about it.”

Jungkook tilts his head. “Don’t you?”

That stops you in your tracks.

Because – do you? You don’t know what this is, don’t know what you want from him except for more. More of his attention, more of his time, more of him. But not all of him, right? Because that would mean–

“God,” you mumble, rubbing your hands down your face. “Why are you making me say things?”

Jungkook chuckles, nudging your side. “You called me, remember?”

You groan. “Worst decision I’ve ever made.”

“Harsh.”

“Accurate.”

Jungkook lets out a short laugh, but then he’s quiet for a beat before he says, “Look, I don’t wanna play games. If you want me, then say it.”

You swallow. “I do.”

“But we don’t want each other like that,” he adds.

“Yeah, no.” You chew on your lip, pulling his hoodie tighter around yourself. “I just… don’t want to see you with other people. And I don’t want to pretend that it doesn’t bother me.”

“I don’t wanna see you with anyone else either.” Jungkook exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You want to keep fucking but be exclusive.”

You wince. “Could you not say it like that?”

“What, say it like the truth?”

You purse your lips, staring at him. “Is it a no?”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, he sighs. “It’s not a no. I’ve been asking you for this, and you always pushed me away.”

“You know am not good with serious conversations. I like it when things are easy.” You cross your arms, trying to shield yourself, but your eyes can’t help but flicker towards him. “I don’t mean to push you away,” you admit. “I just– I get scared.”

His lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that. And then – without a word – he reaches out, pulling the hoodie up so the zipper meets your chin, like he’s tucking you in.

Your heart trips over itself. “What are you doing?”

He grins, hands still lingering near your collar. “Making sure you don’t run away before you finish talking.”

“I wouldn’t run,” you protest.

Jungkook raises a brow.

“…Okay, maybe I would,” you mutter.

His grin softens into something fonder. “Well, you didn’t,” he says simply. “You’re talking to me now.” His thumb brushes over the fabric near your shoulder. “And I know that’s not easy for you.”

Your face grows hot. You roll your eyes, looking away. “Okay, don’t be nice about it.”

Jungkook laughs, bumping your forehead lightly with his. “Sorry, can’t help it. I’m proud of you.”

Your stomach flips. You shove at his chest. “Ugh. Shut up.”

He just laughs harder, catching your wrist before you can push him again. “Too late.”

You elbow him, but he catches your arm, smirking as he tugs you closer. “So that’s it?” His voice drops slightly. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, but we don’t call it anything?”

The words send a shiver down your spine. Mine.

“…Yeah,” you say. “Something like that.”

Jungkook hums, his grip on your wrist loosening but not quite letting go. His fingers brush against yours for a second before he shoves his hands back into his pockets.

“Just stay with me.” You glance at him. “Don’t leave.”

“I’ll stay. Don’t worry.”

You continue walking, the quiet hum of the streetlights and distant city noise filling the silence.

“Taehyung said he wants you to stop by at the party once you drop me off,” you tell Jungkook, letting the information hang in the air before you ask, “But hang out with me instead?”

“You know, I was doing very important things before you called.”

“You never do uni stuff and this is the day you’re deciding to do a personality rebrand?”

“What do you mean? I’m on top of my grades...Kinda.”

You huff at his response. “Then, I dunno. Wanna be nerdy together? I can help you with your assignment.”

You’re pretty sure your marketing major and fashion design minor won’t do much to help him with stats, but you’re definitely down to stick around just to be close to him.

“I don’t think you can, but being nerdy together sounds extremely intriguing, so come on.” He holds his hand out for you and drags you the other way around to his dorm.

It’s not far, just a few blocks over, but the way his fingers loosely wrap around yours makes the walk feel shorter.

~

Here’s how the rest of the night goes: Jungkook, the ever exemplary student, continues working on his assignment, while you – an accomplished liar who successfully deceived Jungkook into believing you would help him – pretend to help for all of five minutes before succumbing to the far more important task of online shopping for cute clothes.

It’s being nerdy together (your version).

Every so often, he glances at you, probably wondering if you’ll suddenly become useful. You do not. Instead, you kick your feet up on his bed, adding yet another item to your cart that you definitely don’t need.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, eyes locked on the top that has no business being so cute. A strapless, velvety pink crop top. The entire front is held together by a line of sparkling, rhinestone heart clasps, leaving slivers of skin exposed.

“Do you think this is cute?” You turn your phone toward Jungkook.

“Very pretty.” Jungkook nods in approval, until his eyes flick down to the price. “What the fuck, ___.”

“What?” Add to cart. “It’s cute, no?”

“You’re a terrible study partner,” he mutters, typing on his laptop.

“I never claimed to be one,” you say, scrolling past a top that you absolutely do need. “Isn't being in my presence motivating enough?”

Jungkook snorts. “Right. I’m so motivated by your commitment to retail therapy.”

“Good,” you say, adding another item to your cart. “Then I’m doing my job.”

You watch him work on his assignment, your gaze drifting to his hands resting on the keyboard. His fingers are long and lean, the veins running along his wrists just noticeable under his skin. It's like every little movement is getting your attention, and suddenly, all you can think about is how good those hands would feel on you.

“What about this,” you say, a ghost of a smirk dancing at the corner of your lips. “When you finish your task, we can look through some lingerie. You can help me pick out a few things.”

The back of Jungkook’s head hits the wall. His eyes wander to the mirror on the opposite side of the room. You catch him staring – specifically at your propped-up legs, his gaze lingering a little too close to where your dress has ridden up, just enough to reveal a peek of lace.

“Hey, no peeking,” you scold, snapping your legs shut and stretching them out flat on his bed again, smoothing your dress down for good measure. “That’s also for later, when you finish your assignment.”

Smirking, you shift on the bed, just to test him.

“Must be so hard,” you muse, pretending to stretch as your dress slides just a little higher on your thighs. “Having a mirror right there, nowhere else to look.”

He scoffs. “If I wanted to see, I wouldn’t need a mirror.”

Jungkook doesn’t break eye contact, like he’s daring you to react. And maybe you should. Maybe you should roll your eyes, call him cocky, say you wish – but your brain isn’t working fast enough to form words.

“Remember how I fucked you against it?”

In his jersey. How could you forget?

And the way Jungkook’s lips twitch, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, makes your face heat up instantly.

“When has it become so easy to make you shy?”

“I’m not.” You glare at him, but it only seems to amuse him more. His lips quirk higher, that same infuriating twitch like he’s enjoying this way too much.

You sit up straighter, leaning forward just enough so your dress pulls a little higher on your thighs, the movement slow and deliberate.

Jungkook’s eyes move to your legs, and you see that flicker of desire flash across his face. His fingers twitch, like he wants to do something – anything – but he stays still.

“Wanna have a little taste to get some motivation to finish your work?” you tease, the giddy rush that heated your body fading as you flash him a mischievous smile.

“Anything to distract me from this shit,” he replies, already pushing the laptop off his lap, the screen still filled with charts and statistics problems. Ugh.

You shift to your knees and grab the back of his neck, crashing your mouth against his. He deepens the kiss a little, his lips soft against yours, the taste of him sweet and familiar. His breath mingles with yours, warm and steady. His hand lands on your waist, fingers lightly tracing the curve of your body.

You pull back just a little, eyes fluttering open to meet his, and for a second, you both just smile at each other, breathless and giddy.

“Should’ve been doing this instead of staring at those charts,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your cheek as he gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

You laugh softly, heart fluttering, before kissing him again – this time with more confidence, more warmth. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t get enough. His touch is gentle, but you can feel the quiet desperation behind it.

His rosy lips are swollen after a few more minutes of kissing and touching and grinding.

You slide off the bed and drop down to the floor, your hands running over his thighs, silently urging him to move closer. He shifts toward you, letting out a sharp breath when your palm him through his grey sweatpants.

You want to start of slow, want to take your time, but you’re also so needy and greedy for him, that you can’t help but tug his sweatpants down his legs, along with his briefs.

You take his semi hard dick in your hands and begin to stroke him. You let a drop of spit fall onto his cock for lubrication.

Jungkook puffs out a deep breath. You want to hear more of that.

“What happened to a little taste?” he asks, barely able to contain the moans that leave his mouth.

“Can’t help it,” you shrug, watching him grow bigger and harder in your hand.

His hand reaches for the hoodie he gave you earlier, which was carelessly thrown on his bed. He places it gently on the floor in front of you.

“Sit here,” he says, smoothing out the fabric. “Don’t want your knees to hurt.”

You shuffle your knees onto his hoodie, adjusting yourself, and continue stroking him up and down. At some point, you use both of your hands. You missed feeling his heavy cock in your hands, sitting beneath him and just playing with him.

“Spit on it, baby,” he says, voice low as he grabs his cock by the base and holds it for you to spit on. “Good girl.” He watches you with hooded eyes rub your spit all over him, mixing it with the precum leaking from his tip.

His cock is shiny, glistening with veins adoring his length. You stick out your tongue, gently swiping it over his head. Jungkook hisses when you swirl your tongue around his tip, teasing him with slow moves. He strokes himself while you play with his tip.

“Missed this view.” He pulls away his cock and starts slapping it against your tongue, the heavy feeling and wet noises immediately making you press your thighs together. “Look so pretty on your knees. Such a pretty girl.” Jungkook slides his head into your mouth. “Suck, baby.”

You close your mouth around his cock while you lock eyes with him. Slowly taking him deeper until you can’t take more. Your eyes are already watery and you didn’t even get most of him inside your mouth. You bob your head up and down in a slow, leisure pace.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he praises, threading his fingers through your hair to push it away from your face. “Relax your throat for me, yeah?”

When you do, he presses his hand on the back of your head, pushing your down on his cock and forcing you to swallow nearly half of him. Jungkook lets out a pretty moan when he feels the tightness of your throat around his cock, closing his eyes for a moment. Tears sting your eyes when he pulls you back, your hands gripping his thighs for leverage.

He lets you catch your breath before pushing you down again, moving your head in a tempo to his liking. When he shoves his cock particularly deep into you, you gag, tears rolling down your cheeks. You’re an absolute mess when he pulls out.

“What a good girl you are,” Jungkook says, his voice hoarse and low. “You just love sucking cock, don’t you?” He rubs his sticky cock against your mouth before slapping his head against it. He moves to your right cheek, smearing the mess over your skin and lightly tapping his cock. “Hm, princess?” he asks softer, almost with fake sympathy. He raises his brows in question, looking down at you like there’s just you and no one else.

“Love it so much,” you agree, moving your head along to the mess he’s making on your face.

Putting his cock back into your mouth, Jungkook leans back, watching you with pleasure etched into his expression as you move your head swiftly, twisting your hand around the part you can’t reach.

“So good,” he mutters, his tatted hand against your cheek just to feel you.

You tug your dress down and bring his cock down to your tits. You spit between the valley of your tits, using his tip to catch it and spread it across your boobs. You moan when his head brushes over your perky nipples. You circle his cock around them in small movements, breathy puffs escaping your mouth with how sensitive you are.

“You’re so fucking hot.” Jungkook fondles one breast with his hand, kneading it with his long fingers. He lets a little drop of spit fall onto your chest too, hungrily watching as you rub it against your soft skin with his cock. “Just want a mess everywhere, right?”

You nod, dragging his cock back into your mouth because you just need to taste him.

Jungkook curses under his breath when you start playing with his balls with your other hand. “Fuck, baby. Gonna cum if you keep going.”

Music to your ears.

You continue, swirling your tongue around his cock as you move up and down, trying to go as deep as you can. You can tell he doesn’t want to cum yet, but he doesn’t drag you off his cock, he’s too needy and horny.

“Cum on my tits.” You shift, jerking his cock in front of your chest.

“You want me to?”

“Please,” you beg, pushing your tits together with your arm, looking up at him with big eyes.

He moans at that sight, spurts of cum shooting across your chest. He paints your tits white with a big load. Your mouth hangs open slightly at the cum dripping from his cock. You lick his cock clean before looking down at your tits.

“You came so much.” You hold your tits in your hands. You flick your finger through some of the cum, putting it in your cum afterwards.

“Fuck, ___, please.”

You giggle at his reaction. You rub the cum into your skin with his still hard cock before it can drip down and create and even bigger mess. Your tits are all shiny from his cum when you’re done.

A shaky breath bubbles from Jungkook’s mouth when you stroke him once more, for good measure. “Pretty sure you got every drop.” He taps your elbow, motioning for you to get up. “Come here.” He pats the bed. “Get on all fours for me.”

While you get comfy on your knees on his bed, he takes off his clothes. Jungkook pushes your dress up your ass, the fabric bunched around your waist.

Jungkook slides one finger between your legs, slowly tracing your pussy through your panties.

“My dick in your mouth got you so wet, huh?” He pushes your panties aside, uttering a soft groan at the sight of your slick pussy. “So needy for me.” He bends down and you can feel his breath on your folds.

“Jungkook, please,” you whine.

“Please?” he repeats. “Such a well-mannered girl.” His tongue darts out, licking a stripe across your pussy.

You’re so incredibly sensitive, been yearning for this for so long, that you back arches immediately, thighs starting to quiver at Jungkook’s mild torture with his tongue.

Jungkook moves to your clit. He switches from little flicks to your nub and sucking on it, creating wet and filthy noises. He’s skilled with his mouth – perhaps a bit too skilled for your liking. But right now, you don’t have the energy to think too deeply about it, you’re just focused on the tingling pleasure that shoots through your tummy.

“Right there, Kook. Don’t stop.”

You watch him through the mirror – the way he is keeping your cheeks apart with his hands, face buried between your thighs, fluffy hair bouncing along with his movements. So handsome, so pretty, so yours.

“Pussy tastes so fucking good,” He mumbles, his fingers sinking deeper into your skin.

“So close. Wanna cum, Jungkook.”

Jungkook hums against you, the vibration making your breath hitch. It’s just his mouth on your pussy, but he knows his way around, knows how to make you squirm.

The pressure builds, winding tight in your core, seconds from snapping. “Jungkook,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “I’m–”

He groans into you, gripping harder, and that’s it—that’s all it takes. The tension in your body breaks all at once, pleasure hitting so hard your vision goes hazy. A choked sound spills from your lips, legs trying to squeeze shut, but he doesn’t let you. Just stays there, working you through it, dragging it out until you’re nothing but shivers and gasps, completely undone beneath him.

Only then does he pull back, breathing heavy, lips slick and swollen. He looks up at you through the mirror, something dark, almost possessive in his gaze, and swipes his thumb over his mouth like he’s savouring the taste.

You look back at him, smiling at his shiny face. His lips are covered along with his chin and his nose and a bit of his cheeks.

“This is, like, one of your best looks.”

“What, fresh out the pussy?”

You giggle. “Yeah,” you mutter, swiping your finger over the tip of his nose to clean him.

“I could have my face buried down there forever. I don’t think you realise how good you taste.” You feel his finger spreading your folds. “But I know my girl is very needy, so she wants cock, hm?”

You sigh, melting into his touch when you feel him slap his dick against your pussy instead. “You know me so well.”

The dick slaps are so wet, and your haze-filled mind craves nothing more than for him to shove his cock inside you, raw and deep, filling you the way you need – no barriers, no hesitation.

But Jungkook is actually able to still form sensible thoughts through the horny haze and grabs a condom from his nightstand.

He doesn’t tease you much before he enters you, just slowly, inch by inch, sliding his cock inside you.

“You good, baby?”

“Uh-huh, you can move.”

You gasp, the feeling almost overwhelming but exactly what you wanted. His hands grip your hips, pulling you back toward him as he starts a steady pace from behind, each thrust making your head spin.

“Missed this pussy,” Jungkook rasps, sneaking one hand down to your ass to spank it, eliciting a surprised moan from you. “So tight, so perfect.” He grabs a handful of your ass. “So mine.”

He fucks you rough, doesn’t give you any chance to think of anything but him. Your hands are clutching at his covers, holding the fabric tightly in your palms.

You feel him spit down on your ass. He rubs his finger over your puckered hole, making you whine and bite your lip at the feeling.

“Oh, Jungkook.” He slides his thumb inside, just the tip of his finger, and yet it feels like so much more, the pleasure intensifying.

“You’re such a slut for me, aren’t you?” he asks, not stopping his relentless pace. “Love getting all your holes filled. So, so dirty.” Contempt is dripping from his voice, and you can’t help but have your pussy throbbing at that.

“Just for you,” you breathe. “Just you, Jungkook.”

“That’s, right.” He pushes his thumb a bit deeper, making your fingers tighten around Jungkook’s sheets. “You’re my girl.”

Your heart is racing, pulse pounding in your ears, and all you can do is nod, your body responding to him without thought, your need for him overwhelming.

With his other hand he tugs at your hair, wrapping it around his hand and creating a makeshift ponytail.

“Look at how pretty you look.”

You turn your head to the mirror. Your back is fully arched, and Jungkook’s all over your, his muscled and tatted body towering over you with his cock deeply buried inside your pussy.

He withdraws his thumb from your hole, delivering another spank to your ass.

“Make me go fucking crazy,” he mumbles, wrapping his hand around your tummy and pulling you up against his chest.

“Kook,” you mumble, resting your head in the crook of his neck. You don’t know what you want, only that you’re feeling this irresistible pull to him, like you want to be even closer to him.

He lets your hair go, moving his hand to your tits and squeezing them.

“Cum with me,” he whispers into your ear, immediately sending shivers down your spine. “Look at yourself when you cum, baby. Want you to see how pretty you are.”

When he sneaks his hand that was wrapped around your tummy down between your legs and starts flicking his fingers over your clit, it’s officially over for you.

You still try to keep your eyes open like Jungkook told you so as you teeter off the edge, your climax consuming you. You watch him come undone too, his brows knitted together, and bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You’re weak on your knees, but Jungkook keeps you firm to his chest, not letting fall as he thrusts into you in a slower, sloppier pace. He peppers your neck and shoulders with little kisses, and you giggle a little, delirious on your high. Your hand reaches for his bicep and you squeeze it.

His skin is hot under your touch, muscles flexing as he holds you up, keeping you steady against him. The slow drag of his movements sends waves of overstimulation through your body, but you don’t pull away.

“I know, baby.” Jungkook hums against your shoulder, his lips still ghosting over your skin, pressing lazy kisses between heavy breaths. “Still with me?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, as his fingers brush down your sides.

You nod, melting further into him, body pliant against his.

Jungkook pulls out. You whine at the loss. He tosses the condom on the floor – you're too spent to tell him how gross that is – and shifts on the bed, lying down together with you.

His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you close, your body naturally moulding into his like it’s second nature. His skin is still warm, his breaths deep and steady as he settles beside you.

You glance down on yourself – you’re a mess. Panties still on, just pulled to the side like he liked, dress bunched around your waist, evidence of him all over you.

“Can I take a shower before I leave?”

“Sure.”

You wait.

You look up at Jungkook. “You’re not gonna ask if you can join me?”

“I thought that was clear?”

You smile. “Good.”

“Hey – will you now tell me what you wrote in your journal about me?”

“I know we’re back to being friends with benefits, but please know your place.”

“It was worth a try.”

[sabrinacocksucker]

Clichés and Canapés (M)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre: best friends to lovers; fake dating; billionaire au

Pairing: Seokjin x Reader (f)

Word Count: 40K

Author's Note: Part of the In Bloom collaboration with @kithtaehyung, @yoonia, @syllviere, @leahsfavefics, @suga-kookiemonster, and @cybrsan. Unfortunately, this is so long it has to be posted in two parts; please interact with both!

Synopsis: After twenty years of friendship, you’d think you were used to Seokjin’s proposals by now. In the past he’s forced you to participate in skydiving, skinny dipping, and even staging a rescue from the local shelter. Seokjin has always had big ideas but this time, even he may have gone too far. Granted, break-ups are stressful, and Seokjin’s latest one up was bad. Really bad. As in, they-ended-things-in-December-and-now-she’s-dating-his-brother bad.

It almost makes sense then, when Seokjin asks you to come home with him for his parents' party. Almost makes sense when he says his family assumed you were dating, and he didn't correct them. What doesn’t make sense is the longer you fake things, the more you find yourself wondering if this was real all along.

Rating: 18+; explicit sexual content

Warnings (explicit content): oral (f. receiving), nipple play, delayed orgasms, sex w/out a condom, cum play, semi-public sex, light spanking, fingering, dirty talk, mention of voyeurism

Warnings (other): depictions of micro-aggressions, mentions of divorce (past tense), emotionally abusive/manipulative parents (side character)

Time is relative. A year can be both long and short, depending on which side you stand on. December is always a surprise, despite having lived through the months prior. The ‘you’ of today compared to the ‘you’ of last year always makes you feel ancient. The past year in particular packed more punches than most – some of them small, and some monumental enough to stop you in your tracks.

For example, this time last year – how is it already May? – you still worked in consulting, nimbly hanging from the top rung of the corporate later. But by the end of last summer, you had unceremoniously quit in a flurry of anger and paperwork. Last year had many difficulties but honestly, quitting wasn’t one of them.

No – one thing no one tells you in school is that all jobs kind of suck. There’s no one right answer, one right path. There are many careers you can enjoy – some of them taken by choice, others by happenstance and you’ll likely be good at more than one. Each one has a different toll, though. A different cost-benefit analysis, as you would have said last year.

You were good at consulting. There were many reasons you rose through the ranks. You always enjoyed a good challenge; enjoyed the thrill of being good at your job, but slowly realized work didn’t make you happy. Not when the cost was your free time and every ounce of value you saw in yourself.

Ambition is also a funny thing. Chasing a dream, even someone else’s, can be satisfying but eventually, you look down and notice the cracks in your life. Crevices between who you are and who you want to be, widening until the gap is unpardonable. The moment you notice is the moment you’re forced to make a decision.

For you, the decision was to quit.

God, it felt good to drop all the burdens. To leave your equipment with IT and stop caring about which projects were on track, which coworkers were slacking, and what the impact would be if certain laws passed. Petty concerns about petty people, all washed away by the sunlight outside.

The ‘you’ of ten years ago would have been embarrassed to call yourself a barista. The ‘you’ of ten years ago though, still believed in golden lies spun by corporations. The idea that if you worked hard enough, long enough – translation: made enough money – you would be happy. News flash: you weren’t. Or at least, not happy enough.

Working in a coffee shop has been fun. Enjoyable. Of course, there are rushes and harried customers and your feet hurt, but at the end of the day, you still have the energy left to be creative. That’s what matters to you.

Your friends have been saying as much to you for years. One friend in particular was convinced you needed to take a step back, but you rarely listened to Seokjin when it came to matters of work. With his upbringing, his family, it wasn’t like money was ever a concern to him, and –

“Y/N? Hellooo? Y/N!”

Jerking upright, you realize Jimin has been calling your name. Screwing the cap on the syrup, you glance over your shoulder.

Jimin leans against the counter at an angle which, frankly, defies gravity. One impeccable brow lifted, he watches with both arms folded over his apron.

Slowly, you set down the syrup. “How many times did you call my name?”

Jimin shakes his head. “At least three. I understood at first, but then I started worrying you were losing your hearing. You know, because of your age.”

“I’m three years older than you, Jimin. Not decrepit.”

“Right.” A deep sigh. “Thirty. And here I am, young and virile and still in my twenties.”

“Ugh,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “Please don’t ever say virile to me again. And you’re in your twenties for now,” you add. “You’ll be thirty someday.”

“Yes. In the far, far, far future.”

Despite his teasing, Jimin joins at the sink with an armful of bottles. He stacks them neatly on the counter, reaching to fill one with syrup.

The café is quiet on a Tuesday afternoon. A few patrons linger, typing on laptops with their over-ears on, but the morning and noon rush have come and gone. Until someone enters, there’s nothing to do but clean and prep for tomorrow. Reaching for the next canister, you realize Jimin is wearing a Look.

It’s a Look you’ve grown familiar with over the past month, since Jimin insists on having the same conversation.

“Oh, no,” you sigh.

“Oh, no – what?”

“Oh, no – why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Jimin widens his eyes, the picture of innocence.

“Like I just kicked a dog,” you grumble.

Someone glances up from their laptop, appalled, and your face heats, realizing they overheard between songs. Busying yourself, you turn around and place your back firmly to them.

Jimin grins. “W-ow, Y/N. Can’t your good friend – and roommate, might I add – look at you without an agenda? It’s like you’re so used to being alone, you push people away at the first hint of discomfort.”

You make a sputtering sound. “Okay, first off – ouch. Too real for a work conversation. And second, that is not what’s happening here.”

Even if Jimin does have a point, says a voice in your head. Although you met Jimin in college, the two of you only recently reconnected. You were in the same theatre group back then, overlapping your senior and his freshman year. When you needed a roommate, you posted on the alumni social media page and Jimin responded. Since then, you’ve become close friends – along with Jimin’s boyfriend, Hoseok, one of your favorite people.

Jimin has been watching you withdraw socially for the past year, although much of that, you’d argue, is for a valid reason.

“So, does that mean you’ve changed your mind about the cabin?” Jimin asks, resting his chin on his fist.

“No,” you say through gritted teeth. “It does not.”

“Come on.” Jimin slumps dramatically. “It’ll be so much fun! And a bunch of my friends are single. And hot.” He wiggles both brows. “Now that I’m dating Hoseok, I need to set you up with someone.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitch. Jimin has been trying to get you to join his college friend cabin trip. Although you like his friends, an entire week with them is out of the question. Every single one of them is Type B – seriously, all of them – and if you went, you know you’d be instantly relegated to the ‘mom’ role. Even with the hottest of people, that’s a hard no for you.

Jimin is right there with them, flying through life by the seat of his pants, whereas you plan for all contingencies. Like the time you went backpacking through Europe and all the trains were cancelled due to something mumbled hastily at you in Spanish. It was up to you to solve – something you did within the hour; a story Seokjin likes to tell people at parties.

Of course, the response at Seokjin’s family parties tends to be shock at having taken public transportation in the first place. Seokjin’s family are rich-rich. Like, funded-the-railroads rich. Have-statues-in-historic-downtowns rich. Wear-clothes-that-look-like-Goodwill-but-actually-cost-five-figures rich.

It’s been a long while since Seokjin has said anything in your presence though, since you haven’t joined his rich-people parties in months. In fact, the last time you saw Seokjin was at his birthday party last year.

Wincing at this, you return to Jimin.

Admittedly, he makes some good points. You haven’t dated someone in ages. Your former job took up most of your time, and when you did date, it was friends of co-workers or people you met through work. Since quitting, you’ve taken a step back from the dating pool. As nice as it is to be wined and dined, you haven’t felt the need to take on someone new.

Not with how messy your personal feelings already are.

Mostly, you’ve thrown yourself into the coffee shop and writing. Jimin has encouraged you to branch out and meet new people, but it’s been hard. Especially after everything that happened with Seokjin.

“Maybe,” you sigh, looking up.

Bzzz-zzzz. Your phone jolts on the counter, and you choose to ignore it.

Jimin’s face brightens. “Maybe? Yes! I’ll text the group and have them add you to the chat. They’re going to be so psyched to have another driver, Y/N – you won’t believe how slowly Max goes on the highway, and – okay, who has been texting you?” Jimin glares at your phone when it buzzes again. “That has to be the tenth text in a row.”

“Probably emails,” you say, reaching sideways. “I need to turn notifications off. Ever since that info leak last year, I get so much spam that–”

Unfortunately, the name on the screen stops you, mid-sentence. You do have emails, along with a text from your sister, but it’s the name at the top driving your current state of paralysis.

Seokjin – (1) unread text.

“What?” Jimin attempts to peer over your shoulder. “Who is it?”

“No one,” you blurt, yanking your phone away. “Nothing.”

Hovering over the trash can, you swipe sideways. Seokjin’s text fills the screen.

Seokjin: *emergency emoji* so, I have news… [3:11 PM]

Fear grips your chest, filling you with dread while you await the next text. For months, you’ve anticipated this message. Seokjin has finally proposed, and his girlfriend, Emilia, has accepted. Your best friend – if you can still call him that – is engaged. Fully taken. Off the market.

Of course, if Seokjin were still your best friend, you’d have no doubts regarding his text. You’d be elated, excited by the next stage in his life. You’d be happy for him, happy for Emilia, and eager at the prospect of an over-the-top wedding invite. Emilia’s family is as rich as Seokjin’s, after all.

Instead, you find yourself feeling – well. Not happy.

In an attempt at distraction, you read your sister’s text about what to get your mom for Mother’s Day. The two of you have combined gifts for years, but the burden usually falls on you. Something about your mom’s latest boyfriend rubs your sister the wrong way.

Another text flashes on top of your screen.

Seokjin: Emilia and I broke up [3:13 PM]

Your eyes widen.

Dimly, you realize this is a terrible way to receive information, but your fingers are already moving. Returning to Seokjin, you see he’s still typing. His ellipses pause, then start, then pause again. At last, a new message comes through.

Seokjin: well, we broke up a while ago but guess what haha [3:15 PM]

Seokjin: now she’s dating Jaesuk [3:15 PM]

Before you can recognize the foolishness of doing so, you gasp. Jimin thrusts himself over the top of the screen, blonde hair falling forward as he tries to read.

“Y/N,” he whines. “Come on! Tell me what’s happening – did Tom and Zendaya break up? Get engaged? Break up, then get engaged?”

Dazed, you shake your head. “It’s uh, Seokjin.”

Jimin pauses. “Seokjin?” Glancing upward, his brows furrow. “Your friend, Seokjin? The one who’s… you know,” he says, miming something with one hand.

“… sexually active?”

“No.” Jimin huffs. “Loaded! That was me, swiping my black card.”

“Oh. That was unclear. But yeah, Seokjin’s family is well-off.”

Jimin whistles and looks at the ceiling. “Well-off. That’s what the uber-rich say to make it sound like they’re still in touch with reality. This guy must be dripping money.”

You have no response to this, since Jimin isn’t wrong. Although Seokjin himself is an untenured professor, there’s no way he could afford his current apartment without his inheritance. No way he could have completed his PhD in four years without the luxury of not having to work. Not to mention he teaches at a university with one of the largest endowments in the country and a building donated by his great-grandfather.

Because Jimin is a more recent friend, he’s never met Seokjin. Seokjin and you didn’t go to college together – he attended the same university he teaches for now. Jimin knows who Seokjin is, though. Hard to be friends with you and not know who he is.

As the second Kim son, Seokjin escaped the gargantuan task of inheriting the family business. Mostly, Seokjin’s parents leave him alone to do what he wants. Jaesuk, Seokjin’s older brother, wasn’t as lucky.

Which takes you back to the text. Emilia is dating Jaesuk.

“Anyways,” you say. “Seokjin texted me something surprising. That’s all.”

Jimin clasps both hands together. “Oh?”

You feel your face heat. “Not like that, you idiot. He has a girlfriend. Or – well, he had a girlfriend. He just texted me that they ended things.”

“And?”

“And…” Against your better judgement, the words rush out, “Now, his ex-girlfriend is dating Seokjin’s older brother.”

“WHAT,” Jimin yells at the unfortunate moment a new customer enters.

Both your heads jerk sideways. Before Jimin can recover, you scoop up your phone and dart towards the back. “Gotta go,” you blurt in a split-second decision. “Can you greet that customer? I’m due for my break. Thanks, Jimin!” you call, pushing through the staff door.

Through the frosted window, you see Jimin fume, then paste on his best customer service smile. Exhaling lowly, you lock the door and collapse at the small, wooden table.

Your heart pounds in the silence, unnaturally loud. Placing your phone on the table, you stare at the wallpaper – a photo of the city skyline you took last fall. Before that it was a photo of you and Seokjin. Your screensaver has always been you and Seokjin, something you never questioned until last year. Last summer, to be precise.

“Get ahold of yourself,” you mutter.

Taking a deep breath, your fingers hover over his name. You press call before you can second-guess yourself, Seokjin’s name filling the screen. He answers almost immediately.

“Hello?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Seokjin sounds out of breath, deeper than you remember. How unfair would it be for him to experience a second puberty burst. The first was torture enough for you as a teenager. Overnight, Seokjin transformed from your nerdy best friend to a soft-spoken, hilarious man the entire school wanted.

“… Y/N?”

Opening your eyes, you scoop up your phone and take it off speaker. “Oh, hey – yeah, it’s me.”

He chuckles. “I figured when I saw your name calling.”

“You never know.” Aimless, you pick at the lint of your apron. “Maybe I was in a tragic accident, and someone found my phone at the scene of the crime.”

“Does that mean I’m your emergency contact, Y/N? I’m touched.”

Your cheeks heat since yes, you’re not sure you ever changed that. What you say though, is, “Don’t get cocky. I have all my phone contacts listed as emergency contacts. I like to hedge my bets.”

He laughs, louder this time. “Hey, no judgement here. Pretty sure you’re still mine.”

Your fingers still on your apron. You shouldn’t be his contact – not after everything. Harshly, you stamp out the hope rising within you. Seokjin’s lack of foresight and planning shouldn’t be taken as anything but just that.

“Right.” You pause. “Sorry – is this a bad time? I should have texted back, but I’m at work, and thought it’d be easier to call…”

“You’re at work? Y/N, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“I’m on a break, don’t worry about it.”

 A long pause. At last, Seokjin sighs and the knot in your chest tightens. You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen him upset. Once when your parents were getting divorced, and you ignored his texts for a week. Another, when he and his college girlfriend, Lisa, broke up. Another when his mom was diagnosed with breast cancer (currently in remission). And then again, when your ex cheated on you with your supposed best friend senior year. Seokjin drove across state lines all night to be on your campus by morning.

He sounds upset now, too.

“Yeah.” Seokjin exhales. “You thought this conversation would be better in person, and as always, you were right, Y/N.”

The way he says your name sparks wistful familiarity. It also reminds you of a darkened hallway, whiskey on Seokjin’s breath and – you stop the memory in its tracks.

“What happened?” you press. “I just… damn, Seokjin. The last time I saw you and Emilia, the two of you seemed so, um… so…”

“Coupled?”

“I was going to say nauseating, but yeah.”

Seokjin barks out a laugh. “Way to kick a guy when he’s down, Y/N.”

“Sorry,” you say, but your lips twitch. “Although… I don’t mean to be rude, but… you don’t sound down? You sound… surprisingly chipper for a man who was cuckolded.”

The truth of this statement resonates within you. Seokjin sounded tired when he answered, but everything since has felt almost normal. Almost – because the elephant in the room has not gotten smaller.

The last time you spoke face-to-face was December.

“Whoa, whoa – hang on,” he sputters. “Who said anything about cuckolding?”

“Were you not? Le cuckold, as the French say?”

“Wait.” Seokjin sounds amused. “To be clear, which party is the cuckold? The guy who cheats or the guy cheated on? Also – why is there no name for the woman in this scenario?”

“Oh, there are plenty of names for the woman. They’re just not as fun, and heavily drenched in misogyny.”

“Right, right. The patriarchy, etc. – but seriously, Emilia didn’t cheat on me. Or she says she didn’t, and I’m inclined to agree.” He pauses. “I think.”

“You think?”

“I do believe her. But… well, even if she didn’t technically cheat… even if we broke up in December, then waited a respectable period of time and then they started dating – it still feels weird. Like, was she into him the entire time we dated? Was my brother into her?”

“No good answers come from that line of questioning,” you say grimly.

“I know.” Seokjin groans, and you imagine him dragging a hand down his face. “You’re right, but I can’t stop picturing it. And they didn’t.”

“They didn’t what?”

“Wait a respectable amount of time,” he mutters. “Emilia and I broke up in December, and they told me at the end of March they were dating. Meaning they started dating before and only deemed it serious enough to tell me in March.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Hence the thinking.”

“About the timeframe, or the general weirdness?” you prompt.

In the back of your mind, you can't help wondering what made Seokjin reach out. According to what he just said, Seokjin has known about Jaesuk and Emilia since March. Granted, everything about this is strange and it's valid to vent, but you haven't spoken to Seokjin in months. Even before the break-up, it's been ages since you spoke about anything real.

“Both,” he says in response to your question.

“Not… anything else?”

“What else would I be thinking about, Y/N?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you huff, twisting the thread of your apron. “Are you still in love with Emilia? It’s hard to be around an ex normally, but this…” Trailing off, you shake your head.

“What? No. I mean, yeah – it’s not fun to be around them. But no,” Seokjin says, decisive. “I’m not in love with her.”

Your lips tighten, unsure how much to believe. Still, you decide not to push him. Years of experience have taught you that if Seokjin isn’t ready to talk about something, you won’t get a peep out of him. If it were you, though, five months isn’t enough to fall out of love.

“Okay,” is all you say. Glancing at the staff door, you watch Jimin hand the customer their drink. Your break will be over soon, one way or another.

“I’m… actually glad you called me, Y/N.”

The hesitancy in his voice draws you back. “You are?”

“Yeah.” Seokjin clears his throat, a nervous tic. “Jaesuk called me yesterday. You know how my parents’ anniversary is in May?”

“Of course.”

Obviously, you know. Seokjin’s parents are strange for many reasons, not least of which is their genuine love for one another. They are also – you can say this after many years working in consulting – the most normal rich people you’ve ever encountered. Most of their wealth is donated each year, with a small stipend (still an insane amount) granted to each family member.

The weekend of their anniversary is the exception to this rule. Seokjin’s parents go all out, spending an entire week at their lake house, hosting lavish parties which cumulate in the main event. Growing up, you attended as Seokjin’s plus one. This all changed when Seokjin got his first girlfriend, although you still attended a few years later as the date of his sister, Seohyun.

Glancing at the calendar on the wall, you realize their anniversary is coming up. Seokjin’s family will probably leave for their lake house next weekend.

“Yeah.” Seokjin again clears his throat. “So, uh, my brother called and… at first, he and Emilia weren’t going to come. They decided to skip this year because of the obvious.”

“The cuckoldom, yes.”

“I said the obvious,” Seokjin says drily. “But anyways. Well.” He exhales, and you remember again that between you, Seokjin could be called mild-mannered. “Jaesuk wants to know if it would be okay with me if they come together. Emilia’s parents were invited, and they thought it might be weird…”

Your jaw has dropped again. “How would that be weirder than Emilia attending with your brother?”

“I don’t know,” he groans, and from the way his voice muffles, you imagine him laying his head on his desk. Seokjin usually grades papers in the late afternoon.

His apartment is gigantic, a three-story brownstone located in Hyde Park with a view of Lake Michigan. His study (yes, he has a study) always reminded you of the library in Beauty and the Beast. Perhaps a bit smaller, with less fiction on the walls.

Dimly, it registers that Seokjin’s parents invited the Astors. Granted, Emilia’s family runs in the same circle, but the invitation feels odd. Odd – and cruel, to invite Seokjin’s-ex-slash-Jaesuk’s-current girlfriend.

What a mess.

Numbly, you shake your head. “They want you to spend an entire week together? Alone? In the middle of the wilderness?”

“Michigan isn’t exactly Siberia, Y/N.”

“But… you, your brother, and the woman you’ve both slept with – in one house?”

“I probably wouldn’t put it like that, but sure.”

“You… said no, right?”

A long, awkward pause follows.

Your voice rises. “Right?” you demand, gripping the phone tighter.

“No.” Seokjin’s voice muffles once more. “I told them I wasn’t sure, but I’d let them know.”

“Seokjin! You absolutely cannot spend an entire week with them alone.”

“Aha!”

“What?” you ask, blinking at his note of triumph.

“You’re absolutely right. I can’t spend the week with them… alone.”

Your brows furrow. “So… you agree with me?”

“No, Y/N,” Seokjin says. “I can’t spend the week with them alone. But… with someone else…”

A beat passes.

“Are you dating someone new?” you ask. “Is that it? You’re going to subject some poor, unsuspecting person to your Shakespearean family drama?”

“Not a poor, unsuspecting person, no…”

Suspicion slowly dawns. “Seokjin…”

“Yes?”

“You can’t be serious.”

His throat clears. “I was thinking… maybe... you could join.”

The silence stretches between you so long, Seokjin grows concerned. “Y/N?” His voice dims, like he’s checking the call hadn’t dropped. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” you croak. “Physically. Mentally, I think something has broken, because I just heard you ask me something insane.”

“See!” Seokjin blurts. “This is why I need you there. You’re so good at making things less awkward. And my family loves you – their attention would all be on you, and not on how weird and insane my life is.”

Groaning out loud, you sink further into the chair. This is a bad idea. Truly abysmal, but…

You already know you’ll say yes. Saying no to Seokjin has never been an option.

Back in college, you joined his family trips all the time. Back then, your dad wasn’t taking care of himself, your mom had run off with her first new boyfriend, and you had nowhere to go during summer holidays. Frequently, the Kim’s referred to you as their second daughter – but all that was ages ago.

Seokjin didn’t even call when he and Emilia broke up.

“Seokjin,” you sigh. “Why are you asking me this?”

A long pause. “I just told you why.”

“No. I mean… I didn’t even know you were single.” You hesitate, then barrel on. “This is the first time we’ve talked on the phone since – god, I don’t even know. Last year?”

Seokjin’s ensuing silence is damning. An unspoken question hovers between you: Has anything changed since the last time we saw each other?

"I’m… sorry, Y/N." He exhales. "I know… I should have reached out to you sooner. I just… I just couldn’t.”

Your lips purse, watching the door. Your break must be over, but luckily, Jimin has given you space to process. As much as he pretends to be needy, his ability to read the room is remarkable.

“Ugh,” you groan, tipping your head back. Your eyes close. “Let me think about it.”

“Wait – really?” Seokjin blurts. “Thank you, Y/N! You won’t regret this – I swear.”

“I haven’t agreed to it yet!”

“Right, sure. Of course,” he hastens, attempting to sound mollified.

Your lips twitch. “I have to get back to my shift.”

“Yes. Make that money.”

“Eh.”

“Make… minimum wage plus tips?”

“Closer,” you sigh, pushing yourself to stand. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Okay. And Y/N?”

You hover near the door. “Yeah?”

Seokjin pauses. “There are a lot of logical reasons why it’d be great if you came, but honestly?” His voice thickens. “I just… want you there.”

There’s an ache in your chest you wish could say was a stranger. In truth though, the feeling is exactly why you should say no.

You never had a great sense of self-preservation, though. Instead, find yourself saying–

“Yes.”

Honking outside your apartment at 8:00 AM on a Sunday does little to endear Seokjin to Jimin. Standing by the window of your third story walk-up, he holds the curtain back with his pinky finger. Dressed in a green silk dressing gown, Jimin purses his lips.

“Does he really expect to just… honk, and have you fall in line?”

“That’s what we agreed,” you huff, dragging your luggage into the living room. “He said he would be here at 8:00 and I’d meet him outside.”

Jimin’s frown deepens. “He’s blocking the alley. If someone sideswipes him, that’s not my problem.”

You struggle to break free from your purse strap, which seems determined to fight back. “Seokjin isn’t used to driving in the city, give him a break.”

“Oh, he’s not the one driving.”

“What?”

“Someone else is in the car.”

Succeeding in getting your purse to lay flat, you join Jimin at the window. True to his word, a sleek black town car idles at the curb. The only reason someone hasn’t rammed into it yet is due to the early hour. Otherwise, your neighbors wouldn’t be shy about making their displeasure known. Read: petty vandalism.

Pulling the curtain back further, you curse. Seokjin leans against the side of the car, the trunk already popped. Someone else clearly sits in the front seat, which means Seokjin hired a driver.

“That’s just his driver,” you mutter, turning around.

The curtain falls, and Jimin whirls. “So, he is a one percenter.”

You choose to remain silent, dragging your suitcase to the top of the landing. Jimin follows close behind, hair sticking up in several directions.

“He’s also hotter than you led me to believe,” he accuses, following you down the stairs. You continue to ignore him, your suitcase banging each step. “Granted, I only saw him from three stories up, but I can tell. You undersold. Hmm… now, why would you do that, Y/N?”

“You’re dating Hoseok,” you remind him. “And Seokjin is straight.”

He continues, unbroken. “What would be the reason to downplay your best friend’s hotness?”

There’s a teasing note in his voice that says Jimin knows damn well why you’d do such a thing. It’s the same reason you’re going on this trip, and why you continue to reject every guy he sets you up with.

Reaching the front door, you set your bag down. “Okay,” you growl, turning around to poke Jimin in the chest. “You stay inside. This is precisely why I said I’d meet Seokjin at the curb.”

“Because of me?” Jimin clutches his chest, wounded. “Come on, Y/N. I just wanna see the guy you’re so damn in love with that you refuse to go out with any of my super cool friends. Pleaseeee –”

A loud knock makes you jump.

Eyes wide, you hold a silent, one-sided argument with Jimin that he clearly ignores. Exhaling, you spin around and grasp the handle. This is fine. Everything is fine. You can do this; all you need is to stay cool and composed – all this dissolves when you open the door.

Seokjin stands with a hand outstretched, as though about to knock.

Next to you, Jimin inhales. “Whoa,” he mutters close to your ear. “Okay. I get it.”

Seokjin’s gaze flicks to him. “What?”

Slowly, you turn and glare at your roommate.

To his credit, Jimin swiftly recovers. “I get… I mean, got your scone, Y/N! You forgot it upstairs,” he amends, shoving his own half-eaten scone into your empty hand. “I saw it on the kitchen table, so I followed you down.”

“Oh.” Seokjin looks between you. “That was nice of you…”

“Jimin.” Beaming, Jimin shoves past to shake Seokjin’s outstretched hand. “I’m so glad we met. I’ve heard so much about you – Y/N’s best friend, in the flesh. Someone’s going to hit your car if you continue blocking the alley.”

Seokjin doesn’t seem to know what to do with this information, especially not while Jimin vigorously pumps his hand up and down. Deciding this is too much before coffee, you begin to pass Jimin with your bag in tow.

“Oh – here,” Seokjin hastens, breaking away to grab the handle. “I’ve got it. Nice to meet you, man,” he says, glancing at Jimin.

When you start to leave, Jimin contorts himself enough to drop a kiss on your cheek. A moment of what can only be described as negative sexual tension follows, and you stare at him, baffled, before walking away. Jimin winks as you go, the purpose of which you realize when you catch Seokjin watching.

He looks almost… mad?

He also looks insanely good. The benefit of Jimin being chaotic means you had no time to second-guess your greeting. You were so busy trying to contain the conversation, you didn’t worry about what would be appropriate to say during your first meeting in months.

Now, though, you have time to look at him. Seokjin is simultaneously perfectly put together and artfully tousled. His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, piece-y black waves falling over his forehead. The morning is cold enough that he wears a light jacket, a white button-down and slacks freshly pressed underneath.

Great. Seokjin looks hot. There goes all your hope for a painless vacation.

You glance at your suitcase. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Take my bag,” you huff, reaching out.

Innocent, Seokjin yanks it behind him. “It’s the literal least I can do, Y/N. You’re the one doing me a huge favor.”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

Seokjin chuckles when you head for the car, carefully picking your way to the curb. April showers really did bring the May flowers or, in your case, serious flooding that has since subsided but left a mark.

Sliding into the backseat, you glance at your building and spot Jimin in the window, still clad in his dressing gown. He waves enthusiastically at the car and blows another kiss. Scowling up at him, you almost don’t notice when Seokjin slides in.

When the door shuts, you notice – it should be criminal to smell as good as he does. It doesn’t help that you know exactly which Molton Brown body wash Seokjin uses, nor that you were there when he picked the scent in high school.

The two of you became friends in elementary school. Seokjin was seated beside you in class; his parents wanted him to experience 'normal life' and enrolled him in public school. Really, the only thing normal at that school was his friendship with you.

Extracting yourself from your purse, you watch Seokjin lean forward and press a button. “George?” he asks, lowering the partition.

A middle-aged man sits in the driver’s seat. He smiles at you in the rearview mirror, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Yes, Mr. Kim?”

Seokjin winces at the formality. “We’re ready to go. I’d like to –”

BEEEEEEEEEEEP.

A car honks from the alley and, hiding a smile, you slump lower. Seokjin blinks, glancing behind you to spot a car revving its engine.

Sighing resignedly, he faces forward. “Wormhole Coffee, George – thank you.”

George nods, ever the professional while rolling up the partition to move the car forward. You rumble along side streets in silence until you peer at Seokjin.

“So,” you say casually. “A driver?”

His gaze meets yours. “The weather looked bad. I figured it’d be nice to have George drive us out of the city.”

“Just out of the city, huh?”

“Yep.” He nods. “Then we’re on our own. Figured we could hitchhike, or maybe steal someone’s car?”

“Oh, cool. With the way the world’s going, I’d hoped to die young.”

Seokjin’s laugh echoes around you. The sound makes your heart twinge, and you move your gaze to your lap. By the time you reach Wormhole Coffee, your thoughts are muddled. You didn’t expect this to be so awkward and – not for the first time – wonder why Seokjin invited you. He could have asked anyone; a co-worker or college buddy, hell, even a neighbor.

Stepping from the car, you barely reach the door before Seokjin appears. “Hey,” he says, placing a hand on your arm.

You blink downward, and he swiftly removes it.

“I… uh.” Again, he clears his throat. “I hope this weekend doesn’t make things weird for you. You know you don’t have to come if things are… complicated.”

You look at him. “If what things are complicated?”

“If” – aimless, he waves – “you know. Let’s say you and I were dating, and you suddenly went on a trip with your guy friend alone. I might feel weird about it.”

You’re so hung up on Seokjin saying you and I were dating, you nearly miss the important bit. Once that sinks in, you can’t help but grin.

Seokjin frowns. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do you… think Jimin and I are dating?”

Your tone is almost gleeful, and Seokjin’s eyes narrow. “I thought that maybe…”

“We’re not,” you declare, pushing open the door. “But I appreciate the concern. Jimin and I just work together. He’s happily dating someone else.”

“Ah.”

Stopping at the counter, you survey the menu. Ordering one of the spring coffee specials, you move to the end and grab several napkins. Seokjin joins you, waiting patiently until both your orders are called. George is idling at the curb – you have to admit, a personal driver has benefits – and you slide into the backseat with your iced latte procured.

Once the door shuts, Seokjin turns. “I’m sorry. I promised this wouldn’t be awkward, and here I am, being awkward. Thank you… for being here.”

“No problem.”

A loud silence follows, interrupted only by the sound of the car starting. George heads for the highway, and you take a long sip of your coffee.

Despite your exterior, you’re freaking out on the inside. Apparently, you were right to worry because this is going about as terrible as you imagined. Not because of the obvious – you have feelings for your best friend and he’s jealous of his ex – but because somehow, the two of you have nothing to say.

“Seriously.” Seokjin struggles to find his next words. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been dreading this week. I know I played it cool over the phone–”

“Uh, that was playing it cool?”

“–but actually,” he continues, as though you haven’t spoken, “I’ve been panicking.”

Another twinge when you realize you were right. Seokjin claimed he was over Emilia, but there’s no way he could be. If it were, he wouldn’t need you to be here. He wouldn’t be dreading this interaction if he had moved on.

Of course, Seokjin isn’t over her. They’ve barely been broken up for six months. You’ve waited longer to get a new pet.

“Well, sure,” you say, softening as you face him. “That makes sense. Anyone would be freaked out by the prospect of spending an entire week with their ex. Doubly so, if said ex was now dating their sibling.”

Seokjin pulls a face. “And that’s not even the worst part.”

“… did they kill someone, too?”

“Okay, fine – that is the worst part, but it sucks how weird everyone else is being. How nice,” he elaborates, catching your look. “My parents tiptoe around me, not knowing how to act. Jaesuk is practically self-flagellating, and Emilia is ignoring me, because –”

“Hang on – how is Jaesuk self-flagellating?”

Seokjin exhales and sinks lower. “Jaesuk has apologized to me so many times, he’s going to leave permanent knee indents on my floor. He keeps randomly texting me, offering to buy stuff, which is just plain insulting.”

“You know who isn’t insulted by expensive gifts? Me.” You jab a thumb at your chest. “Tell Jaesuk if he wants to make things up to you, he should make things up to me.”

Rather than laugh at your joke, Seokjin’s face flushes. You tilt your head, unsure where you went wrong until he dispels the tension with a soft chuckle. Eyes narrowed, you study him. Strange.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Anyways, since I said you were coming, things have been almost normal. Now, at least my parents are fixated on you and not whether they should console their broken-hearted son” – he points to himself, mimicking your gesture from earlier – “or celebrate Jaesuk finding new love.”

“Love?”

“Yeah.” Seokjin grimaces. “He let that one slip last week. I think… there may have been feelings between them for a while, even if they never acted on it.”

He doesn’t sound upset, but you can’t keep your own jaw from clenching. Even if Seokjin has moved on from Emilia (which, again, you doubt), their behavior is inexcusable. Seokjin can be as generous as he wants, but you don’t have to feel the same.

Teeth grinding, you wonder how civil you need to be on this trip.

“Can you stop plotting revenge, Y/N?” Seokjin says mildly. “You know that makes me uncomfortable.”

Reluctant, you unclench your jaw. “Who, me?”

“Please.” Seokjin sips his coffee. “You forget I know you, Y/N. Your face is very… expressive.”

“Okay, you’re one to talk!”

Besides, no matter how expressive you are, Seokjin has still never caught onto your biggest secret over the years. The one Jimin guessed right away – that for years, you’ve been madly in love with your supposed best friend.

The knowledge is sobering enough that you turn towards the window. Last December was simply the accumulation of many years of pining – admittedly, you didn’t realize the severity of your feelings until late last summer.

In your twenties, you would have wondered if this week meant something more than friendship. You would have read between the lines of what Seokjin was saying, and saw meaning in his small gestures. Now, you’ve known him for twenty years, and can say with complete certainty that Seokjin is just a good person. He values friendship highly, as much as romantic relationships, and he values you most of all.

And even though he values you, his feelings for you don’t go beyond platonic. It’s better not to go down that road again – no, the only way you’ll survive this week is to take everything at face value. You pulled away for a reason, and now you’re forced to remember. The only way to leave this intact is to continually remind yourself the two of you are just friends.

“I made a playlist,” you announce, unzipping your purse. “It’s everything that you love – study lo-fi beats, classical music, and whale sounds. You know, because of academia?”

Seokjin sighs deeply but obediently plugs in your phone. The first chords of your chill driving playlist come over the speakers, and you settle in. Seokjin responds by pulling out his phone, brow furrowed as he sends off a text. His job can be demanding at times, especially until he gets tenure.

While Jaesuk was groomed to take over the family company, Seokjin was left to pursue his own dreams. For as long as you’ve known him, Seokjin has been fascinated by the people around him. What makes them tick, why people do things, how we influence one another – his first anthropology course felt like coming home, he said back in college.

Even though his career is what Seokjin wants, it doesn’t come without stress. During your twenties, Seokjin entertained you with many tales of bitter rivals, faux plagiarism, and the insane emails his students send to him before class. Most Friday nights were spent at his place, with Seokjin grading papers while you lay on his couch and drank wine.

Swallowing, you stare out the window. The current situation is your fault, you remind yourself. Maybe if you had been braver earlier, more willing to blow up your sense of security for the unknown… then maybe you wouldn’t be in this same place with Seokjin.

The first time you felt more than friendship was in high school. Seokjin transformed overnight, returning from his fancy summer camp at least six inches taller and broader. Somone (probably his sister) bought him styling products, and even though gelled hair is out of touch now – back in high school? Devastating.

You convinced yourself the feelings meant nothing. Hormones. Puberty. Something temporary and fleeting, not the permanent realization Seokjin was your entire world. That came later.

For a few years, you did a good job at convincing yourself. You dated other people, even seriously – David, your first love. The two of you began dating when you were sixteen and lasted until your first semester of college. When you broke up, you called Seokjin and cried to him on the phone for hours. At some point, you fell asleep and woke up to realize he’d never hung up.

Something soft took root in your chest that day. You meant to confess when you came home for winter break, only to reach his family’s Christmas party and find Seokjin arm in arm with his new girlfriend, Lisa. Gorgeous, thin, rich and the same major as Seokjin – you slunk off that night after being introduced as his friend and found comfort with Seohyun in her parents’ wine cellar.

That was the moment you decided to move on. You couldn’t continue to make decisions around the hope Seokjin would one day see you as more. He was a good friend – the best friend – and you valued that, too. For years, you thought you’d succeeded. You dated casually, buried yourself in your work, and watched as Seokjin did the same.

There was a brief scare when you both moved to Chicago, and you found yourself becoming reacquainted. The Seokjin of your childhood had gone, leaving a man in his place. Eventually though, even that faded, and you convinced yourself friendship was enough. It had to be enough, because Seokjin never hinted at wanting more. If he sometimes sat too close or looked at you too long – well, that was just how Seokjin was.

Until Emilia.

Emilia was the first girlfriend Seokjin had who made sense. She fit in with his friends, was of the same upbringing, had the right social status and worst of all, she was nice. Emilia was cool, effortless, and about a million other things which made her a good match for Seokjin. In a horrible burst of karmic justice you realized that summer you didn’t want Seokjin to find a good match. You wanted him to find you.

The realization humiliated you. You were Seokjin’s best friend – you should have been happy for him. You had had years, decades, to confess your feelings and skipped past all of them. You spent so many years insisting you were fine, that these feelings meant nothing, and everything was a lie.

Seokjin was oblivious. Once you understood your own feelings, you realized you had been hiding this from him for years. It made you well-equipped to handle him with Emilia. Or at least, you thought it would. Seokjin continued inviting you to parties, asking you to hang out with him and Emilia, or join them on couple vacations.

At first, you said yes but brought buffers. Hinge dates, friends of friends, even co-workers – despite numerous distractions, none of them worked. By the end of the summer, you had made moves in your career to be happier. Soon after, you realized you needed to do the same in your personal life.

You began to pull away: taking longer to respond to Seokjin’s texts, making excuses when you were invited out, and cancelling plans at the last minute. All throughout the fall this continued, cumulating in December at Seokjin’s birthday party.

He stopped by your coffee shop in November, catching you in the middle of cleaning the espresso machine. “Promise me you’ll come,” Seokjin insisted, leaning over the counter.

Jimin wasn’t on shift that day, and you struggled to remember what piece to clean next. Frustration rose, trapped behind your teeth – at how to clean the machine, nothing more.

“I’ll try,” you said at last, but avoided his gaze.

Seokjin left soon after. Still, him going out of his way triggered your guilt complex enough that you chose to go. Seokjin barely said hello when you arrived. He had a few drinks. So did you. Emilia always stood near him, chatting in the corner with mutual friends.

At some point, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom. For the first time all night, you let your expression drop. Sinking onto the closed toilet seat, you buried your face in your hands and wondered why you had come. You stayed there several minutes, composing yourself enough to exit.

Seokjin waited outside.

Leaning against the wall, his posture seemed stiff. You rarely saw Seokjin angry, but when you did – well, it was hard to stay platonic with that look in his eyes.

“I haven’t seen you all night,” he said, unmoving.

You came to a stop. “It seemed like you were enjoying yourself. I didn’t want to intrude. Happy birthday, though.”

His frown deepened. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” Seokjin paused, then refocused. “You look nice.”

Noticing the glassiness in his eyes, you sighed, “You’re drunk.”

“Traditionally, people buy the birthday boy drinks.”

“Gross,” you said, unable to keep from smiling. “Don’t ever call yourself the birthday boy again.”

He chuckled and then – silence. Each passing second thickened between you, until you could scarcely breathe.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Seokjin blurted at last.

You inhaled, not having expected him to be so blunt.

“I’m n–”

“Don’t say you’re not.” Swaying a little, he pushed himself from the wall. “I don’t… please don’t lie to me, Y/N. I can’t take it.”

Startled, you realized he had moved closer. There wasn’t much space between you in the hall. Seokjin seemed to realize this at the same moment you did. His gaze darted once, then twice to your mouth – and stayed.

Your throat dried.

At that very moment, Emilia walked around the corner. Seokjin leapt back as though burned, and you swept into motion, mumbling happy birthday again as you passed. You didn’t stop moving until you were past the bouncer and standing outside. Trembling, you pulled out your phone and ordered a rideshare.

Nothing happened that night. Nothing significant, and yet…

His face remains clear in your mind. Cheeks flushed from drink and anger, his button-down partly undone. You remember how the world stopped, continuing to spin on around you. You had felt that way plenty of times in his presence, but it was the first time you wondered if maybe… Seokjin felt it, too.

It didn’t matter though, because he was dating Emilia. You left the party that night and have barely talked to him since. Not until Seokjin called to invite you to his parents’ lake house.

Resting your forehead against the window, you close your eyes as the memory replays again. At some point, you drift off and the rest of the ride is in silence.

The next thing you know is someone touching your shoulder. Blearily, you crack open an eye and are affronted by Seokjin.

Affronted, since it’s unfair for someone to look this good – except. Frowning, you notice his jaw, tight with tension. Seokjin smooths this quickly, but you notice all the same. Examining him further, you find dark shadows beneath his eyes. Criminal for Seokjin Kim, who uses specially made dermatology products that can’t be bought in a store.

Again, you wonder if there’s something he’s not saying. Emilia being with Jaesuk must be weighing on him.

There’s no time to inquire though, since you look out the window and see you’ve arrived. The Kim family lake house sprawls ahead and to the left. Even after so many years, you find yourself struck by the sight.

A driveway winds through the forest, ending at bluffs overlooking Lake Michigan. The limestone mansion is covered in ivy, lending itself to a storybook appearance. Manicured gardens extend towards the lake, several gardeners at work on flower beds. You remember the first time you came; you refused to exit the car. It seemed impossible that so much beauty could be meant for you.

Pushing this away, you face Seokjin. He fidgets with the end of his seatbelt, causing your own frown to deepen.

“What’s wrong?” you demand.

“Nothing,” Seokjin blurts, only to wince. “Well. There is one thing, but I –”

The front door flies open, and you see Mrs. Kim emerge through the car window. Even through glass, you hear her calling your names.

Giving Seokjin a look, you push open your door. He blanches and unbuckles his seat belt. “Y/N, wait –”

Unfortunately, your door is already open. Mrs. Kim gasps when you step outside, hurrying towards you in what she calls ‘casual’ wear – slacks, a cardigan, and loafers worth more than your rent.

“Y/N,” she cries, throwing both arms around you. “Oh, it’s so good to have you here.”

Returning the hug, you can’t help but smile. Seokjin’s family has always felt like home to you. Your mom got pregnant with you at forty-six, which was a shock to everyone. Your sister is twelve years older, but it always felt like more. She was out of the house by the time you turned seven, leaving you alone with your parents.

Some would say that was the beginning of the end. Your parents got divorced when you were in high school and afterward, everything was different. Your dad is fine now but was a wreck for several years. Seokjin’s parents took you in on the holidays, inviting you along on vacations, and threw you birthday parties. It’s been too long since you saw them – probably last summer.

With a final squeeze, you release Mrs. Kim. “It’s so good to be here,” you say.

Being at the lake with Seokjin and his family brings the same sense of rightness as quitting your job. It feels like the moment at the end of a long day when you finish writing and finally crawl into bed.

Holding you at arm’s length, Mrs. Kim looks you up and down. “In fact, I’m so glad to see you,” she says with a chuckle, “I’ll forgive you for not calling the moment it happened.”

Your mind catches on this. “Oh?”

Seokjin appears at your side. He’s out of breath, and you wonder if he was busy lugging your suitcases inside. Usually, the Kim family has people to help with that. His expression is strange though, stuck between fear and resignation. You wonder if this has something to do with what he wanted to tell you in the car.

Stomach swooping, you wonder if there’s another surprise. Maybe Jaesuk and Emilia are engaged. Or pregnant. Maybe –

“You, too,” Mrs. Kim scolds, pulling Seokjin into a hug. He returns the gesture, looking slightly green. “You should have told us sooner! You know we would have been thrilled.”

Seokjin mumbles something you don’t hear as he takes a step backwards. Now, the wheels in your head are turning, and you begin to suspect you’re missing something important. Some key piece of information to explain why Mrs. Kim is beaming, hands clasped over her chest in near-supplication.

“Sorry,” you say, looking between them. “I feel kind of out of the loop… what should I have told you about earlier?”

Mrs. Kim blinks at you in confusion.

You aren’t looking at her, though. Instead, you find yourself watching Seokjin, who purposely avoids eye contact. After a moment, he seems to reach some internal decision. Taking a deep breath, Seokjin reaches out and takes your hand.

“Y/N,” he says, and then stops.

His mom laughs and claps her hands. “Oh! That was a joke – Y/N, you’re too funny. What am I talking about,” she chuckles, as though you’re all in this together. “Why, the fact that you’re dating, of course!”

Time screeches to a halt. Or it at least lethargizes, slowing to rate beyond human comprehension. You slowly turn to face Seokjin, expecting him to show shock or confusion but find only chagrin.

It takes ages for your gaze to travel to your hand in his. Before you can say or do anything, Seokjin moves closer. Stroking your palm with his thumb, he smiles.

“This is exactly why we didn’t tell anyone,” he says with a forced laugh. “We knew you and dad would freak out, and there’s been enough of that lately.”

Realizing your mouth has fallen open, you manage to shut it. Seokjin has pulled himself together, but you’re not that good an actor. He sounds like he believes what he’s saying, which is insane. Dimly, you think back to his serious texting in the car and his attempt to say something before you got out. All of it ends at the same conclusion.

Seokjin knew this was coming. And he didn’t tell you.

Anger surges, and you grasp it like a lifeline. The emotion distracts you from other, less stable feelings churning within you. Lifting your chin, you force your expression to neutral.

“Yes,” you agree, pinching Seokjin’s wrist and making him jump. “It all happened so fast. I mean, if you can call twenty years fast,” you say in an attempt at a joke.

Mrs. Kim laughs again. “Oh, please. You two are made for each other. We’ve always thought so,” she adds, turning towards the house. “Jaeho, come out here!”

Jaw tight, you lapse into silence. Until you know exactly what Seokjin has said and to whom, it’s best to say nothing. The last thing you want is to hurt Seokjin’s family. Right now, your best bet is to hold it together until you can make an excuse to leave. Maybe there could be an emergency at the coffee shop. A run on – uh, beans? Or milk?

The one thing you do know is you can’t stay. Now that you know the full story, there’s no way you can pretend to date your best friend you’re secretly in love with in front of his ex. Just thinking about it gives you a headache.

Before you can pull Seokjin into the house, the door opens again and two people emerge. All thoughts vanish at the sight of a cream blouse and slacks. Seokjin immediately tenses, and unthinking, you take a step closer.

Emilia Astor is the epitome of old Hollywood. Her hair is shorter than the last time you met, cut in an elegant bob with a slight curl at the ends. Immediately, you feel dowdy in your old jeans and sweater. The way she dresses in all white and doesn’t spill anything continues to be awe-inspiring.

Jaesuk walks at her side, shielding his face from the sun. When they stop before you, he smiles at you and Seokjin.

“Y/N!” Emilia holds out both arms for a hug.

After an awkward pause, you step into the embrace. Half of you expects her to whisper something cutting in your ear, but that wouldn’t be like her. You’d deserve it, though, you realize. Face heating, you break the hug, and you consider how this looks.

Yes, Emilia started dating Seokjin’s brother a few months after she and Seokjin broke up. At the same time though, he (seemingly) asked out his best friend. You. A friendship Emilia knew of and trusted to only be platonic. Shoving your discomfort aside, you glance at Jaesuk.

“Hey, Jaesuk,” you say. “Good to see you, too.”

“Hi, Y/N.” He waves, folding Emilia into his side. “It’s really nice to have you here again.”

A small, relieved knot unwinds in your stomach. Jaesuk, at least, doesn’t seem mad at you. Hopefully that means Emilia is also taking the high road. While Jaesuk and Seokjin weren’t close growing up, they did a lot to improve their relationship during their twenties. You would hate for anything you did (perceived or real) to come between them.

Anything Emilia and Jaesuk did, your brain argues. Even if you were dating Seokjin, that’s nothing compared to the betrayal of his brother in dating his ex.

Thinking this, you take a step closer and place your hand on Seokjin’s chest. He glances down at this, then at you. His expression softens.

“There they are!” Mr. Kim’s voice booms, exiting the hedge maze – yes, the hedge maze –with Seohyun. “Finally, the entire family’s arrived.”

Shoving her phone in her pocket, Seohyun skips past her dad. “Y/N!” she cries, looping both arms around you. “My favorite sibling, at last.”

Jaesuk sighs, and Seokjin complains, “You’re not even related.”

“Obviously.” Seohyun withdraws and gives you a conspiratorial smile. “If we were, your relationship would be disgusting – not to mention, illegal.”

Seokjin sputters, and you can’t help but laugh.

Seohyun is two years younger than Seokjin and has always felt like more of a sister to you than your own. One of the hardest parts of the past year was pulling away from Seokjin knowing it meant losing his family. Even with Seohyun halfway around the world in Seoul, your text thread has never been silent for long.

“I missed you, too,” you admit.

Over her shoulder, you notice Emilia looking slightly downcast. She hides it quickly, but not fast enough. Releasing Seohyun, you end up standing beside your – apparent – boyfriend.

“Should we head inside?” Still beaming, Mrs. Kim looks between you and Seokjin. Still, she allows her husband to guide her towards the door. “It’s much too cold for this time in May.”

Jaesuk nudges Emilia. “Agreed. I’ll make a fire in the living room.”

They both head inside, leaving you standing with Seokjin and Seohyun. When you turn towards your suitcase, you realize it’s already moved. Seokjin has your purse over one shoulder, and he gestures you towards the front door.

Brushing past, you head for the house as your anger rises. Seohyun falls into step alongside you, gleeful, and you realize this may have been the wrong choice.

“So,” she says, whistling loudly. “This was a surprise, huh?”  She waggles her eyebrows at you and her brother.

Rolling his eyes, Seokjin walks alongside you. “Did you think I’d give you a call the next morning, or something?”

You nearly choke when you hear what this implies.

Seohyun gags. “Gross. I so did not need the image of you and my brother hooking up. No offense, Y/N. But you could have called before announcing you were dating in the family group chat.”

Seokjin blanches, and you at last take pity on him. “It was my fault,” you say, putting yourself in between the siblings. “I didn’t want Seokjin to say anything until we were sure what this was. Things have been weird enough with… well.” Aimless, you gesture to where Emilia and Jaesuk have disappeared.

“Oh, yeah.” Seohyun turns grim. “That.”

“Seo,” Seokjin grumbles. “I told you – I’m fine with it.”

“Sure, you’re fine with it. That doesn’t mean I am.”

You laugh, unable to help it. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“See?” Triumphant, Seohyun locks arms. “It’s weird, Seokjin.”

The three of you cross the threshold, and for a moment, the nostalgia overwhelms. The black and white checkered tile stretches before you, a double staircase leading to the second and third floors. Above you hangs an antique chandelier, glass and wrought iron reminiscent of lace.

Seohyun breaks towards the kitchen, saying something about a snack before dinner. This leaves Seokjin and you all alone, and the feelings you’ve suppressed come flooding back.

Seokjin lied to you. He planned this. He had so many times to warn you over the past week – in the car ride! – and chose not to.

“Your room,” you snap, refusing to look at him when you walk past. “Now.”

Stopping at the stairs, you remove your shoes and stomp upstairs barefoot. Meekly, Seokjin follows you to the second floor. Muscle memory leads to the north wing, where you and Seokjin used to stay while here with his family. You hover outside his old room, realizing with horror you might be expected to share.

Assuming you decide to stay, that is.

Pushing open the door, you march inside and drop your shoes near the closet. The moment the door shuts, you whirl around.

“Explain,” you demand.

Seokjin hovers over the threshold. “I’m so sorry,” he blurts. “You can leave if you want to.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ll figure something out. Make up some excuse – I promise.”

Dizzily, you shake your head. “That’s not an explanation, Seokjin. Why does your family think that we’re dating? This wasn’t what you asked me to do,” you add, lowering your voice in case someone walks past.

“It was an accident, I swear.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“You didn’t mean to… what? To tell your family we’re dating?”

“No!” Seokjin blurts, then shakes his head. “That’s not what I told them. It’s… okay.” He stops and exhales. “After we talked last week, I put off telling them for a few days. I’ve been pretty silent in the group chat ever since… well, ever since Emilia and Jaesuk announced they were dating. When I finally got up the nerve, I texted them I was bringing you and went into class.”

Your brows lift. “And?”

“And” – Seokjin groans, collapsing onto the chaise – “things had spiraled by the time I got out. Everyone assumed I was bringing you… as my girlfriend. My mom responded saying how happy this made her, then my dad congratulated us on our ‘budding relationship,’ and my mom added how perfect it was…” Seokjin swallows, looking nauseous. “I had a voicemail from Jaesuk, telling me how relieved he felt. He’d been worried about bringing Emilia around, but with me dating someone, he thought this could work…” Seokjin trails off, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’ll fix this.”

It’s a struggle not to react. You tell yourself to stay strong, to hold your ground, but – well, you can’t help it when some of your anger unravels. As well-meaning as Seokjin’s family can be, you understand how it happened.

“Emilia,” Seokjin mumbles into his palms, “texted me saying how happy she was. That she was so glad I wasn’t hurt anymore. She acted like I was so pitiful. And I just… snapped, Y/N.”

“I get it.”

Slowly, he lowers both hands. “You… do?”

“Yeah.”

Seokjin watches you for a long moment. “So… where does this leave us?”

You consider the question, and everything that would follow. On the one hand – Seokjin should have told you. He should have called you the moment his family misunderstood. Or explained on the car ride up.

On the other hand, you’re here now. You saw for yourself how Seokjin isn’t over Emilia. Instead, she came here with Jaesuk and Seokjin is forced to watch them together. Alone.

At last, you exhale and shake your head.

“You should have told me.”

To his credit, Seokjin seems embarrassed. “I know. I should have.” The chaise squeaks when he stands, walking towards you. “Please, Y/N,” he declares, and to your surprise, drops to his knees. “Please, forgive me and fake date me. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll – I’ll do your laundry for a month.”

Eyes wide, you stare down at him. “I have a laundry machine in my unit, Seokjin.”

“Oh.” He considers. “I’ll walk your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog. You know that.”

“You can…” Desperate, he looks around. “You can use this house as a writing retreat! Whenever you want. I promise! All expenses paid, just tell me the dates. I’ll make sure my family clears out.”

This makes you hesitate. While you’ve made steady progress on your novel, it’s been difficult to write in your shared apartment. Jimin doesn’t exactly understand the meaning of personal space, and many a writing session has devolved into a movie marathon.

“Go on,” you say slowly.

Sensing weakness, Seokjin scoots closer. He clasps both hands before him, creating a distracting visual.

“Time to work on your novel,” he intones, his voice low. “Just picture it. This entire place to yourself. The peace and quiet you’ve always wanted but never achieved! Writing paradise! An entire staff at your beck and call. Me, chauffeuring you to and fro, bringing you fresh fruit and –”

“Okay, okay.” Flapping a hand, you gesture for him to stand. “Fine, fine – I’ll do it.”

“Really?” Seokjin bounds to his feet. “Wow, that was easy.”

“To be clear, I would have done it without the lake house.”

His smile vanishes. “What?”

“No take backs,” you say, wagging a finger. “Whenever I want – that’s what you said. I assume that makes it a standing offer? Holidays included?”

“Now, hang on…”

“You’re so generous,” you gush, bending to unzip your suitcase. “Thanks, darling. You do spoil me.”

A beat passes, enough that you look up to find Seokjin staring. Possibly you overdid it with ‘darling.’

Coming to, Seokjin crosses his arms. “Should’ve known you’d take me for all I was worth. You’re merciless, Y/N.”

You blow smoke off an imaginary gun. “We should probably get our story straight, though – right?” you ask, rummaging under your pants. “Like, how did this happen? How long have we been dating? And” – arching a brow, you look upward – “am I really staying in your room this whole week?”

Seokjin frowns, as though this hadn’t crossed his mind. Expression tight, you sit back on your heels. It’s hard not to react to the fact that Seokjin doesn’t want you in his personal space. You would understand if he hadn’t brought this upon himself, but he told his family you were dating, so they’re going to expect you to do dating things.

Rubbing his neck, Seokjin nods. “Yeah. Good point.” He considers, then seems to reach a decision. “How about this: we were hanging out last month, and you confessed that you liked me.”

“I confessed? Hell, no.”

Seokjin blinks. “What? Why?”

“Because! That makes it sound like I was pining for you during your entire relationship and pounced the second you became available.”

Seokjin smirks. “And?”

Incensed, you throw a handful of bras at his head. Seokjin yelps, dodging most of them – except a lacy, black contraption that lands on his shoulder. “Real mature,” he says, delicately removing it. “Anyways. So, we were hanging out last month –”

“When last month?”

“I don’t know!” He throws up his hands. “Pick a weekend. Let’s say I brought you as my date to a faculty function, and… I confessed.” He pauses, then adds, “That makes it sound like I was harboring secret feelings for you the entire length of my relationship.”

“You mean… like your former girlfriend harbored for your brother?”

“Fair point.”

“I still don’t know how you’re okay with all that.”

Seokjin exhales and sits on the bed – avoiding the bra. “I don’t know that I am,” he admits. “Otherwise, I would’ve corrected my family in the group chat – right?”

“Right,” you echo, although something about his tone gives you pause.

He falls back on the mattress. “Right,” he says, speaking to the ceiling. “So, we have the whole ‘how did this happen’ question down. And how long – we’ve been dating for a month. What about the rest?”

“You mean, where am I staying this week?”

Propping himself up on an elbow, Seokjin peers at you down his torso. “I can figure something out if you want. We can move to the joined rooms down the hall. They have a terrible view,” he muses. “But I can say this room had a draft, or something. That way you can go to the other room at night, and –”

“Seokjin. I don’t mind staying here.”

He hesitates. “You don’t?”

“No. I mean, this isn’t the first time we’ve shared a room. Or have you forgotten the backpacking trip?”

A devious smile crosses his face. “How could I forget? Remember when you booked us a room in someone else’s house?”

“That wasn’t my fault!” you insist. “I swear, the listing changed after I booked. Anyways, Rodolfo was very nice.”

“He asked you out twice,” Seokjin says flatly.

“Can you blame him?”

He pauses, then tilts his head. “No.”

Finding yourself in unfamiliar territory, you blink. Then it occurs to you Seokjin is probably flirting with you for practice. That way, it seems genuine in front of his family. Satisfied, you resume pulling things from your suitcase.

“Um, right,” you say. “But that just proves my point. This isn’t the first time we’ve shared a room.”

“Yes, but…” Seokjin waves a hand at the mattress.

Oh. Right – that.

The room, despite its size, has only one bed.  Granted, the bed is King-sized, so there’s enough room for you both, but still. While the two of you have shared a room several times over the years, never a bed.

“Okay.” You frown. “That’s fine – I can sleep on the floor. Or on the couch.”

Seokjin gives you a wry look. “Y/N. I got us into this situation. The least I can do is sleep on the couch.”

“Will you even fit? You’re not as young as you once were.”

“Ouch.” Seokjin huffs a laugh, massaging his chest with one hand. Annoyingly, your gaze follows the motion. “I didn’t realize this week would include personal roasting sessions. Are you trying to tear down my self-confidence, Y/N?”

“As though anything I said could make a dent in that.”

Something about this seems to amuse him, but Seokjin says nothing. Pushing himself to stand, he claps both hands together. “We can figure that out later. For now, we’ve established you’ll stay here. In my room,” he adds.

“Fine,” you say, standing with an armful of clothes. “You may need to grab some more hangers, though. These dresses can’t wrinkle.”

Bowing extravagantly, Seokjin backs away. “Your wish is my command,” he declares, continuing the bit as he enters the hall. “And Y/N?” he adds, straightening.

You look over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

Seokjin watches you seriously, his expression at odds with his usual humor. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.

A shiver goes through you. “You’re welcome.”

He nods and disappears. Left alone with your stuff, you stare at the suitcase, heart pounding. So much for self-preservation. No matter how badly you insist that you’re fine, that your feelings are over, look where you are.

At the Kim family lake house, surrounded by memories and the people who haunt them. A cold sense of foreboding steals over you. With so many secrets to hide, so many years of pushing feelings down, you can’t help the feeling that something will drop.

You can only hope you survive the aftermath.

One thing you did not miss about the Kim’s is their shared love of hiking. Even Seohyun, usually your partner in crime, has changed into athleisurewear so expensive, you don’t know the label. Soon after you and Seokjin unpack, Mrs. Kim suggests a walk to ‘work up an appetite’ before dinner.

Having been on many Kim family vacations, you know a ‘walk’ can mean anything from a paved path to bouldering. Accordingly, you shove your feet into sneakers and tie a sweatshirt around your waist. Your preparation pays off when the family town cars drop you off at a local trail head. Now, you find yourself huffing and puffing up a hill that on paper shouldn’t exist in the Midwest.

“Ugh,” huffs Seohyun, trekking alongside you. “I’ve been so busy with work I’ve barely hiked the past year. Which is dumb, because Seoul is literally in the mountains. I’m so out of shape.”

“Same,” you agree. “Although not because of work – it’s because I hate hiking.”

Seohyun laughs, ponytail bobbing. “I missed having you on these things. Emilia loves hiking,” she adds, lowering her voice. “And working out. She even goes running before breakfast – on purpose! Vile.”

“I mean, so does Seokjin,” you point out.

“Exactly!” Seohyun sounds triumphant. “Seokjin and Emilia are too similar. It’s why they were doomed. You can’t date yourself in a different font, Y/N. It’s boring.”

Curious, you glance over at Seokjin. He hikes beside his mom in the middle, discussing his research and her latest project. You had never considered him and Emilia in that light before. Instead, you thought their similarities were a sign of compatibility. Now that you think about it though, Seokjin never confided in you about their relationship.

While you watch, Seokjin runs a hand through his hair. His face is truly unfair – concrete proof that god has their favorites. No way should one person be that good-looking and able to carry a conversation.

Seohyun groans beside you. “Okay, I take it all back. This might be worse than having to race Emilia up a mountain. You and Seokjin are sickening.”

Gaze jerking forward, you feel your face feat. Ironically, you weren’t even thinking about the faux relationship just now. That was just your expression looking at Seokjin. If it helps to sell this nonsense, you suppose it’s a good thing. So long as Seokjin doesn’t suspect your feelings are true.

You can’t keep your thoughts from drifting towards once this week is over. After you leave the lake house and return to the city – what then? Seokjin will have to tell his family something. Will he tell them you broke up? Either way, it seems like your relationship is about to change, and you aren’t sure if that’s good.

Returning to Seohyun, you force a smile. “Hey, at least you’re not the worst hiker here anymore. Count your blessings.”

Someone beside you chuckles. “You’re definitely not the worst, Y/N,” says Emilia, pulling her backpack around to unzip.

Both you and Seohyun jump. Exchanging a swift glance, you wonder how long Emilia has been within hearing distance. Luckily, you didn’t say anything too bad… you think.

Emilia doesn’t let anything show on her face, taking a large sip of water. “The first time I went hiking with Jaesuk, I sprained my ankle and had to hop all the way to the car.”

Jaesuk catches up on her other side. “Excuse me,” he jokes. “If I remember correctly, I carried you most of the way. You only hopped in the parking lot.”

Emilia blinks at him innocently, and Jaesuk laughs. Seohyun ignores them both, taking a long sip of her water. Taking pity on them, you jump in.

“You still agreed to a hiking date,” you say. “In winter. That makes you automatically better than me, I think.”

Seokjin turns around and hikes backwards. “Y/N’s not wrong,” he calls back. “Remember the first time we went hiking in high school?”

“Oh, that’s right!” Mr. Kim cranes his head around at the front. “Y/N, didn’t I end up taking you to the emergency room?’

Seohyun hoots with laughter and your face burns. “I don’t think it was that–”

“You did! Seokjin insisted,” says Mrs. Kim, smiling at her son. “You said you were fine, Y/N, but Seokjin would have none of it. He pulled up WebMD and read you possible maladies until you gave in.”

Choosing not to respond, you glance at Seokjin. You remember that day very differently. Seokjin was concerned, yes, but he would have done the same for anyone. His reaction had nothing to do with feelings for you, which seems to be what his family is implying.

You aren’t the only one thinking that. Emilia’s gaze darts between Mrs. Kim and Seokjin, a small frown on her face.

“I was fine,” you say, steering the conversation away. “Seokjin overreacted.”

Seokjin slows to hike alongside you. “You had a hairline fracture! You were in that boot for months – remember? You got out of running the mile twice.”

“I was in the boot for a month.”

“They always bickered like this,” says his mom fondly. “We should have realized.”

Seohyun squints your way. “Mm. I always suspected they were more than platonic. Come on – a euro trip? As friends?”

“Seohyun,” Seokjin says, a warning clear in his voice. At the same time, you blurt out, “It was platonic.”

Several heads turn in your direction. Realizing you made a mistake, you backtrack. “I mean,” you hasten, “feelings came… later.”

There’s a long moment of silence until Seohyun nods.

“Anyways.” Jaesuk places his hand on Emilia’s back. “You’re a better hiker than you think, Y/N. You made it up sweat mountain, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” you groan while Seokjin cackles.

Sweat mountain is an aptly named monstrosity Seokjin convinced you to hike while in college. You thought the name was merely a metaphor, but it was the mountain’s actual name. All you can assume is so many people collapsed from heat stroke mid-trail that they decided to leave the name as a warning.

“Today feels like sweat mountain,” Seohyun gripes. “How much further until the parking lot?”

“You’re being dramatic.” Mrs. Kim hikes past her. “This is only a three-mile walk! The parking lot is just around that curve.”

Like the traitor she is, Seohyun picks up her pace. Admittedly, today is the perfect day for hiking. The temperature is cool enough to avoid sweat, but warm enough your sweatshirt has stayed around your waist. It’s not their fault you abhor physical exercise that doesn’t end with a treat.

As though reading your mind, Seokjin pulls a protein bar from his pocket. “Hungry?”

“I’m fine,” you grumble, but – after a moment – take the bar. “Thanks.”

Seokjin watches you unwrap it and stuff half in your mouth. His lips twitch. “I’m sorry about this, by the way. I did try to offer an out at the house.”

Jaw dropping, you remember too late about the half-chewed protein bar. “Um, excuse me,” you cough, trying to swallow. “What you said was ‘Y/N might be too tired to come.’ What kind of excuse is that?” you demand, turning around to watch him as you hike. “It makes it sound like I hold you back.”

Seokjin’s eyes widen. “They never would have accepted that I was too tired. Mom would’ve said, ‘the fresh air will invigorate you,” he quotes in an uncanny imitation of Mrs. Kim. “As a guest, you have immunity. My mom would’ve allowed it.”

“Well…” You stuff the rest of the bar in your mouth. “Oo sh’o’d’ve said ‘at ‘efore we went ‘own’airs.”

“I didn’t know that we were– Y/N!”

Your sneaker hits a rock, ankle twisting as Seokjin darts forward. For a moment, you flail wildly before collapsing.

“Oof,” you grunt, your palms hitting the dirt. The jolt rattles enough that you wince, pride smarting as much as your hands.

“Y/N.” Seokjin drops to one knee. His hands pat your arms, gentle while checking you over. When you wince, his face darkens. “Are you hurt?”

You admit he plays the caring boyfriend card well. You see why Emilia fell for him in the first place.

“N-no,” you stutter, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

Luckily, the rest of his family is too far ahead to see. It would have been doubly awful to have Seokjin’s perfect ex bear witness to your humiliation.

Turning your palms over in his, Seokjin slides both hands to your elbows. “Can you stand?” he asks, pulling you up. “Test your weight on your ankle.”

“My ankle is fine,” you grumble, but oblige.

Slowly, you place weight on your leg and although it feels fine, you notice your leggings are ripped. Your knee is bleeding, but otherwise you seem okay. Noticing the blood, Seokjin’s frown deepens.

Shifting to stand before you, he lowers himself again to his knee. “Hop on,” Seokjin says, glancing over his shoulder.

You stare down at him, open-mouthed. “Huh?”

“Hop on.” Seokjin pats his back. “How else are you going to get to the car?”

“With my… feet?”

He scowls. “You’re bleeding, Y/N. And your palms are all scratched up. There’s a first aid kit in the backseat – I can clean you up there.”

Ignoring how your stomach flutters, you gingerly bend and loop both arms around his neck. Seokjin pushes himself upward, gathering your legs and walking forward. Your nose ends up near his neck, breathing his clean, masculine scent.

Lift is unfair. It’s all too easy to imagine this day in different circumstances. To imagine Seokjin taking care of you, being there for you as your boyfriend. Shifting closer, you close your eyes and enjoy the warmth.

The daydream ends when you exit the forest.

Seeing you, Mrs. Kim drops her backpack. “Y/N!” she gasps, rushing forward. “What happened?”

Capping her water bottle, Seohyun seems caught between fear and amusement. “How… we were just talking about hiking accidents!”

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Emilia declares. She disappears around the side of one car.

You stifle the urge to bury your face in Seokjin’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” you say as he comes to a stop. “Really.”

Marching to the trunk of one car, Seokjin turns around to set you on the edge. Kneeling before you, he removes your sneaker and peels your legging upward.

“Here you go.” Emilia appears, a first aid kit in hand.

Seokjin accepts this without comment. Over his shoulder you mouth, thank you, to her. Smiling fleetingly, Emilia retreats to stand beside Jaesuk. Mr. Kim shoos everyone away to give you some privacy.

Removing a water bottle from his backpack, Seokjin pours this over your knee. You hiss and jerk back.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, soothing your calf with his thumb. “This’ll sting.”

“A little late,” you complain, but the barb is half-hearted.

Gripping the edge of the trunk, you watch Seokjin clean your skin with a damp cotton ball. The pain soon dulls, replaced with soft pressure of his hand on your leg. Seokjin bends closer, his breath warm while blowing dirt away from the wound.

Looking upward, Seokjin pauses at whatever he sees on your face. A beat passes, then two, until he withdraws.

“That should be good enough until we get home.”

Dazed, you blink. “Oh. Right. Thanks.”

Seokjin stands, watching you roll down your legging and slip on your sneaker. When you wince, he offers an arm and helps you towards the car. George holds the door open, shutting it behind you to move to the driver’s seat.

Seohyun hooks up her phone, glancing over her shoulder from the passenger seat. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” she says miserably. “I feel like I caused this.”

Confused, you buckle your seat belt. “Oh? Did you place a rock directly on the trail behind me?”

“No, but I was going on and on about accidents, and –”

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Seokjin, entering from the other side. He shuts the door. “But if you waste more time sitting here, it will be your fault if Y/N gets gangrene.”

“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous,” you complain. “I’m not even bleeding.”

George places the car into drive and Seohyun rolls her eyes. “Mom was right. Seokjin has always been way too protective for his feelings to be anything but romantic.”

Choosing to stay silent, you look out the window. In its reflection, you catch sight of Seokjin watching you from the next seat. Unbidden, your heart skips a beat.

For a moment, you consider what everyone has been saying. You remember the day you broke your foot in high school. You remember it clearly, because it was the first night you dreamed of Seokjin. Before that, he was just a friend.

After …  

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he touched you, the way he insisted on getting you help. It was the first step down a long path of falling in love with him.

And a small, tiny voice whispers that maybe – just maybe – his mom and sister have a point. Maybe they saw things that day that went over your head. As soon as you think this though, you dismiss it. Obviously, Mrs. Kim says now it was fate. It’s confirmation bias, since she thinks you and Seokjin are currently dating.

And yet, you continue to watch Seokjin in the window’s reflection. The sting of your knee has receded, but the prospect of him feeling nothing for you is somehow the worse wound.

By dinnertime, it’s a struggle to keep your eyes open. The morning latte was ages ago, and the glass of wine after hiking doesn’t help. Once the last course at dinner clears, you stifle another yawn and Seohyun catches your eye.

“Y/N, will you please go to bed?” she says, dropping her fork. “You’re making me tired.”

Immediately, you straighten. “I’m fine!”

“Mom.” Seokjin politely removes his napkin from his lap. “What are the plans for tonight?”

Mrs. Kim takes a sip of her port. “Nothing, really. I think your dad wanted to watch that new action movie.”

Mr. Kim grunts in agreement.

“The one we saw in theatres last fall?” asks Jaesuk. “That was a good one.”

“I’ve been wanting to watch,” Emilia adds.

Seohyun shrugs. “I guess I can join, too.”

“Great.” Pushing his chair back, Seokjin takes your hand. “Y/N and I are wiped. We’re going to bed.”

“Hey!” Seohyun gasps. “You tricked us.”

“Get some sleep,” calls Mrs. Kim.

Seokjin leads you from the dining room, dropping a kiss to his mom’s hair as he passes. His other hand remains in yours, pulling you through the foyer and up the staircase.

“Was I that obvious?” you ask, sheepish.

Seokjin does a double take at you. “Oh, you mean – was your yawning that obvious? Yes, Y/N. Pretty sure the space station will message any second about the morse code.”

“Message them back and tell them no one watches for free. Not even astronauts.”

“W-ow. You run a tight ship, Y/N.”

“It’s called knowing your self-worth,” you sniff, following him down the hall. “You should try it.”

“I do know my self-worth. If you’d like, we can Google it right now – hey-o!” Seokjin cries, holding up a hand for you to high five.

Ignoring him, you walk into the room. Seokjin chuckles and follows, shutting the door behind you. Holding the vanity, you bend and undo a shoe strap. You’ll never forget the first time you visited – Mrs. Kim asked you to leave your shoes in the hall overnight. You were confused before learning the staff clean their shoes every day so they can wear them to dinner.

Fumbling with the clasp, you kick helplessly and hope the shoe gives up before you do.

“Hang on,” Seokjin sighs. Again, he kneels before you – this is becoming a habit. “Put your foot on my knee.”

You stare as though he’s grown a second head. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you take off your shoes. I thought that was obvious.” He pats his thigh. “Put your foot here.”

Unable to summon the energy to fight, you lift your foot. If Seokjin is surprised by your obedience, he does a good job of hiding it. Bending, he delicately undoes the clasp of your shoe. Dark hair falls in his face while he works.

Seokjin hesitates, one hand on your ankle. He looks up. “I really am sorry about all of this, Y/N.”

Your heart thumps, and it takes a second longer for your brain to catch up.

His lips twist. “First, I lied to you. Then, I asked you to lie to my family. And now… you’re hurt because of me.” He looks down. “This was an awful idea, and I’m just… sorry, Y/N. Say the word and I’ll drive you home. I’ll explain everything to my family. No matter how awkward.”

“Hey,” you murmur. Reaching down, you pull Seokjin upward to stand.

Seokjin towers over you, looking slightly pathetic.

“It’s okay,” you say gently. “Really. Am I thrilled by some of your choices? No. Definitely not. But do I understand?” Slowly, you exhale. “Yeah. I unfortunately do.”

He seems to war with something internally but nods. “That’s because you’re a saint.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Seokjin chuckles, and you smile. “Besides,” you say, holding up both palms. “I’m fine. Barely a scratch from earlier – see?”

Taking your hand, he studies your palm longer than medically necessary. “So…” He looks at you. “What does this mean, Y/N? Are you saying you’ll stay the week, or…?”

“Will I stay here and pretend that we’re dating? Sure.”

Seokjin groans and tips his head back. “God. That sounds so sad.”

Laughing, you take a step closer. Reaching for him, you slide both hands into his hair and lower his face. His lashes flutter, staring down at you.

“Don’t worry,” you say quietly. “I could never think less of you, Seokjin Kim.”

His throat works as he swallows. “I bet you say that to all the guys.”

“No – I really don’t.”

Dropping your hands, you step backwards. Shakily, you inhale and try to forget the feeling of his skin beneath your palms.

“So,” you say. “We have a full week of couple activities ahead.”

Seokjin nods, and you fall into the rhythm of unpacking. Moving around the room, you ask what he’s been up to lately and let Seokjin chatter about work. The events of today crash over you without warning, leaving you emotionally and physically drained.

This is probably why you accept so fast when he offers to take the couch. Grabbing your pajamas, you lock yourself in the bathroom to wash your face. When you emerge, you all but leap into the giant bed.

Seokjin disappears into the bathroom soon after, and you struggle to stay awake. Sometime after the shower starts though, you drift off, falling asleep before he can return.

A cacophony greets you the next morning. People call the city noisy, but those sounds you’re used to. What you’re not used to is the sound of two birds having a full-blown tiff outside your window. In response, you roll over and stick your head beneath a pillow.

Easy to do since you have the bed to yourself. Realizing this, you slowly peer out from under the pillow at the couch.

Empty.

Unease pricks your stomach. Seokjin did sleep here last night – didn’t he? As soon as you think this, you notice the mussed blanket and pillow. Okay, so he slept here at some point, even if he’s gone now.

Rolling onto your back, you unplug your phone from the wall. 8:04 AM. After ten minutes of scrolling, you manage to push yourself into a seated position. Eventually, nature calls loud enough that you roll from bed. With face washed and teeth brushed, you feel marginally ready to start the day.

The couch is still empty. Frowning, you walk towards the window and pull back the curtain. Seokjin could have gone on a run – or maybe, chimes a little voice in your head, he realized how silly this is and went to tell everyone the truth. Maybe he went to confess his feelings to Emilia. Maybe Jaesuk and Seokjin went to go duel before dawn.

Releasing the curtain, you head for the shower. This is why you don’t talk to people before coffee. Stepping under the spray, you tilt your head and let hot water sluice down your back. Despite your best efforts, the shower unfortunately proves a great place to overthink.

Again and again, you rehash the events of yesterday. The look on Seokjin’s face when his mom said you were dating. Hise expression asking you to stay. The way he looked while dabbing your knee with a cotton ball. For so long, you’ve survived by shoving your feelings aside. It’s been a long time since you considered what Seokjin felt for you.

Twenty years of history point you towards nothing. But then, you’ve had feelings for him just as long and never told him. Sighing, you finish washing and step from the shower. The safest course of action is to do nothing and yet, the thought leaves an itch in your brain.

Again, you remind yourself, all you can do is take his words at face value. Seokjin asked you to be his fake girlfriend, not his real one. That’s all this is. Anything more leads to a slippery slope you might not return from.

Wiping steam from the mirror, you realize you left your clothes in the other room. Wrapping a towel around your torso, you crack open the door.

Holy fuck.

Seokjin has returned. Well, that much is obvious because he’s standing in the middle of the room dressed in navy sweats and… nothing else.

Mouth dry, you watch him bop along to a song on his ear pods. You try – and fail – not to gape at the way his shoulders narrow to the sharp v of his waist. The last guy you hooked up with was a definite gym rat, full of muscles made mainly for show. Seokjin is hot without trying. His biceps flex when he grabs a t-shirt, frowning into the mirror – and meeting your gaze.

“Ahh!” Seokjin yells, the t-shirt whipping away as he turns.

“Ahh!” you return, stumbling backwards. Clutching your towel, you nearly trip over a different t-shirt lying on the floor.

Seokjin braces himself on the wardrobe. “WHAT ARE – hang on, shit,” he swears, yanking out his air pods. “You’re, uh – Y/N. You’re here?”

“Yep,” you say, your voice way too high. “I was in the shower,” you add, jerking a thumb over your shoulder.

Seokjin follows the gesture, only to snag on your body. Too late you remember you’re in only a towel. Before now, this fact seems to have eluded him. Seokjin openly stares, not bothering to hide his appraisal. Heat trails each place his gaze lingers until the bird argument outside resumes – this time, at twice the volume.

The spell breaks. “Sorry,” you blurt, rushing to grab your clothes. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I – I wasn’t. I was on a run.”

“Okay,” you squeak, edging around him. Slamming the door shut, you collapse against it. “Fuck,” you hiss.

On the other side, you hear Seokjin utter the same. Eyes wide, you turn your head to stare at the wood.

Coincidence. Or he was swearing because of how awkward that was, not because he was also struck dumb by the sight of you mostly naked. Right?

Your head hits the door with a thunk. You should have taken Seokjin up on his offer to drive you home yesterday. Not even one day has passed and you’re already overthinking this. Worse, you can’t stop rehashing the events of last year. Seokjin never answered your question about why he hasn’t reached out to you since December.

Suddenly, you still as realization dawns. Seokjin and Emilia broke up in December. You know they were still together on his birthday, which means they broke up after.

What if… Emilia saw you in that hallway? What if she broke up with Seokjin because she suspected something between you? That would make her the victim. Granted, she didn’t have to go and date Seokjin’s brother, but it would explain her discomfort around you. It would explain why she seems to flinch at every mention of your shared past with Seokjin.

If that’s true, then it means their breakup was partly your fault. Of course, you know this wouldn’t be your fault alone. If their relationship had been solid, it could have withstood a moment of jealousy. Still, the thought lingers as you get dressed, entering the bedroom to find Seokjin has gone.

You continue to think about this during breakfast, watching the way Emilia interacts with the rest. By the end of the meal, you’ve learned nothing certain. If anything, you find yourself reaching the conclusion that whatever the truth is, it doesn’t matter. Not when what’s done is done.

Seokjin and Emilia are no longer dating. Now, she’s with Jaesuk. And you’re here to provide Seokjin platonic support.

Nothing about this has changed, so you need to concentrate on the task at hand. Something you can do, even if the cost is one you pay in your own heartache.

Mrs. Kim passes out individual itineraries after breakfast, resulting in a swift wave of nostalgia. Your own family would fit in well with Jimin’s friends, planning everything the day of and flying by the seat of their pants. Kim family vacations were a dream come true for you growing up, since Mr. and Mrs. Kim always had things under control.

Mr. Kim may have been the one born into money, but Mrs. Kim is no shrinking violet. Her mother raised her by herself; Mrs. Kim finished law school while working odd jobs, eventually rising to the rank of Chief Legal Officer at the Kim Corporation. It was something of a scandal when she announced she and Mr. Kim had wed, and she would be transitioning to the non-profit sector. One time at dinner, she confided in you with a wink this had been her goal from the start.

The entire week is planned down to the minute, with ‘free time’ scheduled for several days. Seokjin stares in dismay at all the events he’s been signed up for until you gently take his paper and fold it in yours.

Today is simple enough: the local farmer’s market, then lunch. Dinner tonight is just family, but tomorrow you’ll be joined by dinner guests. Thursday is a cocktail party, and then Saturday evening is the main event. You notice the Astors listed only for Saturday, which eases some of your tension.

“I’ll drive Y/N and I,” Seokjin says once breakfast is over. Standing, he scoops a pair of keys from the bowl. “We’ll meet the rest of you there.”

Seohyun waves from the coffee pot, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. When Emilia enters with Jaesuk, Seoyun pointedly turns around and brings her coffee to the porch.

Noticing, you can’t help your guilty conscience. “Seohyun seems mad,” you remark to Seokjin as you climb the stairs.

Seokjin glances at the back porch. His lips thin. “Yeah. I think… the situation feels more personal for her. One of her friends dated an ex back in college, and it led to a lot of drama. I don’t think they stayed friends, so she feels bad for me.”

“Oh,” you murmur. You, too, lost a friend during college when she slept with your boyfriend. “I get that. In some ways, losing a friend is harder.”

As you enter the room, Seokjin opens the closet. “I don’t need her pity, though,” he calls from inside. “I’m fine with the situation. And besides, it’s not the same.”

“Is it not?”

“No!”

Wisely choosing to stay silent on the matter, you sit on the sofa and wait for him to change. Seokjin appears a moment later in a cream shirt and slacks, a jean jacket in hand. Well, fuck you, too, then.

Seokjin pauses, squinting at himself in the mirror. “It’s not,” he continues. “Seohyun was still in love with her ex. I’m not.”

Your brows shoot upward. “Oh, no? This whooole situation” – you wave a hand – “would beg to differ.”

Seokjin meets your gaze in the mirror. “It’s not the same. I don’t… think Emilia and I were ever really in love.”

You take a moment to digest this. “Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”

His expression tightens. “Do you really think someone in love with me could have fallen so fast for Jaesuk? Do you think I could have–” Abruptly, he cuts himself off.

Curious, you stare, but he doesn’t continue. Searching for a way to prod without being obvious, you inhale and a door slams downstairs.

“Y/N! Seokjin!” Jaesuk calls up. “We’re heading out!”

Jolted into motion, Seokjin pulls on his coat. “Coming!” he calls. To you, he murmurs, “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

Mind reeling, you follow him down the stairs. You didn’t imagine it, did you – the way Seokjin seemed on the verge of saying something important?

And what about the other thing he just said – that he never loved Emilia? Frustration chokes the many emotions roiling within you. That was the only thing about this week which made sense. If Seokjin still was in love with Emilia, it would make sense why you’re here. It would make sense why he said nothing when his family assumed you were dating.

It would not make sense if he did all those things and is over his ex. If… Seokjin doesn’t love Emilia and never did.

By the time you reach the car, you’ve decided against calling Seokjin out. Instead, you’ve delusionally convinced yourself nothing between you has changed. You agreed to stay this week and pretend to be dating. The why doesn’t matter.

Except – what if it does?

Pushing away the thought, you buckle your seatbelt and realize Seokjin has taken this time to commandeer the stereo. A playlist called Reel Love blares, comprised of songs about love and fishing.

You shoot Seokjin a look, and he bites down on his lip to keep from laughing. For now, you tell yourself it’s enough to have your friend again. Concentrating on this fact, you lean your head to the window and watch the scenery pass.

Rumbling into town, you find yourself in desperate need of some fresh air. Seokjin has the type of presence which grows to fit whatever container he rests in. A gaseous human, if you will. Stepping from the car, you take several breaths to wash away the after-effects of proximity.

Closing the door, you survey the town. Bear’s Nook is sleepy during the edge seasons, dead in the winter, and vibrant in summer, like so many towns along the lakeshore. Right now, it’s starting to wake up, but crowds won’t show up in full force until June.

Only the locals and families like Seokjin’s arrive this time of year. People mosey in and out of the storefronts, although the main farmer’s market is in a warehouse on Main Street. George seems to be sticking around, dropping the rest of the family off in front of the market.

Seohyun shivers in short sleeves, woefully unprepared. “Race you,” she blurts, darting for the entrance.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Kim takes her husband’s arm. The entire group moves down the sidewalk, entering the market in a loose line. Stalls stretch the length of the warehouse full of fruits, vegetables, and all the craft goods you could want.

Seokjin and Mr. Kim drift towards a fishing table, and Seohyun calls her mom over to a produce stand. Despite most of the cooking being done by the staff, Mrs. Kim still enjoys preparing a few dishes each week. You drift past them both, unsure what you’re looking for as you start to wander.

At the end of the next row, your phone buzzes. Fishing it from your purse, you see Jimin’s name. Frowning, you swipe.

Jimin: how long did it take for Seokjin to ask if we were dating [10:20 AM]

Jimin: on a scale of one (first thing he asked) to ten (still hasn’t) [10:21 AM]

Coming to a stop at a candle stand, you text back.

Y/N: You little sneak [10:22 AM]

Y/N: …about a minute in [10:22 AM]

Jimin: HA [10:23 AM]

Jimin: knew it [10:23 AM]

Y/N: You knew what? [10:23 AM]

Jimin: Y/N, please. It’s obvious that man has feelings for you [10:23 AM]

Y/N: Jimin, noooo [10:24 AM]

Y/N: You saw him for ten seconds [10:24 AM]

Y/N: It’s not like that, I promise [10:24 AM]

Y/N: Believe me [10:24 AM]

Jimin: …. [10:25 AM]

Jimin: no [10:25 AM]

You’re frantically typing something to the effect of that’s not how friendship works when you notice someone hovering nearby. Glancing from your phone, you realize Emilia is watching from a coffee stand. Meeting your gaze, she smiles and waves you over.

After a moment’s hesitation, you return your phone to your pocket. Reluctantly joining the line, you pretend to study the coffee board.

“So.” Emilia exhales, glancing sideways. “This is awkward, right?”

Startled, you face her. While Emilia continues to smile, you can see the forced tightness around her eyes.

“Well…” You shrug. “I wasn’t going to call it out, but since you mention it…”

She laughs, the sound bright. When she and Seokjin started dating, you thought her laugh was fake, but no – that’s just how she sounds. You suppose if you had been brought up with a silver spoon in your mouth, you might also laugh like a Disney princess.

Immediately, you deflate. You shouldn’t be mean to her. But then again, the last time you checked, there were no guidelines about how to act with the girlfriend of your fake boyfriend’s brother, who used to date your fake boyfriend.

Seokjin is right. Saying it out loud is just sad.

“Did you… know I met Jaesuk before Seokjin?”

That captures your attention.

You blink. “No. I didn’t know that.”

She nods, lost in thought. “He was a counselor at my summer camp. I was seventeen and Jaesuk was in college, so of course, nothing happened.” A soft laugh. “He barely even noticed my existence.”

“Ah.”

The line moves forward, and you take a small step.

Emilia isn’t done. “We had this moment, though… at the end of the summer. My camp boyfriend broke up with me for Jennie Sarasota. Jaesuk found me crying behind the kayaks and told me I was too good for that idiot. It was the first time a man said that to me,” she says. “My dad is a traditional guy. He’s… well, he’s not very nice.”

Again, the line moves. Stopping closer to the kiosk, you face Emilia fully. “Why are you telling me this?” you ask. “Is this… some kind of explanation for why you cheated on Seokjin?”

Emilia’s eyes widen, and her gaze darts around. People from their world always worry about who might overhear. To be fair, you did just say the quiet part out loud.

“Y/N,” she whispers. “I didn’t cheat on Seokjin. And that’s not what I was trying to tell you.” Her face scrunches. “What I felt for Jaesuk at camp wasn’t real. It was a childish crush on a guy I didn’t know.”

“So…”

“So,” she huffs. “I’m trying to say that when I met Seokjin, I didn’t know he was related to Jaesuk. The last name Kim is pretty common.”

“Mm.” Another person pays, and the line moves again. “And then, once you realized who Jaesuk was…?”

Emilia is silent. Eventually, she exhales. “The first time I met Jaesuk was the night of Seokjin’s birthday party. Do you remember that?”

It feels like a trick question, so you simply nod.

“Yeah,” Emilia murmurs, also lost in thought. “Seokjin had mentioned him before, but Jaesuk was always working or too busy to meet. When he walked through the door, I was stunned. And then… well, I decided to put him from my mind.”

“Mhm.”

Her lips flatten. “It’s true.”

The final person orders and leaves, leaving the two of you. Stepping up to the register, you order your usual iced latte and move to the end. Emilia follows, hitching her Birkin bag up her arm.

“All I’m saying,” she continues, determined, and you fight back an eye roll. “Is that I can understand how it happened. Thinking you felt one way for someone, only to realize you felt another.”

Sharply, you look at her.

Emilia stares back at you, unflinching, and you have to hand it to her, she doesn’t back down. Again, you consider Seokjin’s confession. This is about more than just Emilia dating Jaesuk. Human beings are complicated, and feelings are never clean-cut. Just because Emilia is with Jaesuk and seems happy doesn’t mean she’s enjoying the idea of you dating Seokjin.

Still, any way you respond would be tinged with bitterness, so you merely shrug. “I guess.”

The barista finishes your coffee and places it on the counter. Accepting this, you turn, intending to leave but Emilia stops you again.

“You know,” she says lowly. “I always suspected Seokjin had feelings for you.”

Her words are like being doused in cold water. Protestations rise to your lips like no, he doesn’t and sounds like projection, but you say nothing. Because based on what Emilia knows, she’s correct.

“Even before his birthday,” she says, her grip tight on her coffee. “I knew it was more than just friendship.”

“If you say so.”

“People talk about their friends. But Seokjin never talked about you. Ever. He was so, so careful to keep you separate.”

This does surprise you, but you can’t afford to react.

“I’m not bitter,” she adds, and you know she thinks that's true. “If anything, I think this might be fate. Right?” To her credit, her voice softens. “Jaesuk and I met so long ago, and now we’ve reconnected. Meanwhile, Seokjin has wanted you for so long, and now he finally has you. Maybe… oh, I don’t know. Maybe things had to happen this way for us to be happy.”

By now, you’re practically vibrating with suppressed anger. You hate when people imply that bad things happen for a reason. Sometimes that’s true but oftentimes, it’s an excuse for the speaker to pass on accountability. Whirling around, you step closer and feel a perverse sense of satisfaction when Emilia’s eyes widen.

“No,” you spit out. “I don’t think things had to be this way. I don’t think the fact that Seokjin and I are dating cancels out the fact that you’re now dating his brother. I don’t think any of this absolves you of what – of guilt? Is that what you want?”

Emilia’s face flushes. “No!”

“It doesn’t matter if Seokjin felt something for me. He chose you. He wanted you. Everything you just said is pointless because Seokjin wanted you to be his girlfriend. And you left him for Jaesuk. It’s crappy that you’re blaming the breakup on something he never even said that he wanted!”

Her mouth opens, intending to respond, but you decide you don’t care. Everything you’ve repressed bubbles upward, and you no longer trust yourself to have this conversation without saying something hurtful. Taking a page out of Seohyun’s book, you turn on your heel and push into the crowd.

Either you walk fast enough to lose her, or Emilia doesn’t follow. The crowd breaks after a while and you stop at the last stall, sagging against the counter. It takes several moments for your pulse to steady.

Although you meant what you said, it probably wasn’t the best way to deal with Emilia. A sigh leaves you. While you understand where she’s coming from, her pretending everything is fine isn’t helpful. The events of the past year caused a lot of hurt – you witnessed this firsthand.

Oddly enough though, you feel lighter. Devastating, to realize your therapist is right, and ignoring your emotions doesn’t make them go away. Granted, you didn’t need to explode on Emilia the way that you did. You’ll have to apologize at some point. It was infuriating, though, listening to her go on about how great things are, when you know she’s the reason Seokjin is on edge.

Footsteps sound behind you.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see Seohyun approaching. “Happy my parents’ anniversary,” she sings, shoving a plastic bag into your arms. A colorful, crocheted hat spills out. “I saw this and thought of you. You and your beautiful soul.”

“Don’t you Jesse McCartney me before lunch,” you manage to laugh. Removing the hat, you shove it over your hair. “How does it look? Mesmerizing?”

Seohyun makes a face. “Only a man truly in love would find that appealing.”

As though on cue, Seokjin rounds the corner. The moment he spots you, he does a double take. Walking forward, his grin widens.

“What monstrosity is this?” Seokjin teases. Slipping a hand to either side of your face, he tips your face up to press a kiss to your forehead. “Only you would find something that clashes with literally everything.”

Somewhat stunned, you stare up at him. “I, uh…”

“I bought it for her, asshole,” sighs Seohyun. Watching the two of you, she grins and shakes her head. “What did I say, Y/N?”

Seokjin looks at her, puzzled but – thankfully – before Seohyun can explain, Mrs. Kim appears. “There’s a whole stand of oven mitts,” she says to Seohyun. “We should get a few pairs or–”

Seokjin tugs on your hand. “Come on,” he murmurs. “I want to show you something.”

Wordless, you follow him around the next corner. It hasn’t escaped your notice that his family is no longer around and yet, he still holds your hand. In fact, you’re so busy watching him, you don’t realize where you’re going until Seokjin stops.

“Ta-da!” He gestures at a wooden stall. “What do you think?”

Tearing your gaze away from him, you look at the scene.

“Oh. My. God.”

Seokjin cracks up, watching you take in the garish array of nationalism. Paintings of flags, national monuments, symbolic animals – the stand has it all, entombed in bold colors and patterns. The sight is absolutely horrific, and you’re about to say as much, when a man pops out from behind an easel.

“Are you enjoying that one?” he asks, seeing where you look. “A beauty, right? I tried to encapsulate what I felt while listening to the national anthem.”

“Right,” you croak. Seokjin seems to be holding back tears of laughter. “That’s… that’s what I thought when I saw it. The national anthem, absolutely.”

“I took inspiration from our forefathers.”

“Ah. Well… here’s hoping they don’t ask for it back.”

The artist pauses, then barks out a laugh. “Good one! I’ll have to remember that. Now, all the small paintings are three hundred, the medium ones are a thousand, and this piece” – he directs your attention to a tapestry-sized canvas – “is three thousand. My pride and joy.”

Realizing your mouth has fallen open, you shut it.

By this point, Seokjin has composed himself enough to speak. “I’ve been looking for a piece for my entryway for years,” he muses. “This speaks to me.”

You elbow him – hard – in the ribs, and Seokjin wheezes, but the man doesn’t notice.

“Good eye, sir,” he says eagerly.

When he turns around, you lean sideways. “What are you doing?” you hiss.

“Browsing,” Seokjin whispers back, his eyes alight.

“Are you really going to buy that?”

“Honestly? I’m considering it, just so it doesn’t hang in someone else’s home.”

“Stop,” you whisper-laugh, trying to school your expression. “I feel bad! This man clearly has passion for the arts –”

“And likely, the conservative party.”

“–and he put a lot of time into this!”

Seokjin shrugs. “Define a lot.”

Before you can protest further, the artist returns. Seokjin hems and haws a bit before vowing to come back tomorrow with more money.

“You’re ridiculous,” you groan when he leads you away.

Seokjin wiggles both eyebrows. “Who’s the one dating me?”

You almost correct him but look away at the last moment. “About that,” you say slowly. “Emilia… kind of cornered me earlier. She wanted to talk about us.”

Seokjin stops so abruptly you nearly walk past him. When you realize this and turn, he seems slightly nauseous.

“Did she…” He swallows. “What did she say?”

“She didn’t suspect this was… fake,” you whisper, glancing around – oh god, now you’re doing it. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Seokjin blinks, his expression inscrutable. “Oh – okay. Right. What did she want to talk about, then?”

The two of you begin walking through the stalls. Sipping your coffee, you take comfort in the familiar rush that it brings.

“She wanted to talk about how… she always thought you had feelings for me.”

“Ah.”

“I kind of went off on her.”

Seokjin looks at you, startled. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” You frown. “She was pissing me off. Going on and on about how it was all ‘meant to be.’ She said that you always liked me, and maybe that’s why things didn’t work out with you two. As though nothing was her fault. I mean, is it so hard to take some accountability? To admit that your actions have hurt people?”

Seokjin says nothing, continuing to walk alongside you. His brow is furrowed though, clearly deep in thought. You turn down an empty row of stalls – the farmer’s market is only half-full, given the season. It grants a semblance of privacy when he clears his throat.

“Y/N…” Seokjin hesitates and then stops. “What if… Emilia wasn’t wrong?”

“About what?”

“About… I don’t know. Did I ever tell you how we broke up?”

“Well, no. You just said that you did.”

Seokjin firmly meets your gaze. “I was the one who ended things.”

Time seems to slow again.

Slowly, the puzzle pieces slot themselves into place. Honestly, you aren’t sure why you didn’t realize sooner. Well, you know why.  When Seokjin called you last week, he sounded upset. He sounded like he was in love with someone. You agreed to this mostly out of pity, assuming she had broken his heart. But if that’s not the case…

“Why?” you blurt.

Seokjin blinks. “Why, what?”

“Why did you break up with her?”

His gaze narrows. “Come on, Y/N,” he says, voice dropping when he takes a step closer. “Don’t you remember December?”

Your body goes still. Of course, you remember. You didn’t think that he did. Or if he did, you assumed it was something Seokjin wanted to ignore. The same way you haven’t talked about any other time you grew close.

Seeing your expression, his lips twist. “I almost kissed you that night in the bar. On my birthday.”

“I… know.”

“And you don’t think that was a red flag for my relationship?”

“We’d both been drinking,” you say, unconvinced. “It was a weird time for me. You were upset, and…”

His laugh is hollow. “That’s what I told myself at first, too. But then… I realized that even if all that was true, it wouldn’t have mattered if I loved her. So, I broke up with Emilia.”

You stare up at him, the events of the night rearranging themselves. You realize you’ve been thinking about that night all wrong. It wasn’t the night Seokjin almost kissed you, but the night he realized he didn’t love Emilia.

Before you can respond, Mr. Kim and Jaesuk walk around the corner. Emilia is right behind them, still sipping her coffee. She doesn’t meet your gaze, browsing the empty stalls instead.

“There you are,” says Jaesuk. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Mom wants to head to lunch. Are you ready to go?”

Seokjin watches you for another moment, then nods. Mrs. Kim and Seohyun meet you at the front doors, and Emilia joins them to show Mrs. Kim something. As soon as she does, Seohyun slows her pace to walk alongside you.

Noticing this, your stomach sours. Knowing what you know now, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been unfair. From Emilia’s perspective, Seokjin broke up with her and immediately asked you out. Sure, the whole Jaesuk thing is still weird, but… possibly things are more complicated than you realized.

Glancing at Seohyun, you poke her in the arm. “Hey.”

She shoves the rest of a donut into her mouth. “If you’re hoping to trade the hat, I’m sorry. No takebacks.”

“No, it’s not that. Listen, you… should ease up on Emilia.”

Seohyun shoots you a look of betrayal. “Not you and Seokjin on my case!”

“This is just from me,” you sigh. “Nothing to do with Seokjin. I just… think this whole situation is awkward and multiple people are at fault. Not just her.”

Seohyun considers. Her gaze flicks to Emilia walking with Jaesuk.

“Well,” she grumbles. “It’s hard not to be mad. She hurt Seokjin. I’m mad at Jaesuk, too,” she adds with a scowl. “He should never have even considered asking her out.”

“Maybe. But then, you should probably also be mad at Seokjin. He’s the one who broke up with Emilia.”

She pauses. “Seokjin broke up with her?”

You nod, your suspicions confirmed. As much as it pains you to admit, Emilia has been classy in this regard. She could have aired Seokjin’s business to gain sympathy but chose to stay silent.

Seohyun thinks for a moment, her face shifting. “To tell you the truth, I never liked Emilia with Seokjin,” she admits.

“Why not?”

“They just didn’t… fit. Too similar, I think. What’s weird though, is that she totally fits with Jaesuk.”

“You should ease up on her,” you repeat.

She rolls her eyes. “Alright, fine, Miss Morality.”

“That’s a terrible superhero name.”

“Oh, yeah? What would you be, then?”

“I know what I’d be,” Seokjin announces while joining your duo. You start, wondering how much he overheard. “Probably something like World Wide Handsome. WWH. Swooping down to save the world with –”

“Hair gel and a mirror?” Seohyun cuts in. “Because that’s what that sounds like.”

The sound of their bickering follows you into the restaurant. Every time you visit Bear’s Nook you eat at the same, cozy restaurant in the middle of downtown. Seohyun chooses the seat beside Emilia to sit in, and you note Emilia’s look of surprise when Seohyun asks her a question.

It’s easy to forget how wealthy Seokjin’s family is. If it weren’t for the lavish lake house and personal driver, today is the type of day you’d have on your own. Today marks the last time you’ll be alone, though. Small dinner parties are planned for tomorrow and Wednesday, followed by the larger cocktail party on Thursday.

Everything has moved so fast, you haven’t even considered what the rest of this week will look like. For all Seokjin’s city life revolves around academia, he’s still a part of his family’s legacy here. Emilia fit into all that – she’s an Astor, after all. You’re a no one, especially without your fancy consulting job.

Before you can spiral any further, Seokjin places a menu before you. “I asked at the front, and they said they’ll still do the pecan pancakes if you want them.”

Your stomach flips. “You… asked about my order?”

“Of course,” Seokjin says, as if it’s the only answer. “I didn’t forget.”

Something about his tone makes you think he means more than your brunch order. You try to refocus on his family but again, a single thought rises to the surface.

Seokjin broke up with Emilia. He broke up with her after he almost kissed you. And now… well now, you wonder if your main rule has been broken. Maybe not everything Seokjin says should be taken at face value.

Maybe there are things you still don’t know about him, after all.

© kpopfanfictrash, 2025. Do not copy or repost without permission.

Author’s Note: thank you for reading so far! Continued in Part 2, here.

[sabrinacocksucker]

Duele fisicamente cada vez que te pienso.

Empecemos desde anoche que me llamaste anoche a las 2am. Queriendome decir que me amas, que me extrañas. Y te correspondi porque todavia es asi. Te habías metido tan dentro de mi piel que cada vez que pienso en ti, arde. Como si me estuvieses cada centímetro de piel en el que estabas. Mi pecho duele porque no debería estar contigo.

[sabrinacocksucker]

[sabrinacocksucker]

[sabrinacocksucker]

Borrador 3

Hablemos de la manera en la que te infiltraras en mí. En como hiciste que cada mañana esperara tu llamada de buenos días. En como esperaba que dijeras que es lo que ibas hacer aquel día y en como decías que me extrañabas todos los días que no estaba contigo. En las veces que perdía sueño esperando tu llamada solo para acostumbrarme a ti. Y ahora que solo me queda una rutina no cumplida, mis días se hacen más largos. No veo la hora de llegar a casa y poder irme a la cama y sumirme en un sueño porque temo que te extrañe demasiado. Es marzo, y puedo admitir que eres lo peor que me ha pasado este año. Creí en ti, me ilusione contigo, me acostumbre a ti. A tus besos, abrazos, miradas, actitudes. A llegar a tu casa y acostarme contigo. A tu olor. A tu manera de abrazarme y besarme por las noches. Odio que me haya acostumbrado a todo y que para ti sea algo muy normal. Odio que no podré olvidarte rápidamente, facilmente. Tantas veces me queje de que no sentía nada por ti y ahora que no estas, sigo chequeando mis notificaciones a ver si te llegas a apiadar de mí. Me tenías totalmente atada a ti. ¿Qué fue lo que te hizo cambiar de opinión?

Escrito por Sabrina.

[sabrinacocksucker]

[sabrinacocksucker]