scarluna

[scarluna]

KNOCKOUT (002)

⸺ ݂ ํ Synopsis : ꣒

Y/N is a depressed, closed off, anxious and insecure plus-sized girl. She does not believe she deserves love nor anything good in her life. However by destiny, she meets Jungkook. A fighter, a biker and a guy that changes the way she sees the world.

⸺ ݂ ํ Characters : ꣒ Jeon Jungkook x Y/N

⸺ ݂ ํ Chapters: 2/?

⸺ ݂ ํ Trigger warnings : ꣒ mature language, mental health problems, depression, su!c!d1l thoughts, fatph0bia, illegal substances, smoking, anxiety, body dysmorphia, maladaptive daydreaming, making out, traumas, emotional eating

⸺ ݂ ํ Other warnings : ꣒ grammatical errors.

⸺ ݂ ํ Author's Note: ꣒ GUYS PLEASE I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO MAKE A TAG LIST, SOMEONE EDUCATE ME T____T Hence why I am unable to add yall there. :C Also, lemme know what you think of this chap. Wink Wink.

Time doesn’t feel real anymore.

I couldn’t tell you if it’s Monday or Thursday. If it rained yesterday or the day before that. I keep the blinds half-shut, the room dim enough that the daylight doesn’t mock me but bright enough that I don’t lose all sense of time.

I haven’t gone back to the park.

I haven’t gone anywhere, really.

Just rotting in my apartment, wrapped in the same blanket, wearing the same hoodie, scrolling through the same three apps on my phone like they’ll eventually give me a reason to feel alive.

They don’t.

Every day starts the same.

Wake up too late. Answer emails too slowly. Fake interest during work calls, mute myself and nod like I’m present. Lie when my mom texts asking if I’ve been “getting out more.”

"Yeah, totally. Been trying to take walks!"

She replies with a heart emoji. Like that’s enough to count as connection.

My dad called once. Drunk, probably. I didn’t answer. Let it ring out and told myself I’d call back later.

I won’t.

Even Vicky’s texts have started slowing down. She knows me well enough to give space when I go quiet like this, but part of me wishes she’d just barge in again. Force me out of my own head.

But I won’t ask.

I never ask.

I just sit here. Work. Eat. Scroll. Sleep.

Repeat.

The only real interactions I have are with food delivery drivers. Strangers I see for five seconds at a time but who, lately, feel like they’re starting to see me too much.

Like they know.

Like they can tell.

That I’ve ordered from the same chicken place four nights in a row. That I haven’t brushed my hair in two days. That my voice is hoarse from not being used. That I look like I haven’t been touched or held or smiled for real in longer than anyone should.

The last one gave me a weird look. Not mean—just… curious. Pitying.

Like he didn’t expect me to be the one behind the door. Like maybe he thought the name on the receipt belonged to someone different. Someone who didn’t open the door in a hoodie with food stains and bare feet and eyes that screamed don’t look at me.

I said “thanks” too quickly and slammed the door before he could say anything back.

And then I stood there.

Back against the door.

Heart pounding like I’d just run a mile.

Why does it feel like every moment lately is some slow-burning humiliation?

Why does existing like this feel so loud?

Even when no one says a word.

I eat half the food, then leave the rest on the counter like some kind of offering to the version of me who should be doing better by now.

I wish I could stop spiraling.

I wish the guilt wasn’t its own kind of meal—chewed on between bites, swallowed down with shame and soda.

But I can’t stop.

I can’t make myself care enough to break the cycle.

And deep down, I know what’s happening.

The same thing that always happens.

I’m fading again.

Not in a dramatic, cry-for-help way.

Just… fading.

Quietly. Slowly.

-

I didn’t sleep much.

Again.

The apartment smells like old fries and leftover stress. My laptop screen glows too bright in the dim room, and the clock on the bottom corner blinks 9:59 a.m.—one minute before the weekly team meeting.

I throw on a different hoodie. Kind of. Technically it’s the same as yesterday, just a slightly less-wrinkled sibling. Hair’s in a messy bun. Face untouched. My camera’s always off, and I plan to keep it that way.

I log into Zoom and brace myself.

The team meeting starts the same way it always does—bad small talk, muted laughter, awkward pauses while someone forgets they’re on mute.

And then Katherine’s voice cuts through like glitter and caffeine.

“So…” she says, practically bouncing in her chair. Her camera is on, obviously. Background blurred, face glowing. “Can we tell them now?”

Our manager, Greg, chuckles like he’s part of some secret joke. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”

My stomach knots.

Greg leans forward. “Okay, team. We’ve got something fun coming up—real fun, not fake-corporate-fun.”

Katherine’s smile stretches even wider.

“We’ve booked out a section of Riot Club downtown this Friday night. Fully paid. Open bar. Food, music, everything.”

Someone lets out a “woo!” like we’re in a movie.

Riot Club.

Of course it’s Riot Club. I’ve heard of it—one of those trendy places where the lighting’s low, the music’s loud, and the people are confident. Beautiful. The kind of place where I’d normally rather light myself on fire than be perceived.

Greg keeps talking. “It’s a team-building thing. You know, for morale. We’ll have a reserved section upstairs, so it’s private, but feel free to bring your dancing shoes.”

Katherine claps. “This is going to be so fun. I’ve already got a dress picked out.”

Everyone’s reacting. Laughing. Making jokes about shots and karaoke and someone inevitably dancing on a table. People are already forming plans in the chat.

I just sit there, stiff.

Invisible.

Until Greg squints at the list of muted names and lands on me.

“Y/N—you in?”

My body freezes.

What?

No. No no no no no. This wasn’t part of the script. I was supposed to just sit through the meeting, nod silently, and then disappear like always.

But everyone is watching now. Katherine leans toward her screen with a curious smile. A few others are glancing sideways like they didn’t even know I existed before this moment.

And my mouth opens.

Before my brain catches up.

“Yeah,” I blurt.

It’s small. Quiet. But clear enough.

“Awesome,” Greg says, giving a thumbs-up. “Glad you’re coming.”

The moment passes.

The conversation moves on.

And I sit there, stunned.

What the fuck did I just do?

I didn’t mean to say yes.

I didn’t want to go.

I didn’t even want to be asked.

My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking slightly under the desk. The rest of the meeting blurs into static. I stare at the little camera icon on my screen, grateful it’s still red and crossed out.

They didn’t see the panic on my face.

Didn’t see the way I just agreed to willingly walk into a nightmare.

A club.

Downtown.

With people.

With Katherine.

With me, in the middle of it.

I log off the second the meeting ends and slam my laptop shut like I can shut reality with it.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and exhale hard.

What the hell am I going to do?

An hour passes.

I haven’t moved from the couch.

My laptop’s still shut, my hands tucked under my thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of my sweatpants. I’ve just been sitting here, replaying that moment over and over again in my head like a horror film on loop.

“Y/N—you in?”

“Yeah.”

God, why did I say that?

My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me.

I flinch, already bracing for it.

Katherine (1:19 PM):

Omg I’m SO glad you said yes!!! 🖤 This is going to be so fun. Honestly didn’t think you were the club type but I love a wild card 👀

I swallow hard. The nausea in my stomach doubles.

I stare at the screen for a full minute before typing.

me:

I didn’t really mean to say yes. I panicked.

It sends before I can change my mind. I instantly regret it—but not enough to delete it. I just stare, waiting.

Three dots appear.

Then disappear.

Then return again.

My chest tightens.

Katherine (1:22 PM):

LOL honestly same thing happened to me when I went to my first team party But hey—if you panic-committed, then now you’ve got a reason to go And if it helps… I’ll come pick you up No pressure. No stress. Just a ride with a semi-decent playlist 😎

My throat clenches. That’s... really nice of her. Too nice. Too much.

Why is she being so nice?

me:

You really don’t have to do that

Katherine (1:25 PM):

I know But I want to You’re part of the team. You deserve to be part of the fun too Besides, it’ll be easier walking in with someone than alone, right?

That part hits harder than I expect.

Because she’s not wrong.

Walking in alone would’ve destroyed me. I would’ve hovered by the entrance pretending to check nonexistent texts for twenty minutes, trying to disappear through the floor.

But now the panic shifts.

Because if Katherine picks me up… if I go…

They’ll see me.

Not blurry camera me. Not muted Zoom square me. Not vague voice-on-a-call me.

Me.

My body. My face. My everything I try so hard to keep tucked behind oversized hoodies and safe little rectangles on a screen.

And I won’t have Vicky.

She’s too far away. Hours away. No teleport button. No last-minute rescue.

I glance at the corner of my room where the dress Vicky once made me buy is still hanging—tags on, dusty from months of pretending one day I’d wear it.

My fingers hover over the keyboard again.

me:

They’re all going to see me for real

I don’t even know if I meant to send that. But I do.

And she replies instantly.

Katherine (1:29 PM):

Yeah And that’s a good thing You’re more than just a voice on Slack. You’re cool. People will love you. And if they don’t? Screw them. I’ve got your back.

I stare at the message until the letters blur a little.

I don’t know what I expected. A brush-off? A vague “you’ll be fine”?

Not this.

Not kindness.

Not support.

And instead of feeling reassured, all I can think is: I’m going to let her down. She doesn’t know how weird I look. How awkward I am in real life. How I fold in on myself when people make eye contact.

My hands shake as I put my phone down.

I feel like a burden.

A walking, talking inconvenience.

But Katherine didn’t make it feel that way. She didn’t hesitate.

And now the clock is ticking.

Two days until the event.

Two days until I have to be seen.

Two days until there’s no hiding.

The next evening

The sky is already dark when my phone buzzes again.

Vicky’s calling.

I almost let it go to voicemail—I’m too wrapped in the knot of dread sitting in my stomach—but then I remember her last text:

"You better answer or I’ll assume you’ve turned into a blanket goblin."

Fair.

I accept the video call and flip the camera. My hoodie’s still on. Hair’s up. Bare face. Blanket wrapped around me like a depressed burrito.

Vicky’s face lights up the screen the second the call connects. She’s got a clay face mask on and a mug the size of a soup bowl in her hands.

“Yooo,” she says, squinting at me. “There’s my favorite gremlin. Look at you. So glowy. So... suspiciously bundled.”

I manage a weak laugh. “Hi.”

She narrows her eyes. “You look like someone who accidentally agreed to something horrifying. Tell me everything.”

I exhale slowly, sinking deeper into the couch. “I said yes to going to a company team-building party.”

Her brows shoot up. “What?”

“Yeah.”

“Like… willingly?”

“No. I panicked. They asked me in the Zoom meeting. Out loud. In front of everyone.”

Vicky winces. “Oof.”

“I said yes because my brain short-circuited and I didn’t know how to say no. And now Katherine’s all excited and she’s picking me up and everyone’s going to see me.”

I drop my face into my hands.

There’s a pause.

Then Vicky gently says, “Okay. Breathe. Just… pause the spiral for a second.”

I peek at her through my fingers. “I don’t want to go, Vick.”

“I know, babe. But maybe… hear me out… it’s not the worst thing ever?”

I roll my eyes.

She continues, sitting up straighter. “Look, I get it. Being around people is exhausting. Especially people who’ve only ever seen you from the neck up through a laptop screen with soft lighting and pixel blur. But maybe it’s also—kind of—a big deal that you said yes?”

“I didn’t mean to say yes.”

“But you did. And maybe that’s your soul doing some sneaky internal growth while your anxiety wasn’t looking.”

I snort, despite myself.

She grins. “I’m serious. You’ve been hiding for so long. What if this is your brain’s way of going: hey, what if we just tried for one night? Just one.”

“I don’t think I’d look good in anything…” I mumble. “Everyone’s going to look amazing and I’ll look like someone’s exhausted older cousin who wandered in by accident.”

“You are so dramatic,” Vicky says, sipping her tea. “You’re beautiful, Y/N. And if you want, we can raid your closet together. I can help you pick something. Virtual wardrobe montage, 2000s romcom style. Or maybe you still keep that pretty dress I gifted ya?”

I let out a quiet laugh. “Of course I do..” I took a glance at the dress hanging in my wardrobe whose doors were wide open and sighed quietly. Maybe I should just wear it?... “God, remember when we used to actually do that?”

“Yup. And you always looked better than me, so shut up.”

“You’re literally perfect.”

“And you’re literally going to be fine. Put that dress I gave ya and some sexy smoky make up and you’ll get yourself a man immediately once they see how pretty you are.” She joked. Or did she?

I exhaled slowly, chewing on the edge of my blanket.

Vicky’s voice softens. “I know it feels terrifying. But it’s just one night. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to be the life of the party. Just show up. Have a drink. Exist.”

I pause. “That’s already a lot.”

“I know,” she says. “But I also know you. And I think… deep down… some part of you wants this. Wants to be seen. Wants to be out there, even just a little.”

My chest tightens at that. She’s not wrong. That part does exist.

I just don’t know if I can handle it.

She raises an eyebrow. “Also, let’s not forget… there’s always a chance Jungkook shows up.”

I groan. “Oh my God. Vick—”

“I’m just saying! Downtown club? Underground fighter with rich-kid rebellion vibes? Sounds like his kind of scene.”

I bury my face again. “He doesn’t even know my name. I was literally wearing a blanket and panic-wheezing the last time he saw me.”

“Which is iconic,” she says with a smirk. “A mystery girl with a nicotine aura and oversized hoodie chic? He’s probably haunted by you.”

I laugh, this time louder. It feels weird to laugh this much.

It feels good.

I sigh. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” she says simply. “And if it sucks? You leave. You can lie, say you feel sick. Blame a mysterious food allergy. I’ll back your story from four towns away.”

I smile at her through the screen, heart aching in that familiar way. “I wish you were going with me.”

“Me too,” she says. “But you’ve got this. And if nothing else, you’ll get free drinks and something to text me about at 2 a.m.”

My chest still feels tight, but a little less so.

Maybe, just maybe, I can survive this.

Maybe.

Friday. 7:45 p.m.

Any minute now.

Katherine said she'd be here at 7:50 sharp, and her texts have been consistently enthusiastic in that exact “I-will-drag-you-out-with-love-if-I-have-to” tone.

The clock on my phone reads 7:45.

I’m standing in front of the mirror.

And I can barely look at myself.

But I do.

Because I have to.

The dress Vicky gifted me hugs my body in places I usually try to erase. It’s soft black fabric—slightly structured but flowy enough to move in. Not tight. Not shapeless. Somewhere in between. It cinches a little under my chest and floats down from there, and yeah—it technically hides the parts I always try to shrink… but it doesn’t make them disappear.

Nothing could.

My arms. My thighs. My belly.

Still there. Still mine.

I shift my weight. My shoulders are hunched, posture defensive like I’ve spent a lifetime trying to take up less space. I force myself to stand straighter, but it feels foreign—like wearing someone else’s confidence.

My hair’s curled, but not polished. Messy on purpose. Loose and imperfect. I let a few strands fall over my face to soften everything, hide a little behind the veil of effort.

My makeup… I surprised myself.

A soft wing of eyeliner that actually looks even. Mascara that didn’t smudge. Clip-on earrings—little silver hoops—because I’ve always hated needles. And the lipstick.

God.

Red.

Bold. Loud. The exact kind of color that draws attention, and I don’t know what possessed me to wear it but here it is. On my mouth. Like a statement I’m too scared to say out loud.

I bite my bottom lip, testing it.

Still there.

Still vibrant.

And then the boots. Chunky, black, reliable. My little leather jacket. A crossbody bag just big enough for my phone, my ID, and my emergency excuses if I decide to flee.

The whole look… it’s not perfect.

But it’s mine.

And it’s been so long since I looked like this. Since I tried.

Since I showered, styled my hair, painted my face with intention instead of hiding behind foundation and prayer.

It’s strange.

I look almost like a version of myself I used to imagine. Not the girl on Zoom. Not the girl curled under blankets avoiding the world. Not the ghost who scrolls through Instagram and feels like she lives on the outside of her own life.

No—this version?

She exists.

And she's going out tonight.

I take one more look.

And then another.

I wish I could say I love what I see. That I feel powerful. Beautiful.

But really—I just feel… real.

And maybe that’s enough.

My phone buzzes.

Katherine (7:47 PM):

Outside! 🚗✨ You ready, queen?

My stomach flips.

This is it.

No turning back now.

I swipe on a final layer of confidence, inhale slow through my nose, and grab my bag.

One shaky step toward the door.

And I whisper to my reflection—so quiet I barely hear it myself:

“Let’s just try.”

The door clicks shut behind me.

The night air hits my skin like a soft warning—cool and sharp against the warmth trapped under my leather jacket. The street glows in soft orange hues from the overhead lamps, casting my shadow long across the pavement.

My boots clink softly with every step.

Each one feels louder than it should. Like they’re announcing me to the world.

I spot it almost immediately.

A red Chevrolet Camaro, sleek and shining like something out of a movie, parked right in front of my building.

Of course it’s Katherine’s.

It fits her—bold, polished, unapologetically attention-grabbing.

She’s already in the driver’s seat, one perfectly manicured hand on the wheel, the other holding her phone, probably cueing up a playlist. The interior lights glow faintly, outlining her profile like she stepped out of a commercial for glam and success.

I pause at the curb, take a breath, and circle around the car.

The closer I get, the more aware I am of everything—how my dress moves, how my hair feels, how exposed my legs are above the boots. I hope the lipstick hasn’t smudged. I hope I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.

I open the passenger door and slide in, the leather seat cold against my thighs.

“Hey!” Katherine beams, bright as ever. “Oh my God, look at you! You look gorgeous!”

I blink. “Me?”

She nods so fast her ponytail bounces. “Yes, you! I mean, I always suspected you were hiding a baddie under those hoodies, but damn.”

I laugh, quietly. “Thanks… you look amazing too.”

And she does.

Her platinum hair is curled and glossy, her skin glowing like a dewy Instagram filter. She’s in this glittery blush-toned mini dress that hugs her like it was tailored just for her. Her lips are glossy pink, heels sparkling like something ripped from a Barbie runway.

She looks like she belongs in a club.

I… look like someone playing dress-up in her big sister’s closet.

The confidence I built in my room wavers just a little. Just enough to notice.

But I breathe past it.

I try.

Katherine pulls away from the curb, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the air drift in.

We make small talk. Work stuff. Light jokes. I let myself laugh, even if it sounds a bit too high-pitched.

“You nervous?” she asks, glancing over at a red light.

I nod. “A little.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says, smiling like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You already did the hardest part—you showed up. Everything else is cake.”

I nod again, forcing a small smile. “Cake.”

We were supposed to arrive at 8:20.

But traffic hits just outside downtown. One of those long, inching slogs where brake lights stretch out in front of us like a never-ending warning.

Katherine doesn’t seem fazed. She just leans back, taps her fingers on the wheel to the beat of the song playing, and throws occasional commentary about the guy in the next car who keeps checking her out.

I, on the other hand, sit perfectly still—my fingers clenched tight in my lap, counting down the seconds, watching the time slip away like it’s water running through my hands.

8:30.

8:40.

8:50.

Finally—finally—we pull up in front of Riot Club.

The street is already buzzing. Neon lights pulse against the sidewalk. There’s music thumping through the walls like a second heartbeat, and the line to get in snakes down the block.

Even with our name on the list, even with a reserved section upstairs—just seeing the crowd makes my breath hitch.

People everywhere.

Laughing, talking, dressed like they’re made for the spotlight.

My smile falters.

Every instinct in my body screams go home. I could walk back to the car. I could make an excuse. Say I got sick. Say I forgot something. Say anything.

But Katherine’s already opening her door.

She climbs out in one graceful move, standing tall in her heels, dress glittering like it’s alive.

She walks around to my side and opens the door before I can stop her.

Her hand extends toward me like a challenge.

“You ready?” she grins.

I glance at the club entrance. The crowd. The bouncer. The stairs.

My throat tightens.

But I reach out and take her hand anyway.

Because it’s too late to turn back now.

And maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to.

The bass hits first.

Even before we step fully inside.

It pulses under my skin, loud and relentless, like someone’s holding a speaker up to my chest and daring my heartbeat to sync with it.

The bouncer checks our names—Katherine flashes him a smile that probably gets her through most doors in life—and just like that, we’re in.

Riot Club lives up to the name.

The air is thick with heat and sweat and perfume that doesn’t quite mask the alcohol. The lights are low—deep reds and pulsing blues, flickering like a heartbeat in strobe—and the music...

“Dime por qué lloras / De felicidad…”

“El Teléfono” is blasting through the speakers like it’s 2008 again and we’re dancing in someone’s garage after drinking vodka from a water bottle. The beat pounds so hard the floor itself vibrates. People crowd the dance floor, hips moving, arms lifted, heads thrown back in laughter.

Everyone looks like they belong here.

I feel like I just walked into someone else’s dream.

We push our way through the crowd, Katherine’s hand hooked around my wrist, guiding us like she’s done this a thousand times. And maybe she has.

I stumble once. Apologize to someone who doesn’t even hear me.

And all the while, my brain spirals.

I’m twenty-six years old.

I have a full-time job. I pay my rent on time. I buy my own groceries. I have a plant that hasn’t died yet. I’m technically a grown woman.

But walking through this crowd?

Hearing this music?

Heading up the stairs to the VIP section of a club like I’m someone who does this regularly?

It feels wrong.

Like I stole this night from someone else’s life and I’m going to get caught at any moment.

Because no matter how much time has passed—no matter how many birthdays have stacked up—I still feel sixteen sometimes.

Sixteen and anxious and deeply unsure of myself.

Sixteen and pretending to be cool when I never knew how to dance.

Sixteen and quietly guilt-ridden about staying out past ten, even when no one cared.

My parents never checked in. Never enforced curfews. I could’ve stayed out till dawn and no one would’ve blinked.

But I still tiptoed home.

Still felt like I was doing something wrong.

Still played the part of the good girl.

The quiet one. The one who didn’t drink too much. The one who didn’t get into trouble. The one who didn’t let anyone too close.

And now here I am.

In a club. Wearing red lipstick. Walking past strangers with glitter on their cheeks and drinks in their hands. Climbing the stairs to a private section like I belong here.

And I don’t.

I don’t.

I grip the railing tighter.

Katherine glances back at me once, beaming, shouting something I can’t hear over the music. I nod, smile faintly, keep walking.

Even if I wanted to leave, I wouldn’t know how to say it. Not without sounding ungrateful. Not without disappointing her. Not without confirming what I already believe:

That I can’t do this.

That I don’t fit.

The VIP section is a little quieter. Not by much. Just enough that the bass doesn’t feel like it’s rattling my teeth. There’s a sleek couch setup, a long glass table filled with small plates, fancy drinks, and coworkers already laughing, already loose.

They see Katherine.

They see her.

And then they see me.

Eyes flick over me in passing—some smiles, a few nods, one girl I recognize from Zoom gives me a friendly wave—but no one says anything just yet.

Still, I feel it.

Seen.

And not in the romantic, movie kind of way.

In the raw, terrifying, naked kind of way.

The kind where the hoodie doesn’t save you anymore.

I sit at the edge of the couch, trying to make myself small. The leather squeaks under me. I smooth my dress out, sip water from a sweating glass, and try to remember how to act like I belong in my own life.

Maybe if I fake it long enough, I’ll start to believe it.

The lights up here are softer.

Warmer.

Still dim, still flickering from the music below, but not as harsh. The kind of glow that makes people look a little better, a little more relaxed, a little less intimidating.

I sit with my drink—water, for now—gripping the glass too tight and trying to remember how to function.

A few coworkers drift over. People I recognize from work chat and project check-ins and endless Slack threads.

Samantha from accounting compliments my earrings.

Miguel from marketing asks if I like reggaeton.

Liam—who’s always joking in meetings—offers me a plate of mini empanadas and says, “You clean up nice.”

They’re all friendly. Genuinely.

There’s no cruel undertone. No judgment. No whispered looks.

Just warmth.

But I’m still quiet.

Smiling politely, saying thank you, answering questions with short but safe replies. My hands never quite stop fidgeting in my lap or tapping the rim of the glass. My eyes scan the room too often, like I’m waiting for someone to tell me I’m not supposed to be here.

Because I don’t feel like the girl they’re talking to.

I’m still wearing that invisible hoodie. Still hunched, still hiding behind practiced small talk and careful laughter.

But if Vicky were here?

I’d be different.

She’s seen me sobbing in the dark, surrounded by snacks and shame and silence. She’s seen my worst spirals, my messy breakdowns, the parts of me I try to keep hidden from the rest of the world.

And she stayed.

That’s the difference.

That’s why I can be silly with her. Loud. Soft. Raw.

With other people? I’m just this version. Polished edges and apology eyes.

Until—

“Alright, alright, look at this crew!”

Greg walks in like he owns the room—because technically, he does. Our manager. Balding but confident, shirt half-tucked, wearing some kind of printed button-up that says cool boss energy more than business formal.

People cheer, a few stand to greet him.

He raises a glass of something amber and laughs. “Glad you all made it out of your caves. I was starting to think half of you were AI.”

More laughter. Even I smile.

Then his eyes sweep the room.

They stop on me.

And something shifts in his expression. Not unkind—just… surprised.

“Y/N?” He squints, then chuckles. “Wow. I didn’t recognize you without the hoodie and messy bun.”

The comment makes me freeze for a split second—but he says it casually, without malice. Just surprise.

I laugh.

A real one, kind of. The kind that’s a little unsure, but still genuine.

“Yeah,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “I almost didn’t recognize me either.”

People chuckle softly. Katherine beams.

Greg walks over and clinks his glass gently against mine. “Well, you look great. Glad you’re here.”

He takes the empty seat beside me and starts chatting with everyone—asking Miguel about his dog, teasing Samantha about her Spotify Wrapped, telling Katherine he still doesn’t understand TikTok.

And slowly—so slowly—I start to relax.

I take a deeper breath.

My shoulders loosen.

I set my empty water glass down on the table, flag down the server, and when she leans in, I hear my voice say:

“Can I get a cherry vodka and Red Bull?”

She nods.

My heart hammers.

Bold.

Stupid?

Maybe.

But I want to feel something. I want to taste something sweet and fizzy and wrong. I want to be a little more than this shell. Just for one night.

Just for a few hours.

The music shifts to something smoother, more danceable. People start standing up, moving closer to the balcony railing that overlooks the dance floor.

I lift the drink when it comes. It’s pink and fizzy and tastes like rebellion.

And for the first time tonight—

I let myself smile.

Not the polite one.

The real one.

The vodka’s hitting.

Not in a dizzying, blackout kind of way—but warm and weightless. Like I’ve floated half an inch above all the anxiety pressing on me for years. My limbs feel light. My smile keeps slipping out easier.

I’m laughing with coworkers. Actually laughing.

Samantha and I bond over our mutual hatred for Slack emojis. Miguel and Katherine are fake-arguing about who danced worse in high school. Liam keeps sliding plates of snacks toward me like I’m going to vanish if I don’t keep eating.

I let myself exist here.

Music hums through my bones. Bass in my ribs. My third vodka tastes like childhood candy and bad decisions. I sip it anyway.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Maybe an hour. Maybe five minutes. Time doesn’t work properly in clubs.

I lean back into the plush couch, my knees tucked close, boots dangling off the edge. I’m warm, surrounded, not invisible for once—and weirdly okay with it.

Until it happens.

Voices at the stairs.

Low, laughing.

Footsteps on metal.

I glance toward the staircase, not really focused, eyes soft from the buzz. Just another group coming up to the VIP—nothing unusual.

But the shift in energy is immediate.

A few people at our table—Katherine, Miguel, even Greg—perk up, smiling, waving.

“Yo! You made it!” someone calls out.

I blink.

Samantha lifts a hand, grinning. “That’s my cousin—he actually showed up!”

I follow their line of sight without thinking.

A small group of guys is climbing the stairs. Most of them dressed in that effortless, too-cool-to-try way: dark shirts, silver chains, tattoos peeking under sleeves. Confident. Comfortable.

And at the back—

No.

No way.

Everything stills.

The vodka buzz disappears like it was never there.

Because he’s there.

Jungkook.

Climbing the stairs, slow and deliberate, head slightly tilted as he surveys the space. Black button-up open just enough to show the tattoos crawling down his chest. Sleeves rolled. Hair messy, damp at the ends. Silver hoops in both ears, a glint of light catching the ring on his lip.

He looks like a storm barely leashed.

Like he’s too real to exist in the same night I’m pretending belongs to me.

My heart lurches, tight and hot.

I don’t move.

Katherine shifts beside me—and I can feel her stiffen.

She knows.

She remembers.

“Oh my God,” she mutters under her breath, wide-eyed. “That’s Jungkook.”

I already know.

Of course I know.

He reaches the top of the stairs just as a few people from our group go over to greet them. There are hugs, loud voices, handshakes.

And then—

He looks up.

And sees me.

Our eyes lock.

Just for a second.

But it stretches.

His expression doesn’t change—no dramatic reaction, no double take. But I see something flicker in his gaze.

Recognition.

Memory.

Stillness.

Like maybe he’s just as surprised as I am.

Maybe.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

Because in all the daydreams, in all the hypothetical versions of this night where something wild and cinematic happens—I never once imagined he’d walk through the same door.

And I never imagined I’d be seen like this.

Not by him.

Not without the hoodie.

Not without the shield.

Just… me.

In red lipstick and messy curls and boots that suddenly feel too loud.

The moment breaks when someone claps Jungkook on the back and laughs too loud.

Just like that, the energy shifts again—back to motion, to noise, to people moving around her like the ground isn’t still tilting beneath her feet.

The guys from the stairs reach our group, folding in with the kind of ease that only people born into comfort can pull off. One of them—tall, handsome, full of charisma—grins and raises his drink like a toast.

“This the famous marketing team?”

Laughter.

Greg stands, already pulling chairs closer, greeting them like old friends.

“Glad you made it, man. We were just talking about how you never show.”

Someone’s cousin. Someone’s friend. A small flood of introductions happens as people shift to make room.

They’re laughing, shaking hands, slapping backs, sliding into the booth with practiced ease. And then one of them—black curly hair, a cheeky grin—gestures around the group.

“I know Katherine, and Sam, and this loud dude—” (he points at Miguel, who mock-scowls) “—but I don’t think we’ve met everyone. Introductions?”

Katherine, ever the social butterfly, takes the lead.

She starts going around the table with names and small “she’s the one who handles client crises at lightning speed” or “this guy eats peanut butter straight from the jar at work” types of comments. Everyone laughs along.

But they’re getting closer.

And then Katherine’s hand gestures toward me.

“And this,” she says with a soft smile, “is Y/N.”

My stomach drops.

All eyes shift to me.

I feel the weight of it instantly.

His eyes, especially.

I can feel them on me like heat through glass.

I stiffen. My cheeks flush—instant, impossible to stop. My fingers tighten around my glass, and for a second, I debate saying I forgot how to speak.

But I don’t get that choice.

Everyone’s watching. Expecting.

So I force it out.

“I—uh—hi. I’m Y/N.” My voice is small. Nervous. But it doesn’t shake.

One of the guys smiles, nodding. “Nice to meet you.”

Another throws out a “cool name.”

I nod, offering a tiny, polite smile.

But I can feel how red my face is. I can feel the way I’ve curled into myself again—shoulders hunching, legs crossed, one boot tapping lightly against the floor.

And when I glance—just a flicker, just for a second—

Jungkook is watching me.

Expression unreadable. Not intense. Not amused. Just… there.

Still.

Present.

I look away fast, heart rattling in my chest like it's trying to crawl up my throat.

Greg says something to the group that makes them all laugh, and the attention shifts again.

Relief and embarrassment swirl together in my stomach like oil and water.

No one said anything weird. No one laughed at me. No one even stared too long.

But still—I feel like I just stood under a spotlight with a sign around my neck that said this is what anxiety looks like.

I take a slow sip of my drink, the cherry vodka suddenly too sweet, too sharp.

And all I can think is:

He knows my name now.

The music thumps through the walls like a second heartbeat.

It’s late now. Maybe close to midnight—maybe later. Time has gone slippery.

Most of the group has thinned out. Some are on the dance floor, bodies weaving under flashing lights. Laughter spills from the stairs every few minutes. Katherine’s nowhere in sight—last I saw, she left giggling with one of the guys, disappearing into the haze of music and bodies.

The couch is quiet now.

Except for me.

And him.

I’m sitting at the far end, drink mostly watered down from melted ice, cradled between both hands like it’ll anchor me to the moment.

Jungkook sits at the other end, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, thumbs moving lazily over his phone screen.

The silence between us is loud.

But not awkward.

Just heavy. Like static before a storm.

I glance at him once—just a peek—and catch the slope of his nose in profile, the soft curve of his bottom lip, the way his dark lashes shadow his cheekbones in the low lighting.

He’s real.

And somehow still unreal.

I look away.

Focus on the condensation dripping down the side of my glass.

And then, after what feels like an entire hour compressed into ten seconds, he puts his phone face-down on the table.

I feel it before I see it.

His eyes on me.

I look up.

And he’s looking directly at me.

Expression unreadable. Not intense. Not soft. Just... real.

And then he speaks.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

The question hits harder than I expect.

My breath catches.

“I’m not—” I start, then stop.

He raises a brow, like he’s giving me a second chance to be honest.

“You are,” he says calmly. “At the store. At the park. That night at the fight. You keep running.”

His voice is quiet. Low enough that it doesn’t rise above the music, but it slices straight through it anyway.

He leans back slightly, his gaze still locked on mine.

“I try to talk to you,” he says. “Be friendly. Say hey. But every time, you act like I’m about to bite you.”

I open my mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.

“I…” I swallow. My cheeks are burning. “I’m just… not good at—”

He waits.

I try again. “At talking. To people. I’m not used to... this. Attention. Or—whatever this is.”

His head tilts slightly, the edge of his lip quirking. “But you’re here now.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re here,” he says, motioning around with a small gesture. “At a loud-ass club. In makeup. In a dress. Sitting across from me. Talking.”

I fidget with the straw in my glass, fingers slippery with nerves.

“I didn’t really mean to come,” I admit, voice barely above the music. “They asked in front of everyone, and I panicked and said yes. Then Katherine guilt-tripped me into following through.”

Jungkook chuckles. It’s soft. A little amused. “And the park?”

I bite my lip.

He continues, voice low, not teasing. Just… curious. “You sit there like you want to disappear. But you keep showing up.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Because he’s right.

I do keep showing up.

Even when I don’t know why.

Even when I’m terrified.

“I just…” I try to find the words, voice catching halfway through. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

That gets him.

His brows draw together, like he’s actually confused by that.

“Waste my time?” he repeats, slowly. “Why would you think that?”

I shrug. “Because... I’m not like the people you’re usually around.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not interesting,” I murmur. “Not fun. I’m awkward. Quiet. I don’t look like…” I gesture vaguely toward the dance floor, where people are laughing, effortless, magnetic.

His expression doesn’t change.

He just watches me.

And then he says, simply, like it’s obvious:

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t want to be.”

That silence comes back—thick and humming between us.

I can’t look at him.

But I feel it.

The shift.

The undeniable fact that I’ve been seen.

And not just noticed.

Seen.

The moment between us teeters—suspended in some strange, weightless pause where I almost feel like maybe, maybe, I belong in it.

But then, the universe does what it always does.

It reminds me.

A voice cuts through the moment. “Yo, Jungkook, what’s up, man?”

I blink, and a coworker—Jake, I think, from another department—plops down on the other side of Jungkook, grinning, already pulling him into some conversation about mutual friends and “remember that night at Noir?”

Jungkook gives me one last glance, like he’s trying to hold the thread of whatever just passed between us.

But the moment breaks.

I stand quietly, smoothing my dress out of habit.

“I’ll be back,” I murmur, not sure if anyone hears me.

I slip away from the couch and head toward the exit—out of the music, out of the lights, out of that sudden, overwhelming visibility.

Outside, the air is cooler.

Crisp, biting.

I dig into my jacket pocket for my cigarettes and lighter. My fingers are clumsy, the adrenaline from earlier still lingering in my veins. My boots click lightly against the pavement as I make my way a little off to the side of the club entrance.

But I’m not alone.

A group of guys—maybe four or five—are huddled nearby, already smoking. Laughing in that careless, half-drunk way that makes everything sound louder, meaner.

I light up and keep my distance. Hug the wall. Eyes down.

I just need a minute.

A breath.

But then I hear it.

At first, it’s just fragments.

“Did you see that chick inside—” “—the one with the big boots and the red lipstick?” “Dude, she was huge.” “Right? I didn’t know they let heavyweights into VIP.”

My heart sinks.

My hands freeze.

They don’t say my name. But they don’t have to.

I know.

My throat closes.

My eyes burn.

I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I just keep smoking like maybe the nicotine will hold me together. Like maybe if I stay perfectly still, they’ll forget I exist.

But the words keep echoing.

Fat.

Huge.

Laughter.

It doesn’t even matter if they meant it to be cruel.

It still hurts.

And I hate how used to this I am.

I hate how practiced I’ve become at not reacting.

My eyes sting harder, and I blink fast, trying to will the tears back. My lips tremble, but I take another drag like that’s going to help.

Then I hear footsteps.

Heavy ones.

And before I can look up, I hear a low, familiar voice—tight with something dangerous.

“Is there a problem?”

I glance to my side.

Jungkook.

Standing there.

Still. Cold. A different kind of presence entirely.

The group falls silent immediately.

One of them—a guy in a bomber jacket, who was laughing the loudest—straightens up, eyes wide.

“Oh shit—Jungkook, bro—nah, man. No problem here.”

The others murmur quickly in agreement.

Jungkook doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

He just stares at them.

The air feels like it’s holding its breath.

The guy in the bomber jacket laughs nervously. “Didn’t know you were out here. We’re just chilling, man. All good.”

Jungkook’s voice is calm. Steady. But it cuts.

“You sure?” he asks, head tilted slightly. “Because I heard something different.”

More stammering. More backpedaling.

They recognize him.

Not just as a guy—they recognize who he is. What he’s capable of.

“There’s no problem,” one says again, voice lower now.

Jungkook looks at them a beat longer. Then turns, stepping between them and me, placing himself just enough that it feels like a shield without saying it out loud.

He doesn’t look at me yet.

Not until they’re gone.

And when they finally scatter, awkward and mumbling and fast-walking down the block, he finally turns back.

His voice is soft now. So different from before.

“You okay?”

I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.

But my eyes give me away. They always do.

He looks at me, really looks at me, and says, “You don’t have to act like it didn’t hurt.”

And something inside me almost breaks open.

Because no one’s ever said that to me before.

Not like that. “Would you like me to drive you home? I am with my car and I haven’t drank any alcohol..”

I shake my head again, trying to keep my voice even though everything inside me is fraying. " I—I’m okay. I’ll just get home on my own."

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.

Instead, Jungkook crouches a little so his eyes are level with mine. His expression is careful—not pitying, not forced. Just… present.

“Okay,” he says softly, like he actually means it. “Cab then?”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.

“I know we barely know each other,” he continues, like he’s reading the swirl of panic in my chest. “So I won’t offer to drive you. But I can call a cab. One of the companies I trust. They’re discreet. Safer than calling some random app.”

My throat tightens.

This shouldn’t be this hard—saying yes to help. But my brain is spinning. My skin still feels too thin from earlier. From everything. And yet, the way he says it, like he’s handing me a choice instead of cornering me into one… it makes something in me ease. Just a little.

I nod. Barely.

He stands back up and pulls out his phone.

The silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. Not heavy. Just there.

He doesn’t fill it with words.

And I’m grateful for that.

I swipe at my cheeks again, trying to fix the damage, but I can feel the dried salt along my skin. I probably look like a wreck. Red-rimmed eyes, broken voice. Meanwhile, he’s standing here looking like a painting with bruises—too vivid, too unreal.

I shift awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “For… being like this.”

His brow furrows.

“Don’t do that.”

I blink, startled.

“Don’t apologize for feeling something.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Whatever it is you’re carrying,” he says, eyes never leaving mine, “you don’t owe anyone an explanation for it. Least of all me.”

And goddamn it—

That does it.

The tears threaten again, fast and hot, and I hate that he’s seeing it, hate that I’m breaking apart in front of someone I barely know, but also… some traitorous part of me is grateful he stayed. That he didn’t walk away the second things got messy.

His phone vibrates, and he glances down at it.

“Cab’s three minutes out,” he says. “Black Toyota. Plate ends in 52.”

I nod again, trying to gather the pieces of myself, trying not to fall apart in this alley outside a warehouse full of noise.

He doesn’t speak again.

But he doesn’t leave either.

We stand there in quiet, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. Close enough to feel his presence—warm, grounded, steady.

I don’t look at him.

But I feel his gaze on me, not heavy or invasive. Just aware. Like he’s keeping watch. Like I’m not alone for the first time in a long time.

And for some reason… that’s what almost breaks me.

Not the noise. Not the night.

But the kindness.

The softness in a place built for hard things.

I don’t know what this is. Or what it means.

But I know this much:

I won’t forget it.

Not tonight.

Not him.

Not the way he didn’t try to fix me.

Just stood close enough to make the silence feel safe.

The cab pulls up, headlights cutting through the haze of the alley. I turn to thank him one more time, my voice small, frayed at the edges.

“Thanks again. For… everything.”

Jungkook nods once, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, his bruised jaw catching the glow of a nearby streetlight. He doesn’t smile—not really—but there’s a softness in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before.

As I reach for the car door, he speaks—low and steady.

“Next time you see me…” His voice pauses like he’s picking his words carefully. “…don’t avoid me.”

It’s not a request. Not a demand either. Just… something in-between.

A truth offered.

I swallow hard and look at him, really look at him, the air thick between us.

I nod once.

And I get in the cab.

The ride home is quiet. My phone stays in my lap, untouched. The driver makes a couple polite comments, but I’m too far gone to answer. I keep replaying his words in my head.

Don’t avoid me.

He noticed. Somehow, he noticed I was trying to disappear.

By the time I reach my apartment, the exhaustion hits like a freight train. My body feels heavy. My mind is foggy.

I strip off the dress, drop it carefully onto the chair like it’s made of glass. Wipe off the makeup with shaking hands. My face feels raw without it, but also… clean.

I throw on a giant sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, the familiar cotton hugging all my softest parts. The mirror reflects someone who looks like she almost let the world see her—and didn’t die.

I fall into bed like gravity doubled, pulling me straight into the mattress. The last thought in my head is him.

And then nothing.

The next morning

It’s still early when I wake.

Too early.

But the light filtering through the blinds is soft and peach-colored, like the sky is still deciding what kind of day to be. I don’t usually do this—wake up before the world—but something feels different today.

Lighter.

Not good. Not fixed.

But less heavy.

I pad into the kitchen, make my usual coffee. Black, no sugar. The bitterness feels like a small punishment I’ve earned.

I open the balcony door and step outside into the cool morning air, hoodie sleeves pulled down over my hands. One cigarette, one lighter, one breath.

I sit down in the old rusted chair I thrifted years ago and take the first drag, then sip the coffee while the smoke curls up and disappears.

My phone buzzes.

Vicky 💜 Morning weirdo. You awake or still emotionally hungover?

I smirk, thumb tapping quickly.

me: Awake. Balcony. Smoking. Watching the world not fall apart. You?

Vicky: Laptop. Lecture in 30. Hair in a bun. No bra. We thrive.

She calls me seconds later.

I answer, camera off.

“Morning, professor.”

She groans. “Don’t. I already spilled soy milk on my notes and the Wi-Fi’s acting like it’s allergic to responsibility.”

I laugh, and she immediately softens.

“You sound better,” she says.

I stare out over the rooftops, watching the sun ease its way up over the buildings.

“I feel… less awful.”

“Want to talk about it?”

So I do.

All of it. From the moment I ducked into that bathroom and overheard those girls, to the way my brain spiraled out of control so fast it almost derailed the whole night.

“I know it was stupid,” I say quietly, flicking ash off the edge of the balcony. “Like… why did I let it get to me that bad?”

“Stop.” Her voice cuts in, firm but warm. “It wasn’t stupid.”

“I just—I felt like I was nothing again. Like I was thirteen, hiding in the locker room, praying no one noticed how much space I took up.”

Vicky sighs softly, the sound of her fingers clicking on keys in the background. “Y/N… you reacted like a person who’s lived through real pain. That’s not something you just… outgrow. It lingers. Triggers happen. Doesn’t make it less real just because it looks small from the outside.”

I blink hard, pressing my lips together.

“And,” she adds, voice sly now, “you didn’t let it ruin everything. You still showed up. You let someone help you.”

I hesitate.

“He called me a cab,” I admit, softer now. “After I told him I didn’t feel safe getting in a car with someone I barely knew. He just… listened. Said he’d order it for me if that’s what I wanted.”

There’s a pause.

Then a delighted gasp.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“That’s so hot. Are you kidding me? Gentleman behavior and emotional intelligence? Marry him immediately.”

I snort. “He’s just… I don’t know. He’s kind of terrifying. But also not? Like, he looks like he could ruin your life but also fold your laundry.”

Vicky cackles. “Danger with a heart. A classic. We love to see it.”

I smile, blowing out a stream of smoke and watching it fade into the sky. My chest still feels bruised, but not broken.

“He told me not to avoid him next time.”

“And are you going to?”

I pause.

Let the silence stretch.

Then quietly: “I don’t want to.”

Vicky hums. “That’s my girl.”

She sighs. “Okay. Gotta go pretend I’m an expert in child development now. But I love you. And I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me.

“Love you too.”

She hangs up.

And I sit there for a while, cigarette gone, coffee cold, but heart just a little warmer than yesterday.

Maybe next time… I won’t run.

Maybe next time… I’ll let him see me.

Really see me.

Even the parts I’m still learning to look at myself.

I’m still on the balcony, staring at the last swirl of smoke disappearing into the sky when my phone buzzes again.

Katherine 🖤 Hey girl. You okay? You left kinda abruptly last night.

My heart skips a beat.

I pull my hoodie tighter around my arms and unlock my phone with a thumbprint I wish could delete anxiety.

me: Yeah. I just wasn’t feeling great. Needed some air.

She replies almost immediately, like she’s been waiting.

Katherine 🖤: That’s what Jungkook said. He told everyone you weren’t feeling well and called you a cab. Total protector mode 🥺

My stomach flips.

He told them?

I can’t decide if that makes me want to curl up and die or… smile.

me: Wait—he told you that?

Katherine 🖤: Girl. The second someone asked where you went, he just said “She wasn’t feeling well. I got her home safe.” Dead serious. And then he dipped.

me: He left?

Katherine 🖤: Yup. Like 10 minutes after you. Wouldn’t even take a drink. Just left. Honestly? Kind of hot.

My blush hits hard and fast, warming my cheeks like I just stepped into a furnace. I pull my knees up on the chair, hiding behind the ceramic coffee mug like it might cool me down.

Katherine 🖤: Also… I got laid 😇

I blink. Hard.

me: WHAT???

Katherine 🖤: Yeahhhh. One of Jungkook’s friends. Tall, dimpled, criminally good at neck kisses. Literally the best sex of my life. Like I think I astral projected at one point??

me: Oh my god, Katherine.

Katherine 🖤: Don’t “oh my god” me. You’re the one who got rescued by a bruised, tattooed underground prince and rode home in a cab he summoned like a damn knight.

me: I rode home. You rode a man.

Katherine 🖤: LMAOOOOOO okay point for you. But still. How are we in the same city and you get the brooding fighter who leaves parties early for you?

I bite my lip, trying to smother the growing smile, but it’s useless.

Jungkook.

The way he stood there in that alley.

The way he didn’t push, didn’t question, just… saw me. Called a cab. Stayed until I was safe. Told them I wasn’t feeling well so I wouldn’t have to explain myself later.

And then left.

For me?

Katherine 🖤: Just saying… if you don’t text him, I might.

I roll my eyes, thumbs already moving.

me: Back off. He’s terrifying and possibly capable of reading minds.

Katherine 🖤: Perfect. He can hear me thinking you better text her, you emotionally unavailable legend.

I laugh, clutching the mug to my chest as the city wakes up around me.

Something about today feels different.

Not fixed.

Not perfect.

But maybe… like the beginning of something.

Like maybe I'm allowed to be seen.

Bruised, messy, soft, and still worthy.

And maybe the boy who left early to make sure I got home safe... maybe he saw that too.

[scarluna]

KNOCKOUT (001)

⸺ ݂ ํ Synopsis : ꣒

Y/N is a depressed, closed off, anxious and insecure plus-sized girl. She does not believe she deserves love nor anything good in her life. However by destiny, she meets Jungkook. A fighter, a biker and a guy that changes the way she sees the world.

⸺ ݂ ํ Characters : ꣒ Jeon Jungkook x Y/N

⸺ ݂ ํ Chapters: 1/?

⸺ ݂ ํ Trigger warnings : ꣒ mature language, mental health problems, depression, su!c!d1l thoughts, fatph0bia, illegal substances, smoking, anxiety, body dysmorphia, maladaptive daydreaming, making out, traumas

⸺ ݂ ํ Other warnings : ꣒ grammatical errors.

⸺ ݂ ํ Author's Note: ꣒ So, again, I am back at it. Completely fictional.

I don’t look in mirrors if I can help it.

I glance—never stare. I avoid reflections like they’re landmines, each one threatening to detonate everything I’ve worked so hard to bury.

I pull my hoodie tighter around myself as I walk down the hall of my apartment building. Even though it’s warm out, I keep it on. I always keep it on. Oversized, black, long-sleeved—my version of armor. Fabric that hides the parts of me I hate the most.

Which is basically all of me.

My thighs touch when I walk. My arms jiggle when I reach for things. My stomach… don’t get me started. Every inch of me feels wrong, and no matter how many times people say things like "beauty comes in all sizes," I can still hear the laughter from the girls in middle school locker rooms. I can still feel their eyes on me. Judging. Mocking.

I learned early that boys only look at girls like me when it's a joke—or a dare. So, I don’t let them. I keep my head down, earphones in, and move like I’m invisible.

It’s safer that way.

I fake normal better than most. Smiles when I’m supposed to. Laughs at the right moments. I even let my mom believe I’m doing "so much better" lately.

She wouldn’t notice either way. She’s too busy.

She works fifteen hours a day and answers my texts with thumbs up emojis or, if I’m lucky, a "K." I get it. She’s trying to keep us afloat. But sometimes I think she works that much so she doesn’t have to come home.

Can’t say I blame her.

My dad is... well, he’s usually passed out almost every time I visit them. His breath smells like cheap whiskey and bad decisions. He tells me I’m beautiful sometimes—slurred, half-sincere—but only after his third drink. And the next morning he doesn’t remember saying anything at all.

I hate that I still want him to mean it.

No one knows how I eat in secret. How I wait until everyone’s asleep to tiptoe into the kitchen and stuff myself until I can barely breathe. Chips, cereal, cookies—whatever I can find. It’s not even about the food. It’s about silence. About filling something inside me that always feels empty.

Then comes the shame. The guilt. The promise to do better tomorrow.

Tomorrow never comes.

People think being fat is a choice. Like I woke up and decided to hate myself. Like I don’t already know what every calorie means. Like I haven’t stood in dressing rooms, numb and silent, while my mom said, “You just need a little more discipline.”

If she only knew.

But she doesn’t. No one does.

And that’s how I survive. By hiding the real me. By locking away every ugly thought and pretending I'm okay. It’s exhausting—but I’m good at it.

I finally curled up In my bed, wrapped in the same blanket I’ve had since high school—frayed at the edges, soft from too many washes. The TV was on, playing some show I’ve already watched three times over. Something comforting. Familiar. The kind where characters have perfect lives, perfect friends, and perfect bodies. The kind where no one ever breaks down crying because they can’t zip up their jeans.

I mindlessly shove popcorn into my mouth, even though I’m not really hungry. I just need something to do with my hands. That, and I don’t know how to exist in silence.

Outside, life moves. People laugh, date, go out for coffee and brunch and spin class. I watch it all through the filtered lens of social media, like I’m peeking through a window at a party I wasn’t invited to.

But the truth is... I don’t want to go.

Not really.

Being outside is exhausting. People are exhausting. The stares, the judgment—even the polite ones, the forced smiles, the awkward glances that say "I see you, but I don’t want to."

I’d rather sit here, in the stillness of my own space, where no one expects anything from me. Where I don’t have to suck in my stomach or pull down my shirt every time I stand up.

Unless she visits.

My best friend, Vicky. The only one who’s ever stuck around long enough to see all my ugly truths and not run for the hills. Unfortunately she lives two hours away. We talk every day tho—text, memes, random voice notes that trail off mid-sentence because we always know what the other means. But when she visits? That’s when I pretend, just for a night, that I’m someone else.

Someone better.

We’ll pour a glass of cheap wine and sit on the floor like we’re still seventeen. She’ll blast music we used to love and I’ll let my hair down, throw on a slightly-too-tight dress I usually hide in the back of my closet, and for a few hours, I’ll play the part.

I’ll laugh too loud. I’ll talk too fast. I’ll flirt with the mirror and call myself a bad bitch even though I don’t believe a word of it.

It’s not real, but it’s fun to pretend.

Sometimes we go out—to a bar or a lounge or some half-dead pub that plays throwbacks—and I’ll catch a man looking my way. And for a second, I’ll feel like maybe... maybe this time is different.

But it never is.

They smile. Then hesitate. Then give me mixed signals that make my head spin. One moment, it’s flirty texts and compliments. The next, it’s radio silence or a sudden ghosting like I imagined the whole thing.

I used to blame myself. Still do, if I’m being honest.

Maybe I’m not pretty enough. Maybe they didn’t like how my body looked up close. Maybe they thought I was fun—until they realized I came with baggage.

They say I’m “hard to read,” but they never bother to learn the language.

Now, I don’t expect anything. I don’t chase, and I definitely don’t hope. Hope is a cruel thing when you’ve been fed disappointment your whole life.

So I stay here.

Buried in the comfort of my bed. With my blanket and my snacks and my fake little world where I don’t have to feel like a mistake.

And honestly?

Sometimes, it feels like the only place I truly belong.

Some nights, the silence feels like it’s screaming.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The TV is still on, playing something meaningless. Just noise to drown out the thoughts. But it doesn’t work. It never really does. The thoughts always find their way back in—slipping through the cracks like cold air under a door.

I don’t even know when I started crying. My eyes just feel heavy, and my chest aches like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.

I sit there, knees hugged to my chest, tears rolling quietly, silently. Because that’s the only way I know how to break down—alone. Always alone.

I wish I could explain this feeling. This tightness. This numb, dull throb of sadness that doesn’t go away. It’s not just about my body, though that’s a part of it. It’s the loneliness. The kind that makes the world feel like it’s moving on without you. Like you’re stuck behind glass, watching everyone else live while you just... exist.

People talk about love like it’s this magical thing. Like it just happens. Eye contact across a room. Sparks. Butterflies. Hands brushing and souls colliding.

I’ve never had that. I don’t even know what it feels like to be touched by someone who wanted to stay. Who wanted me. Not some idea of me. Not some mask I wear to get through the day. The real me.

And God—don’t even get me started on sex.

Everyone acts like it’s supposed to be this beautiful thing. Passionate. Intimate. But for me? It feels terrifying. Not just because of my body—though that fear is always there, a weight pressing down on me—but because letting someone that close means showing them everything I try so hard to hide. The scars. The stretch marks. The parts of me I can’t fix.

The parts of me I’ve learned to keep locked up.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m even capable of being loved. Like maybe I was born with something missing. Or maybe I’m too much. Too broken. Too guarded. Too something.

Would anyone ever actually stay, if they saw all of me?

The depression makes it worse. It lies to me. Tells me I’m unworthy. That I’m hard to love. That I’m destined to always be someone’s maybe, someone’s almost. The girl who’s good for conversation but never good enough to hold.

And the worst part? Some days, I believe it.

I hate how much I crave affection, even though I’m terrified of it. I hate that I want someone to hold me and kiss my forehead and tell me I’m safe, but I wouldn’t know how to accept it if they did. My body would flinch, my mind would panic, and I’d probably ruin everything before it even began.

Because that’s what I do. I ruin things.

And then I cry about it in the dark, wondering what’s wrong with me.

I wrap the blanket tighter around me and bury my face in my arms. My tears come harder now, not quiet anymore. Ugly sobs that make my throat burn. I wish I could scream. I wish I could tear it all out of me—the pain, the shame, the fear.

I just want to be held. Not for how I look. Not for what I offer. But for who I am.

All of me.

Even the messy, haunted parts.

Even the parts I don’t know how to love myself.

But maybe that’s a lot to ask.

Maybe no one’s coming.

Maybe I’m all I’ll ever have.

-

Friday night.

The clock on my screen blinks 6:01 PM, and just like that, my shift ends.

Another day of smiling through gritted teeth, typing out canned responses to strangers who think “customer support” means “emotional punching bag.” My fingers are sore, my eyes ache, and I have exactly zero energy left to pretend to be a functioning adult.

I close my laptop and sigh, rolling my neck until it cracks. My apartment is dim, lit only by the fading orange glow of sunset bleeding through the blinds. I consider changing into pajamas and crawling under a blanket burrito-style. It’s what I usually do on Fridays. My little reward for surviving the week. Thank God I was a home office or else I’d be definitely drained at the office.

Then I hear it.

Knocking.

Sharp, insistent, like the sound of someone who knows you’re home.

I freeze. I’m not expecting anyone.

Another knock.

I drag myself to the door, hoodie still on, hair a mess, socks mismatched—classic me. I open it cautiously, peeking through the crack.

And there she is.

“Surprise, bitch,” Vicky grins, arms wide like she’s just delivered the winning lotto ticket.

Right behind her stands Trevor, tall and unbothered, holding a paper bag that smells suspiciously like garlic bread. He nods at me like we’ve just seen each other yesterday, even though it’s been months.

“What the hell—” I blink. “You guys didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“That’s what makes it a surprise,” Vicky smirks, pushing past me into the apartment like she owns the place. “Also, we know you’d say no if we warned you.”

She’s not wrong.

Trevor chuckles as he walks in behind her. “Hey, Y/N. We brought food. Don’t yell at us.”

I just shake my head, trying not to smile too hard. It’s impossible with these two.

Vicky and Trevor have been together for five years now. They met online—some obscure Reddit thread about mental health turned into DMs, which turned into phone calls, which turned into a weekend meetup that never really ended.

She’s a psychologist, whip-smart with a razor-sharp tongue and a heart of gold. He’s an IT guy, quiet and patient, the kind of man who listens more than he talks and somehow always knows when you need space... or a hug.

They’re that annoying kind of couple that actually works—the kind that finishes each other’s sentences and still giggles at inside jokes no one else gets. It’s weird seeing that kind of emotional intimacy up close. Beautiful, but also kind of brutal.

Because deep down, I want it.

That connection. That safety. That soft, quiet love that doesn’t disappear at the first sign of mess.

And it hurts—just a little—because a part of me still believes I’ll never have it.

“You’re staring again,” Vicky teases from the couch. “Are you mentally writing fanfiction about us?”

I roll my eyes, laughing despite the lump in my throat. “No, I’m just wondering how two socially awkward nerds made it work.”

Trevor winks. “Magic and memes.”

“And therapy,” Vicky adds, tossing a cushion at him. “Lots of therapy.”

We eat. We talk. We laugh—really laugh, the kind that makes your stomach hurt. For a moment, I forget about everything else. My body. My fears. My loneliness. It all fades under the glow of garlic knots and sarcastic banter.

Until Vicky suddenly looks at me with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“We’re going out,” she says.

I blink. “Out where?”

She stands, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “It’s a surprise.”

Trevor groans playfully. “God help us all.”

I hesitate. My instinct is to say no. I’m not dressed for “out.” I’m not mentally prepared. My anxiety starts bubbling up—but Vicky grabs my hand before I can retreat.

“Trust me,” she says, softer now. “You need this.”

I swallow hard, nod slowly, and let her pull me to my feet.

-

An hour later, we’re walking down a narrow alley lit by a single flickering bulb. The sound of bass and shouting grows louder with every step. The building looks like an abandoned warehouse, tagged up and half-broken—but there's a bouncer at the door and people going in like it's nothing.

“What is this?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“You’ll see,” Vicky smirks. “Just… keep an open mind.”

I glance at Trevor. He just shrugs and smiles, which tells me nothing.

We walk in—and the moment we do, the world shifts.

It’s hot. Loud. Electric. The air is thick with sweat, adrenaline, and tension. People crowd around a caged ring in the center of the room, shouting, cheering, drinks sloshing in their hands.

A fight is happening. An actual underground fight.

“What the hell, Vick?” I whisper, stunned.

The air hits me like a punch.

Heat. Sweat. Noise.

A crowd of bodies packed like sardines, all facing the makeshift cage in the center. The shouting is relentless, echoing off concrete walls, drowning out my thoughts. People are laughing, jeering, spilling drinks. Some are on tables. Some are barely dressed. Every part of it screams get out.

Vicky turns back and says over the noise, “Trust me. You need this. It’s good for your mental health.”

I shoot her a look. “You dragged me to a fight club for my mental health?”

She grins, unfazed. “You live in your head too much. This place? It pulls you out. It’s raw. Real. No filters. No fakeness. You just feel everything, whether you want to or not.”

I open my mouth to argue but the words stick. Because as chaotic as this place is, I can already feel the numbness cracking. Not in a good way—more like being ripped out of a too-warm blanket and thrown into a blizzard.

I tug my oversized hoodie tighter around myself, the sleeves swallowing my hands. My skin feels too exposed, like people are looking at me even when they aren’t. I’m not dressed for this. I’m not ready for this.

I did shower before we left, thank God. But even that small self-care win can’t calm the panic twisting in my gut now.

Overcrowded places make my skin crawl. I’ve never liked loud spaces, or too many people talking over each other, or being somewhere I can’t make a quick escape from.

It’s too much.

I scan the room, my eyes flicking from face to face. Most people here are loud, confident, half-drunk or fully fearless. Girls in tight dresses, guys in muscle shirts and tattoos, people laughing like this is a Friday night comedy show and not two men bleeding into the floor.

And then there’s me.

Tucked into the corner. Hiding. Heart racing. Wondering why the hell I agreed to this.

“Vick,” I say, leaning closer to her so she can hear me. “I don’t think I belong here.”

She turns, her face softer now. “You do. Just breathe.”

But how can I?

Every step into this place feels like walking deeper into someone else’s life. Someone who isn’t afraid. Someone who belongs in their skin. Not like me. I shrink without even realizing it—shoulders curling in, body trying to disappear into the folds of my hoodie. My safe zone.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want anyone to look at me.

But at the same time… some twisted part of me does.

Just once, I want to be the girl someone notices.

And I hate myself for it.

“Just give it a minute,” Trevor says gently, voice like a low anchor in the storm. “You might surprise yourself.”

But I don’t want to surprise myself. I want to be back home, curled up in silence, not vibrating from the bass of a place that smells like blood and beer.

Still—I don’t leave.

Because as much as I hate this, as much as I want to run, there’s something about this space that feels important. Like I’m on the edge of something.

Even if I don’t know what.

Suddenly, the crowd erupts louder than before—cheers, screams, a few scattered boos. Everyone turns their attention to the ring as a man climbs through the ropes.

A voice booms from the crackling speakers overhead, broken slightly by static but loud enough to cut through everything.

“In this corner, we got the reigning champ of the Southside pits… undefeated in seventeen fights, no tap-outs, no knockouts—only carnage. You know him. You fear him. Put your hands together for THIAAAGOOOOO!”

And that’s when I see him.

Thiago.

He steps fully into the ring—and my heart stalls.

He’s massive.

Tall—at least six foot five—built like a mountain, shoulders so broad they look like they could crush skulls. His skin is littered with scars, some healed into thick ridges, others fresher and angry red. A jagged one runs across his collarbone like a warning sign.

He’s bald, his head gleaming under the overhead lights, and his face—God, his face—it looks carved from stone. Cold, emotionless. A sharp jaw, a crooked nose that’s clearly been broken more than once, and dark eyes full of fury.

He’s not just a fighter. He looks like he’s made for war.

And he’s terrifying.

My stomach flips. My body stiffens. I take a half-step back without thinking.

“Holy fuck” I mutter, clutching my hoodie like it’s a shield. “This is insane. That guy looks like he eats souls for breakfast.”

Vicky doesn’t respond right away. She’s watching the ring with a curious glint in her eye. Trevor’s more stoic, but even he looks a little tense now.

Thiago circles the ring like a predator, chest rising slowly, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s daring someone to challenge him next. He radiates danger—pure, undiluted rage wrapped in muscle.

“He’s one of the best here,” Vicky finally says. “Or the worst, depending on how you look at it.”

“He looks like he could snap someone in half,” I whisper.

“He has,” Trevor says casually. Too casually.

My hands start to sweat.

Why are we here?

Why did Vicky think this was good for me?

My anxiety’s climbing fast. My heart won’t slow down, and my breath is catching in my throat. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere near people like him.

Just being in the same room as that kind of anger—raw, visible, unfiltered—it makes my skin crawl. It reminds me of my dad on a bad night. It reminds me of yelling behind closed doors. Of breaking things that don’t heal. Of fear you can’t explain to anyone.

I can’t tear my eyes away, though. Even as my body begs me to.

Because there’s something about him that feels like a mirror—sharpened, brutal, broken.

And maybe that’s the scariest part.

The referee’s voice cracks through the mic again, pulling the attention of the crowd back toward the entrance ramp. People around me start shifting with excitement—some chanting already, others leaning forward, trying to get a better view.

“And in this corner…” the announcer growls with theatrical flair, “…the one you’ve been waiting for. The wildcard. The Ghost of the East Ring. He’s fast, he’s vicious, and he doesn’t say much—but when he moves, you listen. Give it up for—JUNGKOOK!”

The lights dim just slightly. Smoke—real or fake, I can’t tell—floods in at the entrance. Then he steps out.

And everything slows.

He’s smaller than Thiago, yeah. Not small, just… more compact. But somehow his presence fills the room in a different way. Controlled chaos. Stillness before a storm. His body is lean but powerful—tattooed arms flexing under the flickering warehouse lights as he casually rolls one shoulder, then the other.

A black wet mullet hangs across his forehead and brushes against the nape of his neck, damp with sweat or maybe water poured over him before walking out. His dark eyes flick across the crowd—slow, methodical—like he’s searching for something or someone specific.

When his gaze sweeps past me, I freeze.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even notice me. But for a second, I feel… seen.

Then it’s gone.

He climbs into the ring like he’s done this a thousand times. Calm. Efficient. No flashy entrances or chest-beating bravado. Just quiet readiness.

Unlike Thiago—who still paces like a caged beast—Jungkook stands still in his corner, bouncing lightly on his feet, head down, breathing slow. Controlled. Poised.

A storm in waiting.

“What’s his deal?” I mutter, frowning as I watch him from under my hood.

Vicky grins. “That’s Jungkook. He doesn’t talk much, but he moves like poetry.”

Trevor nods. “He’s fast. Thiago hates him.”

“Why?”

“He can’t catch him,” Trevor says with a half-smile. “And when he tries, he gets hit. Hard.”

The bell hasn’t rung yet, but the energy in the room is shifting. The crowd is buzzing, already leaning forward in anticipation. Two men. Two energies. One unhinged rage, the other ice-cold focus.

And I’m standing there in the shadows, heart pounding, watching it unfold like it’s all some dream I don’t belong in.

But I can’t look away from Jungkook.

There’s something about him—quiet, deadly, beautiful in a way that shouldn’t belong in a place like this. Like he’s made of sharp edges and unspoken things.

And I have no idea why he’s making my chest feel like this.

The moment the bell rings, everything changes.

Jungkook and Thiago explode into motion at the same time, their bodies colliding with a sickening thud as the crowd roars around us. The sound is deafening, a mass of screaming voices and wild excitement. I can’t take my eyes off them. The chaos, the violence, the raw power—it feels like it’s coming at me in waves.

Thiago lunges first, furious and relentless. His fists are like battering rams, crashing into Jungkook’s body, and the crowd is losing it, egging Thiago on. The sound of flesh hitting flesh is sickening, and I feel a rush of unease—nausea swirling in my stomach.

But then, Jungkook moves.

It’s so fast, so fluid, that I barely register what happens until Thiago’s momentum is thrown off. Jungkook ducks under his next punch, a move so smooth it’s like watching someone glide through water. He weaves out of the way, and then, like a snake striking, his fist connects with Thiago’s jaw with a crack that echoes through the room.

Thiago stumbles back, and the crowd goes wild. Thiago roars in frustration, lunging again—but this time, Jungkook’s ready. His footwork is impeccable, always staying just out of reach, and every time Thiago throws a punch, Jungkook dodges it like he’s reading Thiago’s mind.

And then, in an instant—Jungkook moves in, faster than I can process. He shifts, gets in close, and with one sharp, devastating blow to Thiago’s midsection, he drives his opponent to the mat. The crowd gasps.

Thiago struggles to get back up, but it’s no use. Jungkook moves in again, his body like a machine, precision in every movement. With a calculated swing, Jungkook lands another hit—this one to Thiago’s head.

Thiago falls.

The crowd goes wild, a tidal wave of cheers and screams as Thiago is knocked out cold. Jungkook stands over him, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. His nose is bloodied, but his eyes are laser-focused, scanning the crowd as he stands tall, shoulders heaving, sweat glistening across his skin. He’s breathless, but there’s no sign of slowing down.

The referee steps in, holding up Jungkook’s arm.

“Winner!” he shouts into the microphone, his voice drowned out by the roar of the crowd. “Jungkook!”

My breath catches in my throat as I watch Jungkook stand there, still and proud, despite the blood smeared across his face. He doesn’t celebrate like Thiago would have—no shout of triumph, no cocky grin. He just stands there, like this is exactly where he was meant to be.

I’m still frozen in place when the crowd starts to quiet down, and my eyes move to Vicky.

“How do you know these two?” I ask, still watching Jungkook as he wipes the blood from his nose, catching his breath. “You’ve been here before, right?”

Vicky glances at me, her eyes flashing with something I can’t quite place. “In my four years of studying psychology here? Yeah. I’ve been to this place three times. Every time, I’ve seen Jungkook win.”

My brow furrows. “Three times?”

Vicky shrugs, leaning in to make herself heard over the fading buzz of the crowd. “Jungkook doesn’t lose. Ever. And not just here, either. He’s been in the underground circuit for a while now. He doesn’t talk much, but the guy’s a machine. Everyone here knows that.”

I’m still staring at Jungkook. The blood on his face doesn’t make him look weak—it makes him look… stronger. Like the fight is a part of him, something embedded in his bones. The way he carries himself—the way he moves—it’s like there’s nothing in the world that could touch him.

He’s not just a fighter. He’s something else.

I try to push the feeling down, the one stirring in my chest, but it’s there. Something about him pulls at me.

“He’s scary,” I whisper, though the words don’t feel like they fit the way I’m feeling. It’s more than fear. It’s something like… awe. And maybe a little envy.

“Scary?” Vicky laughs. “Nah. He’s a fighter. And trust me, if you ever find yourself in his corner, you’ll know exactly why people respect him.”

I don’t answer. My mind is too wrapped up in the image of him standing in the ring—barely breathing, bloodied, but still unshaken.

I’m about to turn away and find a quiet corner to collect my thoughts when a sharp pang hits my stomach.

I can’t ignore it.

“Vicky…” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Vicky doesn’t even look at me, still watching the ring as the crowd starts to thin. She gestures to the far side of the room, near the back exit. “Down that hall, last door on the left.”

I nod quickly and make my way through the maze of bodies and noise, feeling like I’m moving through a fog. I don’t care what’s going on around me—I just need to get some space, somewhere I can breathe and not feel so… exposed.

The hallway is dim, the walls dirty and covered in old graffiti. I find the door easily enough. But when I push it open, my stomach drops.

There’s no sign for male or female. Just a simple bathroom with no distinction.

Great.

I freeze for a moment, standing in the doorway. I can hear people in the bathroom—voices. Laughter. But I’m not sure if they’re men or women, and the last thing I want is to stumble into a situation where I’m forced to confront anything uncomfortable. I can feel my pulse thudding in my ears.

There’s a stall at the far end, empty.

Without thinking twice, I rush in, lock the door behind me, and press my back to the cool metal of the stall. The air feels thick again, like it’s closing in around me, and I force myself to take slow, steady breaths, in and out.

But it’s not enough.

The panic is rising—fast. My hands start to shake, my chest tightens. I try to block it out, but the air feels suffocating, too thick, too hot. I can hear the muffled sound of footsteps and the low murmur of voices from the other side of the bathroom.

Just breathe. It’s fine. You’re fine.

But I’m not.

The panic is already clawing at my throat when the door to the bathroom swings open. Two women walk in, their voices high-pitched and giggly. I bite my lip, forcing myself to stay as still as possible, praying they won’t notice me.

“Oh my God, did you see Jungkook out there?” One of them says, her voice dripping with excitement.

“Yesss!” the other responds, laughing. “I was like, wow—how is he so hot? Like, he’s got that whole dangerous vibe, you know?”

“Totally,” the first one giggles again. “I would literally do anything to be with him. I don’t care if he’s a fighter. He can take me down anytime.”

My stomach twists. I close my eyes, feeling the heat rush to my face. This is exactly what I hate. This feeling of being on the outside, the feeling of not being the one they’re talking about. Not being the one that someone notices.

“Can you imagine how good he must be in bed? I bet he’s rough,” the second woman whispers with a smirk. “Like, you know, he’s got that energy. He could probably have any girl he wants. Hell, he’s probably had every girl he’s ever looked at.”

My heart stops. My hands are trembling against the cold stall door, but I can’t bring myself to leave. I can’t seem to move. The words echo in my ears, over and over, and I want to scream.

Why does this bother me so much? Why does this hurt?

I can’t understand it.

I want to run out of here. I want to disappear. I want to get away from the laughing, the whispered thoughts about Jungkook, about how he’s someone they can have—someone they want.

For a second, I wonder if I’ll ever be wanted like that. If anyone will ever look at me the way these girls are looking at Jungkook.

Stop.

I breathe in deeply, trying to steady myself again. My fingers are cold and clammy as I grasp the edge of the toilet paper dispenser. The walls of the stall feel like they’re closing in on me, but I force myself to stay still. I have to. If I move, it’ll make everything worse.

The last thing I need is for them to hear my panic, my heavy breathing, my brokenness.

The girls continue talking, oblivious to me in my corner.

“God, I’m so jealous,” the first girl sighs, “but I bet I’d die if he even looked at me.”

“You think he’d go for a girl like us?” the second one snickers. “Doubt it. He’s probably all about the hot, fit girls. You know the type.”

The conversation continues as if I’m not even here, and I can feel the sting of their words, even though I try to push them down.

He doesn’t want girls like us.

The thought slips out before I can stop it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t make the hurt go away.

I wait for what feels like forever, the girls’ laughter and giggling fading as they finally leave the bathroom. Their footsteps echo down the hallway, their voices growing softer with each step. The silence that follows feels too loud, too heavy.

I take a few more slow breaths, trying to steady myself. The panic is ebbing, though the tightness in my chest lingers. You’re okay. It’s over. Just get out of here.

I wipe my clammy hands on the sides of my jeans and push open the stall door. My legs feel weak, unsteady, as I step out into the dim hallway, my heart still hammering in my chest.

Just get to the door.

I make my way toward the exit, trying to ignore the lingering heaviness in my chest. But as I round the corner, I’m blindsided by a sharp collision.

“Oof!” The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. I stumble back, my phone slipping from my hand and hitting the floor with a hard thud.

I immediately bend down, scrambling to pick it up. My face flushes with embarrassment, my hands shaking as I retrieve the phone, fingers fumbling for a moment as I focus too much on my own awkwardness.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, voice barely above a whisper as I stand up, still feeling the warmth of my cheeks. My eyes instinctively dart to the floor, avoiding any kind of eye contact. The last thing I need is for someone to see how flustered I am. Especially not after all those words in the bathroom, all those thoughts swimming in my mind.

Then I hear a low chuckle.

I freeze. My stomach lurches, the breath in my lungs catches.

No way.

I look up—and there he is.

Jungkook.

He’s standing in front of me, his presence almost overwhelming. He’s no longer in the fighting gear, but even in casual clothes, he still carries that intimidating aura. His shirt is loose, sleeves rolled up to show off his tattooed arms, and his black jeans sit low on his hips. His black mullet hangs a little messy, slightly wet from sweat or maybe water.

But what catches my attention first—what makes my stomach twist—is his face.

Bruises. Dark, angry purple bruises marking his cheekbone, a cut across his lip, and his nose—still swollen and bleeding slightly. The aftermath of the fight. But even with all that, there’s something so… captivating about him. Like a storm you can’t look away from.

I feel my heart pounding harder, my palms slick. Every insecurity I’ve ever had seems to slam into my chest all at once. Oh my God. I must look like a mess. No makeup, a baggy hoodie, messy hair. He’s so… perfectly put together—even with the bruises.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. I stand there, completely frozen, completely aware of how ridiculous I must look. I hate how much I want to hide.

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks, his voice surprisingly soft considering the way he fights. His eyes—dark and unreadable—scan me for a second, waiting for a response. He tilts his head, an eyebrow quirking slightly as if waiting for me to speak.

For a moment, I can’t find my voice.

What the hell am I supposed to say to him?

“I—uh—yeah, I’m fine,” I stammer, cringing at how small my voice sounds. “Sorry about, um, bumping into you. I wasn’t looking where I was going…”

He chuckles again, this time a little quieter, almost like he’s amused by my awkwardness. “No problem.” His gaze shifts down to my phone in my hand, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, like a silent understanding. “You should probably hold onto that better. Might break it next time.”

I nod quickly, biting my lip. “Yeah. I’ll, uh, be more careful.”

The silence stretches between us, and I can’t stop myself from feeling completely out of place. His mere presence—his proximity—feels like a weight on my chest. I want to say something more, something that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot, but the words are stuck in my throat.

What is he even doing here? My brain races. Why is he talking to me?

The bruises on his face, the way he carries himself, the intensity he exudes—everything about him screams confidence, while I can barely keep myself together.

“Hey,” he says again, his voice quieter this time, almost like he’s trying to make sure I’m not completely shut down. “You’re alright. You don’t have to apologize.”

I look up, meeting his eyes for the first time since I bumped into him, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe. His gaze is steady, almost piercing, and there’s something strangely gentle in the way he looks at me—like he’s trying to figure me out.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur again, my voice soft, barely audible. “I… didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

He shakes his head slightly, a small, amused smirk curling on his lips. “No trouble. But if you’re gonna keep bumping into me, I might start thinking you’re doing it on purpose.”

My face burns. I can’t believe this is happening. He’s standing right in front of me, and I’m acting like I’ve never spoken to a guy in my life. I’m sure I look like a mess.

I look down again, hoping he won’t notice how flustered I am. But when I glance back up, I catch a glimmer of something in his eyes—a mix of curiosity and something else I can’t place.

“Well, I’ll make sure to avoid you next time,” I mumble, trying to force a smile, but it feels so awkward.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything right away, but his gaze softens just a fraction. “Don’t worry about it,” he replies simply, his voice steady, like he’s seen this kind of thing a thousand times.

And then, with a slight nod, he turns and walks past me, heading back toward the crowd, leaving me standing there in the dim hallway, my heart racing, my breath still shaky.

Did that really just happen?

Monday

The morning light hits different when you’ve had a whole weekend to forget the world. I wake up to the sharp trill of my alarm and the sun creeping through the blinds like it’s personally offended I’m still in bed.

Vicky and Trevor left late last night, their hugs lingering longer than usual. We spent the rest of the weekend curled up on my couch, talking about everything—really talking. The kind of conversations that make you feel both lighter and heavier at the same time. The ones that peel you open in a way that’s terrifying but necessary.

Vicky told me she’s worried about how I retreat when I’m hurting. Trevor said he thinks I deserve to stop living like I’m waiting for something to break. I didn’t say much. Just nodded a lot. Smiled at the right parts. I don’t know how to explain that sometimes, talking about the darkness makes it feel more real.

But it felt good.

Safe.

And now Monday feels like a slap.

I throw on my usual work-from-home uniform—baggy hoodie, leggings, messy bun—and log in just before my boss can ping me. My headset’s tangled, my coffee’s lukewarm, and the emails are already giving me hives.

By 10 a.m., I’ve mentally clocked out.

I’m rereading the same sentence for the third time when Katherine messages me.

Katherine (10:03 AM):

Hey! Got a sec to hop on a quick call?

Katherine is the kind of person who always has her camera on during Zoom meetings. Perfect hair. Perfect lighting. She once told me she drinks celery juice every morning. I pretend to like her but mostly because I’m afraid she’ll sense my existential dread through the screen and report me to HR.

I reply with a thumbs-up emoji and brace myself.

She starts with small talk—weather, client updates, a weird squirrel that got into her balcony. And then she says it.

“So, this is random,” she begins, her tone suddenly shifting. “But... you were at The Pit this weekend, right?”

I blink. “How do you know about that?”

She smiles like she’s trying to be casual. “One of my best friends is in that crowd. I used to go with her sometimes. Total chaos. Honestly, I thought you were more... I don’t know, library-core?”

I laugh awkwardly. “It was a surprise outing.”

“Ah. That explains it.” She leans closer to the camera like she’s about to deliver state secrets. “So listen… I’m telling you this as a friend, okay? Don’t get too caught up in Jungkook.”

My stomach flips.

I try to keep my expression neutral. “I’m not… I don’t even know him.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, “just in case. I’ve known him for a while. He runs with a rough crowd. Really rough. He’s not some tortured artist or romantic bad boy. He’s a fighter. Like, literally and metaphorically. The guy doesn’t let people close. And if he does? It never ends well.”

I swallow. “Okay…”

She shrugs, taking a sip from her green smoothie. “He’s rich, by the way. Like, crazy rich. Family money. Old money. The kind that hides skeletons behind designer walls. He’s rebelling against it, or whatever. But still—trust me, girls like us?” Her voice softens, almost sympathetically. “We don’t survive guys like him.”

I stare at the screen.

Katherine offers a smile like she’s just done me a favor. “Anyway. Just thought you should know. Back to work!”

The call ends.

And I sit there, headphones still on, heart pounding, trying to make sense of everything she just said.

Girls like us.

We don’t survive guys like him.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Because I already knew that.

But hearing it out loud?

It stings in a way I wasn’t ready for.

The call ends.

And it’s like the silence in my apartment changes shape—heavier, sharper, pressing in from all sides.

I stare at my screen, blinking at the spreadsheet I was supposed to be editing, but all I can see is his face again. Jungkook’s bruised jaw. His quiet stare. The way his voice was soft when he asked if I was okay.

I thought it meant something.

God, I’m so stupid.

Why did I even let myself feel anything at all? One second of attention from someone like him and I’m already spinning stories in my head. Already hoping. Already aching.

But he’s not a story.

He’s not the exception.

He’s a walking warning sign with pretty tattoos and a reputation I should’ve seen coming a mile away.

And me?

I’m the girl who doesn’t even look in mirrors.

The girl who flinches when someone raises their voice.

The girl who hides from kindness because it always turns into disappointment.

What the hell was I thinking?

I push my laptop away and curl in on myself, wrapping my hoodie tighter around my body like it might hold all the unraveling parts together.

It’s pathetic, how easily I fall back into this. This sadness. This hole. Like I never even tried to climb out.

My chest feels tight again. Like there’s not enough air in the room, not enough silence in the world to quiet the noise in my head. Katherine’s voice keeps looping:

“Girls like us… we don’t survive guys like him.”

She’s right.

Not just because he’s dangerous—but because I’m already drowning.

I don’t need someone like him lighting a fire next to the flood.

I’m barely surviving myself.

I can’t afford to let someone else in. Especially someone who could burn me just by standing too close. I’ve done that before—opened the door a crack and let someone walk in like they had a right to rearrange the furniture in my soul.

And when they left, they took everything I had with them.

I won’t survive that again.

I don’t care how soft his voice was. I don’t care how different he seemed. I don’t care about the way his eyes looked like they could hold secrets.

I’m not his mystery to solve.

I’m not some redemption arc.

I’m tired.

I just want to be left alone.

So I grab my phone, fingers trembling, and type out a message to Vicky.

me (11:21 AM):

hey. Can we talk later?

She replies almost instantly.

Vicky (11:22 AM):

of course. you okay?

me:

not really.

Vicky:

I’m here. whatever you need.

I drop the phone onto the bed and let myself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind this time—but the ugly sobs. The ones that shake my whole body. The ones that feel like mourning.

Because that’s what this is.

I’m mourning the version of me who thought, even for a second, that maybe someone like Jungkook could want someone like me.

But that girl doesn’t get to stay.

She was too hopeful.

Too naive.

And hope? It’s just another way to hurt yourself when you know better.

-

The apartment walls feel like they’re closing in again.

My chest is still heavy from crying, my eyes swollen and tired, but I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. My stomach growls like it’s mocking me, like even it is tired of my emotions.

I don’t want to go outside. I really, really don’t.

But I don’t have the energy to argue with myself anymore.

So I throw on the armor—the same oversized black hoodie I’ve worn three days in a row, the one that swallows me whole. Baggy sweatpants that drag at the hem, sleeves covering my hands. Greasy hair scraped into a low, half-hearted bun. No makeup. Glasses on. Invisible mode activated.

If anyone looks at me, they’ll see nothing worth seeing.

Which is exactly the point.

The convenience store is just down the block. Two turns and I’m there. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I keep my head low, shoulders hunched, heart pounding in my ears for no reason at all.

I grab a pre-made sandwich, a pack of chips, something sweet. Something to feel something. The cashier doesn’t say much. I pay and leave, crinkling plastic bag in one hand, the weight of my exhaustion in the other.

And then—

I hear it.

A low, throaty vrrrrmmmm.

A motorcycle.

It pulls up to the curb just as I step outside. Black. Shiny. Sleek. Yamaha. The kind of bike that looks fast even when it’s parked.

The rider is dressed in all black—black jeans, black hoodie, black gloves, black helmet. The mirrored visor reflects the late afternoon haze, faceless and quiet.

But somehow—somehow—he looks straight at me.

Not at the store. Not at the sidewalk.

At me.

I freeze.

My breath catches in my throat. My pulse spikes. No one sees me—no one is supposed to see me. Especially not like this. Especially not him.

Because I know.

I know it’s him.

Even before he moves, before he speaks—my bones recognize the tension, the quiet storm under the surface. My body flinches like it’s muscle memory.

I take a shaky step back. Then another. My fingers curl tighter around the plastic bag like it’ll protect me. I turn, heart in my throat, ready to bolt in the opposite direction.

But then—

“Hey!”

Just one word.

But it’s enough.

The voice is familiar—low, rough around the edges, quiet in that way that still demands attention. Not yelling. Not sharp. Just… deliberate.

And it comes from behind me.

I freeze mid-step.

My grip tightens on the bag, but I don’t turn around. My whole body tenses like I’m waiting for the ground to open and swallow me whole.

Please no. Please let me be wrong.

But then—

“You dropped this.”

I glance down. My receipt flutters on the pavement behind me.

I should keep walking. I want to keep walking.

But something in that voice… that calm, steady voice—it wraps around my ribs like wire and holds me still.

I turn, just a little.

And there he is.

Helmet off now. Tousled black hair clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat or wind. Dark eyes, unreadable. That same bruised jaw from the fight. That same calm chaos in the way he stands, like he’s always ready to run or punch something—but right now, he’s doing neither.

He holds out the receipt between two fingers, casual like he’s done nothing unusual.

I don’t take it.

I can’t move.

I just stare at him, half-hidden behind the oversized hoodie and fogged-up glasses, knowing full well there’s nothing about me worth noticing—but he still is.

His eyes linger for a second.

Not in a gross way.

Just… curious.

Like he’s trying to place me.

“You are familiar, didn’t we spoke this weekend after my fight?” he says, voice soft but certain.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

He waits a second longer, like he’s giving me a chance to say something—to confirm or deny or at least react—but I just stand there, frozen in oversized fabric and fear.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says after a moment, voice even lower now. Almost gentle. “You okay?”

Something in me cracks.

I shake my head—not to answer the question, but to shake off the moment. The whole thing. Him. This.

I take a shaky step back, then another, until I turn away again. This time, I do walk.

Fast.

He doesn’t follow.

But I can still feel his eyes on me.

And it hurts in a way I wasn’t ready for.

By the time I get back to my apartment, I’m sweating under my hoodie even though it’s barely 65 degrees out. My legs feel like they’re made of wet sand. I shut the door behind me, double lock it, and lean against it like maybe it’ll hold me up better than my spine currently can.

What the actual fuck just happened?

I drop the plastic bag on the kitchen counter and stare at it like it might answer me.

How the hell did he end up here?

What are the odds? No—seriously. Statistically. What are the goddamn odds that Jungkook, bruised, violent, beautiful Jungkook, the guy from the underground fight club with a face like a problem I’d never solve—what are the odds that he parks his sleek-ass murder-cycle right in front of my stupid corner store?

Does he live around here?

Does he live on my street?

Fucking hell.

My head spins. I kick off my shoes and shuffle toward my room like a zombie with trust issues. I don’t even bother with lunch. I just face-plant onto my bed and let out a strangled scream into my pillow.

Muffled, of course. Don’t want the neighbors to call someone.

My brain is already galloping down all the wrong roads.

What if he does live nearby? What if I see him again? What if he recognizes me next time, not just as “the girl from the fight” or “the hoodie gremlin who nearly dropped her sandwich,” but me—the real, fragile, overthinking version who wears pain like perfume and flinches when people care?

God, what if he saw through me already?

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

And just like that, it begins.

The daydream.

The soft edges blur and shift, my breathing slows, and the version of reality I can actually tolerate starts to take shape.

In this one, I’m still me—but I’m her, too.

The cooler version. The one who didn’t flinch. Who took the receipt with a small smirk, thanked him, maybe even made a joke that made his bruised mouth curve into a smile.

Maybe he would’ve asked my name.

Maybe I would’ve told him.

Maybe we would’ve sat on the curb, talking about the way silence sometimes feels safer than words. Maybe he would’ve looked at me like I wasn’t invisible. Like I wasn’t too much or not enough or anything in between.

In this version, I’m magnetic. Mysterious. Someone he wants to chase.

Not someone who runs.

Not someone who hides.

But the fantasy falters the second my phone buzzes.

A calendar notification.

Break over. Back to work.

I blink, and the ceiling collapses.

The daydream dissolves like mist under a spotlight.

And I’m back here again.

Greasy hair. Unanswered emails. Sandwich still untouched on the counter.

I sit up with a groan and reach for my laptop, the screen lighting up with the cruel reminder that no matter how hard I try to disappear, the world still expects me to perform.

Because I don’t get to be the girl in the fantasy.

I just get to pretend I'm okay for eight more hours.

-

It’s been three days.

Three long, weirdly quiet days since that day outside the convenience store.

He didn’t follow me.

He didn’t try to talk to me again.

But I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Or him.

Or the way his voice sounded when he said “hey” like it wasn’t a loaded word, like it didn’t feel like it cracked something open in my chest.

But today, I need air.

I’ve answered all my emails. Sat through two Zoom meetings where I didn’t say a word. Ate half a protein bar and convinced myself that counted as lunch. The weather’s decent. Grey sky, soft breeze. Not hot, not cold. The kind of weather that makes you feel invisible in a good way.

So I shower. Real clothes aren’t an option—my body still feels like a burden—but I pull on my cleanest hoodie and loose cargo pants. I throw on some concealer, smudge some eyeliner. Just enough to look… functional. Human-adjacent. Lip balm, not lipstick.

My comfort zone.

I pop a Red Bull from the fridge, grab my lighter and smokes, and head out.

The walk to the park is quiet. Familiar. It’s only a few blocks away—lined with sad little trees, apartment windows with peeling paint, and the occasional dog-walker tugging along a leash like it’s a lifeline.

By the time I get there, I’m already feeling a little lighter.

I head straight to the bench.

My bench.

The one facing the outdoor fitness area. It’s a concrete platform with metal bars and makeshift equipment—mostly used by shirtless guys trying to impress no one in particular. Usually, I avoid the place when it’s busy. But I’ve learned the timing.

Late afternoons on weekdays? It’s usually empty.

Quiet enough to breathe.

I sit down, crack the can open with a hiss, and take a long sip. The carbonation burns down my throat, sharp and sweet. I pull a cigarette from my sleeve and light it, the flame catching with a soft flick. First drag, and the world slows down.

My mind goes quiet.

For once.

I exhale smoke into the open air, let it drift above me, unfurling like a sigh I didn’t know I was holding.

And then—I see him.

At first, I don’t realize it’s him.

I just register movement.

Someone using the pull-up bar.

Shirtless. Muscled. Moving with a kind of effortlessness that makes my stomach flip.

I glance up, casual.

And freeze.

It’s him.

Jungkook.

His back is to me, muscles flexing as he pulls himself up again and again, like he’s chasing something only he can see. The tattoos on his arms are vivid under the dull light, ink curling down to his wrist in sharp, beautiful lines.

He drops down from the bar, hands on his hips, chest heaving with each breath.

He’s glowing with sweat.

And for a second—I forget how to exist.

He doesn’t see me.

Not yet.

I duck my head fast, pulling my hoodie slightly forward like it’s a curtain I can hide behind. I take another drag of my cigarette, hoping the smoke masks the sudden panic rising in my throat.

Why is he here?

Again?

Does he live around here? Was Katherine right?

Or is this just some twisted coincidence?

He wipes his face with the edge of his tank top, and I catch a glimpse of more tattoos on his ribs—black ink over golden skin—and I have to look away. My heart’s beating like I’ve done a line of adrenaline instead of just caffeine and smoke.

I shouldn't be looking.

He’s not for me.

He’s a storm in a human body. A fighter. A blur of danger and sharp edges.

And I’m just… this.

This hoodie.

This body.

This invisible mess on a park bench, pretending the world isn’t too much.

But even as I look away—

I can feel it.

That shift.

That pull.

And when I glance back, just once, just quick—

His eyes are on me.

Right on me.

Unmistakable.

Direct.

Not in a flirty, playful, hey-girl way.

No.

It’s deeper than that.

Like he remembers me.

Like he sees something he doesn’t quite understand.

I look away so fast I almost drop my Red Bull.

My fingers are shaking again.

What the fuck is happening?

Why does it feel like he’s always three steps ahead of where I want him to be?

[scarluna]

Thoughts of You - I am able to breathe again.

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Chapters: 5 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: OKAY. After all of your sweet comments I decided to get closure for myself so I talked with the dude. And here is the OFFICIAL ENDING of TOY. Enjoy. x

The next morning, Y/N walked into the office with her walls firmly back in place.

Headphones in.

Eyes forward.

No stops at the break room. No casual glances around to see where he might be.

She took her seat like a shadow—silent, unbothered, unreachable.

Jungkook arrived not long after. She felt him before she saw him, like some shift in the atmosphere. But she kept her eyes glued to her screen, even as he dropped into the seat next to her.

“Hey,” he said, nudging his chair closer. “You good?”

“Fine,” she replied. One word. No glance.

He paused. Looked at her. Waited.

She didn’t offer more.

He tapped his pen restlessly, shifting in his seat. “You’re being weird.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

After a beat, he leaned in slightly, keeping his voice low. “I swear, I can’t tell when you’re in the mood to talk or when you’re gonna burn the building down.”

She let out a dry chuckle—humorless, sharp. “Maybe I’m just crazy.”

That made him freeze.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. But she didn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze stayed locked on her screen, fingers poised above her keyboard, body tense like a trap ready to spring.

She didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

The sentence hung between them, heavier than it had any right to be. Maybe I’m just crazy. What she really meant: maybe I’m too much. Maybe I’m not worth the effort. Maybe you confirmed every worst thought I’ve had about myself.

Jungkook sat back slowly, and for the first time, he didn’t have a clever comeback. Didn’t try to fill the silence.

He just sat there.

And then—by lunchtime, he was gone.

No messages. No comments. No smoke break.

Just… gone.

The same the next day.

No Jungkook.

No teasing. No tension. No emotional whiplash.

And surprisingly?

The quiet was nice.

Y/N didn’t realize how loud his presence had become until it disappeared. How much of her brain he occupied. How much effort it took to pretend she wasn’t affected every time he cracked a joke or let his eyes linger too long.

Without him, everything felt lighter. Like the office had taken a breath. Like she could finally breathe.

She didn’t miss the way the others looked around, noticing the absence too. But no one asked. No one said anything.

And neither did she.

Because for those two days, peace felt better than possibility.

-

Jungkook returned to the office two days later, the usual buzz returning with him.

Y/N didn’t react when he walked in.

She was already seated, eyes on her monitor, her expression unreadable. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her palms again—a quiet tell only those who really knew her would catch.

Not that he noticed.

Or maybe he did. But if so, he didn’t show it.

The others greeted him casually as he dropped his bag onto his desk and slouched back into his chair, the image of nonchalance. His hair was a little messy, dark circles slightly more prominent than usual.

“Yo,” Taehyun called as he passed by, “Where the hell you been, man?”

Mina glanced over too, grinning. “Yeah, we thought you quit or died or something.”

Jungkook snorted. “Nah. Just the hospital.”

Their expressions shifted—half curious, half concerned.

“What, you sick?” Taehyun asked, pausing beside his chair.

Jungkook shook his head, pulling out his water bottle and twisting the cap. “Nah. Went to donate blood. A friend’s relative needed it.”

“Oh,” Mina blinked. “Damn. That’s actually… really nice of you.”

He shrugged. “Not that deep.”

The moment the word hospital left his mouth, Y/N stood up.

Not out of concern.

Not out of interest.

Just—timing.

Perfect, careless timing.

She grabbed her lanyard off the desk with a single flick of her fingers, slung it around her neck, and headed straight for the exit, not sparing Jungkook so much as a glance.

Didn’t ask what happened.

Didn’t even flinch at the word donate.

Mina noticed.

So did Jungkook.

Especially Jungkook.

She walked right past him—deliberately, calmly—and met up with the usual group already headed outside for their smoke break. Taehyun tossed her a lighter, and she lit up with the ease of someone trying to feel less. Not more.

Behind her, she could feel the ghost of Jungkook’s eyes on her back.

But she didn’t look.

Not once.

She leaned against the railing, let the wind hit her face, and dragged in her first breath of smoke like it was medicine.

And maybe it was.

Because for once, she didn’t feel like being polite.

She didn’t feel like softening the edge.

Let him sit there.

Let him feel the space he left behind.

Let him wonder what changed.

Because for once, Y/N wasn’t interested in making it easier for someone who had no idea what it took for her to even show up every day.

Let the silence answer for her.

-

The office clock dragged its hands through the late afternoon lull, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like they were bored of everyone beneath them.

Y/N didn’t wait for anyone this time.

No group chat.

No eye contact across desks.

No word to Mina.

She simply stood, grabbed her badge, slipped her phone into her back pocket, and headed for the door like smoke was the only thing tethering her to gravity.

She didn’t notice Jungkook shift in his seat until she was already halfway to the hallway.

“Y/N,” he called softly, almost like a question. “You going for a smoke?”

She paused—not long, just a breath—and nodded once without turning around. “Yeah.”

That was all he needed.

He was on his feet, trailing behind her without being asked.

She didn’t stop him.

But she didn’t wait for him either.

The door to the back lot creaked open, spilling the heavy air of late afternoon into their lungs as they stepped outside. The asphalt was still warm under their shoes, the sun dipping lower behind the row of parked cars.

As she reached for her lighter, he patted his pockets.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Left my cigarettes in the car.”

Y/N didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t offer some teasing comment like she might’ve weeks ago.

She simply pulled a cigarette from her pack, held it out between her fingers without looking at him.

He took it carefully, their fingers brushing for half a second—barely a touch, but she still felt it.

They lit up in silence.

Not the comfortable kind they used to share.

This was the kind that wrapped around their ankles and weighed them down. Heavy, almost intentional.

Jungkook leaned against the railing beside her, blowing smoke out through his nose. He didn’t look at her, but she felt his eyes flick toward her now and then.

She didn’t give him anything.

No words. No glances.

She just smoked like it was all she needed, like he wasn’t even there.

After a few minutes, he finally pushed off the railing, stubbing the cigarette out with the toe of his boot.

“I’m heading to the store,” he said, tone low and neutral, like he wasn’t sure what reaction he expected—or wanted.

Y/N gave him a single nod, barely lifting her eyes. “Cool.”

Then, without another word, she flicked her own cigarette away and turned to walk back inside.

Didn’t wait for him.

Didn’t ask where he was going.

Didn’t look back.

-

It was just past noon when Mina plopped into the empty seat next to Y/N, a knowing look already tugging at her lips.

Y/N didn’t even glance up. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it,” Y/N muttered, scrolling half-heartedly through her inbox.

Across from them, another colleague—Ines, from marketing—leaned over the partition with a sly grin. “We’re just saying… you haven’t been your usual ‘please don’t perceive me’ self lately.”

“Yeah,” Mina chimed in. “You’ve been extra pretty. Extra sharp. But also, like… a little murder-y.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “That’s just my resting face.”

Ines laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe it has something to do with a certain someone who’s suddenly quiet around you. Who accepted a cigarette from you like it was a gift from the gods. Who looked like he wanted to say a thousand things and said none.”

Mina leaned in dramatically. “Jungkook.”

Y/N sighed, finally setting her mouse down. “Can you both not?”

Mina tilted her head. “Y/N… be honest. Are you still thinking about what he said? The ‘eat you up’ moment? The girlfriend jokes? The dancing? The constant hovering? Because like, if I were you, I���d be spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Y/N lied.

Ines folded her arms. “So ask him. Ask if it was just work flirting or if it meant something.”

Y/N stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Are you serious? I’m supposed to walk up to him and go, ‘Hey, were you fake flirting with me, or were you secretly imagining marriage?’”

Mina snorted into her coffee. “You’re the one who’s not letting it go. You might as well find out.”

“I’m not asking him. My ego is already in shambles.”

Ines gave her a look. “Then don’t ask for your ego. Ask for your peace.”

That shut her up.

The silence lingered between the three of them until Mina nudged her arm gently. “Look… you don’t have to do anything right now. But if you find yourself alone with him—really alone—promise you’ll ask. Just once. Just to know.”

Y/N exhaled slowly.

She didn’t want to. She really, really didn’t want to.

But the worst part wasn’t the silence.

It was the wondering.

So she nodded—once, quietly. “If we’re alone… I’ll ask.”

A pact with herself. A line drawn.

No expectations.

Just answers.

And maybe, after that—

She could finally move on.

-

Y/N was mid-scroll, headphones in, pretending to be immersed in a true crime breakdown on YouTube while her inbox blinked with things she had no intention of answering.

Her body was relaxed. Mentally somewhere else entirely. Safe.

Until she wasn’t.

A shadow passed beside her desk, followed by a soft voice—familiar, low, and completely out of pocket.

“Wanna go for a smoke?”

She froze.

Her hand paused on the mouse.

Her spine straightened just slightly.

Her brain did the thing where it shut down completely, because—what?

Her eyes flicked upward and, sure enough, there he was.

Jeon Jungkook. Hoodie slightly wrinkled, tired eyes, tattoos peeking out under his sleeves, one hand resting casually on the back of her chair like this wasn’t the first real thing he’d said to her in days.

He met her gaze, expression unreadable. Casual. Like this was normal. Like the silence between them hadn’t stretched into something uncomfortably loud over the past week.

Y/N blinked.

He waited.

Slowly, she pulled out one earbud. “Now?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Unless you’ve got a meeting with HR.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again.

What the actual fuck.

Before she could think too hard about it, her body betrayed her and stood up.

She grabbed her badge and turned around, only to lock eyes with Mina and Ines across the room—both of whom were practically vibrating in their chairs, eyebrows wiggling like they were choreographed.

Y/N shot them a glare that promised violence, but they only grinned harder.

She followed Jungkook through the halls, out the side exit, past the back lot—and straight down the sidewalk, across the quiet street, toward the small park a few blocks from the office.

No one else followed.

It was just them.

They didn’t speak.

The wind brushed against them gently, the sun dipping behind soft clouds as they reached the bench tucked into a quiet corner of the park. It wasn’t far, but far enough to be… something else. Separate from the office. From everyone else.

They sat down, side by side but not touching.

Y/N pulled out her pack, handed him a cigarette wordlessly—like she always had.

He took it with a quiet “thanks.”

They lit up.

Inhale.

Silence.

Exhale.

Still silence.

But it wasn’t empty.

It never was with him.

Y/N glanced at him briefly, studying the way he leaned forward, elbows on knees, cigarette resting between his fingers like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

He didn’t look at her.

Not yet.

But she knew it was coming.

And her heart was already beating too loud.

She had made a promise.

If they ended up alone—

She’d ask.

And here they were.

Alone.

The smoke curled lazily between them, hanging in the air like a barrier she wasn’t sure she wanted to cross.

Y/N sat stiffly, elbows on her thighs, cigarette burning slowly between her fingers. She didn't know how long they sat in silence—seconds, maybe minutes—but eventually, she spoke.

Her voice was softer than she expected. Careful. Like the words might break something.

“So… how’s the new relationship?”

She didn’t look at him when she asked. Just kept her gaze locked on the faint cracks in the pavement beneath their feet.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

“It’s good,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Actually… it’s amazing.”

Y/N nodded once, slowly.

Jungkook continued, as if he hadn’t noticed the tightness in her shoulders. “It’s completely different than my last one. In a good way. No games. It’s just easy, y’know?”

She nodded again.

Still, nothing. No sting. No ache. No sharp edge where her heart should’ve been.

She expected to feel it. The jealousy. The smallness. The shame.

But she didn’t.

There was just a stillness in her chest. Like her body had gone quiet, holding its breath for something else entirely.

She turned her head slightly, letting the cigarette rest between her lips as she stared off toward the trees.

Her mind was chaos. Thoughts overlapping. Heart pounding—not from heartbreak, but from the pressure building behind her ribs.

She wasn’t hurt.

But she was stuck.

Caught between wanting to leave and needing to know.

She took a slow inhale, then out, grounding herself in the motion.

“Can I ask you something?”

Her voice trembled—barely—but he caught it.

Jungkook looked over at her, brows raised. “Yeah. Of course.”

Then, without waiting, he shifted closer—his side brushing hers as he sat properly on the bench, facing her now.

“Shoot.”

And just like that, the moment she’d been dreading was here.

The silence after his word felt louder than anything else.

Her throat tightened.

Her mouth opened—

Then closed again.

But she had promised herself.

So she took one more breath.

And prepared to finally ask.

Y/N’s fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the cigarette to her lips, but her voice—when she finally spoke—was steady.

“Was all the flirting over the past month just because you were bored at work?” Her gaze stayed forward, not on him. “Like… was it just something to pass time because you had nothing better to do?”

She hesitated, then added, more quietly, “Or was there actually something more to it?”

There it was.

The question.

The damn thing that had been sitting at the back of her throat for weeks.

Jungkook didn’t answer right away.

She heard the soft drag of his cigarette, the slow exhale.

Then his voice, low and calm. Not defensive. Not apologetic.

Just honest.

“Nah. It’s just work flirting,” he said.

A pause.

“But I did it because I liked you more than anyone else here. Still do.”

Y/N finally turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his.

He looked at her the way he always did—relaxed, open, unreadable.

“I’m not out here flirting with everyone like that,” he added. “I ask you for smoke breaks. I mess with you. You’re the only person in this place I actually enjoy talking to.”

She blinked.

Jungkook took another drag, glancing off into the trees before continuing.

“But if I had deeper intentions…” he paused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’d have asked you out. Like, properly. Not just stood around bumming cigarettes and making dumb jokes.”

Y/N nodded slowly.

And surprisingly?

She didn’t feel the ache she had expected. No wave of embarrassment, no flush of rejection, no pit forming in her stomach.

Just relief.

A slow, steady exhale. Like something heavy had finally slipped off her back and landed far behind her.

“Okay,” she murmured.

Jungkook looked at her again, watching her carefully.

Y/N offered a small, tired smile. “Some of the things you said stuck in my head.”

Another slow inhale. Another breath.

“My colleagues noticed it too,” she said, her voice softer now. “So I needed to ask. I needed to know what’s been going on.”

Jungkook nodded, his expression surprisingly gentle.

“I get it,” he said. “I’m glad you asked.”

They sat in silence again.

But this time—it wasn’t awkward. Or tense.

It was peaceful.

Y/N leaned back slightly, letting the smoke trail upward into the sky, her shoulders lighter than they’d felt in weeks.

She didn’t get the fairytale answer.

But she got the truth.

And for once, it was more than enough.

The cigarette burned halfway through between Jungkook’s fingers before he spoke again.

His voice was more careful now. A little softer. Less playful.

“I’ve noticed,” he said, eyes on the trail of smoke curling up into the sky, “that you’ve been different ever since I got a girlfriend.”

Y/N’s breath stilled for a second—but not from guilt. From the clarity of hearing it said out loud.

She didn’t deflect.

Didn’t deny.

She simply nodded, gaze steady on the bench in front of them.

“I have,” she said plainly. “Because I have respect for myself.”

Jungkook finally looked at her.

She met his eyes fully this time—no hesitation, no flinch, no softness diluted with doubt.

“I have morals,” she continued, voice calm but firm. “And I didn’t want to cross any lines. Even unintentionally. So I distanced myself.”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the leaves above them. Neither of them moved.

Jungkook let out a quiet breath, almost like a sigh. “That’s fair.”

He flicked the ash off his cigarette. “I’ve tried not to act the same either. Since getting into something serious.”

Y/N gave a small nod. “I noticed.”

There was no accusation in her voice. No passive anger. Just an understanding—subtle, sharp, necessary.

He looked at her again, more intently this time. “I didn’t want to disrespect her. Or you.”

She gave him a faint, dry smile. “Then it’s good we both stepped back.”

He didn’t disagree.

They sat in that mutual stillness—two people who had walked right up to a line they didn’t quite understand until they were forced to see it clearly.

Not in shame.

Not in regret.

But in quiet acceptance.

Jungkook stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette and leaned back on the bench, arms resting behind him as he stared up at the gray sky. “You’re a good person, Y/N.”

Y/N let her eyes wander ahead, unfocused. “I’m just trying to be one.”

“Still,” he murmured. “I’m glad we talked.”

“Me too.”

-

Y/N reentered the office with a lighter step than before, as if a burden had finally been lifted from her shoulders. She found herself greeted by the usual mix of chatter and knowing glances from her coworkers. Mina and Ines exchanged a quick look as she passed by, a silent question hanging in the air.

At her desk, Taehyun leaned over with a curious smile. “So, what happened out there? You look… different.”

Y/N paused, then offered a small, genuine smile. “I talked it out with him.”

Her colleagues leaned in slightly, eager for any details of the shift that had clearly transformed her mood.

“I told him everything,” she continued softly, her eyes scanning the familiar surroundings as she settled back into her seat. “I said I needed to know if all this was just work flirting or if there was something more. He told me it was only work flirting—that he’d asked me out for smoke breaks because he liked me more than anyone here. And he made it clear that if he had deeper intentions, he’d have invited me on a proper date already.”

There was a brief silence among the group as they absorbed her words. Y/N’s voice took on a steadier tone, filled with a quiet relief. “I feel… lighter. Like I can finally breathe again.”

She paused, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face as if she sensed there was more he hadn’t said. “There’s this feeling, too—like maybe he hid something from me or didn’t tell me everything he felt. But honestly, at this point, I’m just glad to have the clarity. I’m ready to move on.”

Her coworkers nodded, the room filled with a mix of understanding and unspoken respect for her openness. Mina gave her an encouraging nod, and Taehyun added with a supportive grin, “Sounds like you did what you needed to do, Y/N. That relief? That’s priceless.”

With that, Y/N returned to her work, feeling steadier than she had in weeks. The conversations and teasing around the office now carried a different tone—a tone of acceptance and, more importantly, self-respect.

And as she settled at her desk, Y/N realized that sometimes, the hardest conversations reveal exactly what’s needed: a chance to let go, a breath of fresh air, and the courage to finally move on.

[scarluna]

Twisted. (18+)

⸺ ݂ ํ Synopsis : ꣒

Y/N and Jungkook have been together for six months now. Everything is amazing until Y/N shares her dark fantasy with Jungkook and him being the best boyfriend he is, fulfills it.

⸺ ݂ ํ Characters : ꣒ Jeon Jungkook x Y/N

⸺ ݂ ํ Trigger warnings : ꣒ mature language, smut, woods sex, mask kink, mdni.

⸺ ݂ ํ Other warnings : ꣒ grammatical errors.

⸺ ݂ ํ Author's Note: ꣒ A smutty one-shot. Enjoyy. <33 MDNI, please. Thanks.

The soft hum of the city filtered in through the half-cracked window, blending with the faint rhythm of Jungkook’s breathing as he lay beside you. Moonlight spilled across his bare chest, painting him in silver. Six months. Six months of gentle touches, whispered affections, tangled limbs under clean white sheets. He was everything warm, everything safe.

But your heart beat a little faster tonight—not from what was, but from what you wanted. Even though both took your times in getting to know each other, you still had some things that you kept a secret. More intimate and delicate things that you told yourself you’d share with Jungkook when the right time comes.

Jungkook’s fingers absentmindedly traced your spine. “What’re you thinking about?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something softer.

You hesitated. This wasn’t easy to admit however. “Can I tell you something without you thinking I’m... weird?”

That got his attention. He shifted to face you, propping himself up on one elbow, dark eyes suddenly wide awake. “Y/N, you could tell me you want to rob a bank and I’d ask what mask you want me to wear.”

You laughed, but the butterflies in your belly didn’t fade. “Talking about masks...”

Jungkook’s gaze softened. He didn’t speak but everything was evident in his eyes. The way they darkened, how his jaw clenched as if he already knew what you were about to say. You could see the pure excitement in his eyes and it sent a thrill through you.

“I love what we have, I do. It’s sweet and tender and… honestly, you make me feel safe in ways I didn’t know I needed.” You toyed with the edge of the bedsheet, gathering your courage. “But there’s this other part of me that’s been craving something different. Something darker.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “Go on.”

You swallowed. “I think about... being chased. Like, not in a scary way, but the thrill of it. A man in a mask, strong, relentless. Catching me. Owning me.” You finally looked up at him. “I want to be hunted, Jungkook. I want to feel that rush. That danger. And I want it to be you.”

The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. You felt his breathing quicken and your eyes met. Your heart raced fast and hard in your chest. Simply watching how Jungkook bit on his lower lip as his eyebrows furrowed.

“Y/N,” he said slowly, voice low, almost guttural. “Are you saying you want me to hunt you down and ruin you?”

Your breath caught in your throat. The way he said it made you tingle between your legs immediately.

He leaned in, brushing your ear with his lips. “Tell me everything.”

You felt exposed under his gaze, like he could already see every dirty thought playing out behind your eyes. Your mouth went dry, but the ache between your thighs was undeniable now.

“I want…” you exhaled slowly, letting the fantasy pour out, “to run. To feel the fear—the good kind. The kind that makes your heart race. I want to feel your breath on my neck before you grab me. I want to be dragged back, claimed like I’m yours. Like I never had a choice.”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. “You want to be a prey?”

You nodded, pupils wide. “Exactly that.”

He studied you, every inch of your body, like he was seeing you for the first time. His hand slid up your thigh under the sheet, slow and firm, and stopped just where you needed him most—but didn’t give in. Not yet.

“You know if we do this, I’m not holding back, right?” he whispered. “I’m not going to be gentle with you when I catch you.”

A shiver danced up your spine. “I’m not asking you to be.”

His thumb brushed over your inner thigh, teasing. “I’ll have you screaming in the woods... I’ll make sure no one hears you but me.” He leaned closer, lips ghosting your ear. “You’ll beg, but not for me to stop...”

You whimpered, instinctively grinding against the sheets.

His laugh was dark, wicked. “God, look at you already. What else do you want, baby? You want me in a mask? Rough hands pulling you into the dark, spanking you, eating you out?”

You bit your lip, nodding quickly. “Yes. I want to be chased. Fucked. Cornered. Stripped. Like I’m not even allowed to look at you unless you let me.”

He groaned, fingers gripping your thigh tighter. “You want to be hunted by a monster that badly, huh?”

You whispered, “Only if it’s you.”

There was a long pause where neither of you moved. Just breath, heat, anticipation. Of course all of that talk ended in another sex session, but this time Jungkook was a little bit rougher and more vocal. Fuck, he was too hot to handle. You loved every second of it.

-

It had been a month.

Life went on—work, dinners, lazy nights tangled in each other. The talk you had with Jungkook drifted into the back of your mind, filed away under maybe someday. He hadn’t brought it up again, hadn’t even hinted. And part of you wondered if it had been too much, too intense. Maybe he didn’t want that side of you. Maybe the fantasy would stay just that.

Then, one Friday night, your phone buzzed.

Jungkook 🖤 9:12 PM Come to the spot. Our second date. Don’t be late.

Your heart stuttered.

You stared at the message, nerves curling low in your belly like smoke. The spot. The woods. The place you’d gone for that quiet picnic under the stars, just the two of you and the sound of cicadas and laughter. It had been sweet. Innocent.

Now? You had no idea what waited for you there.

You dressed slowly, heart pounding. You did listen to what he commanded you to wear. Your outfit consisted of black tank top, no bra on. And black skirt with no panties on. Gosh, you felt like such a slut. A slut for him and no one else. Your hair was nicely falling down your shoulders and you did not waste any time putting on make up. Why?

Because tonight was about survival.

You drove in silence. The woods were darker than you remembered, moonlight barely slicing through the thick canopy. You parked just off the trail, headlights off. No sound but the crunch of leaves under your boots.

You stepped into the clearing and your eyes caught the beautiful view of the city. You stood there for what felt like an hour but only five minutes had passed. Your senses were heightened since the woods were dark and each crunch or animal sound made goosebumps raise all over your skin. So much that your nipples hardened and poked through the thin material of the tank top you wore. As the cold breeze caressed your body, you heard muffled crunches on the ground that grew more and more clear. Heavy footsteps. Right behind you.

You froze.

He was here.

Turning around, your eyes immediately focused on the tall figure not too far away. He was leaning against your car, half-shadowed by the moonlight. Wearing black from head to toe. And a mask.

Not some cheap Halloween thing—no. This one was smooth, matte, almost animalistic. The eye holes were hollow, but you felt his gaze. Felt it like a brand.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just watched.

Your breath caught. “Jungkook?”

Still silent. He didn’t answer. Just stared at you. And for a split second, you began doubting if it was really him. The fact that you were unable to see his face nor his eyes made your heart beat faster. Was it really him? Fuck.

Your body went tight with adrenaline. Every sense sharpened.

Then—he tilted his head slowly.

Like a predator.

And stepped forward.

One, deliberate step.

Your legs moved before your brain could catch up.

You turned around and ran.

Branches whipped past your skin. Your pulse thundered in your ears. The world narrowed down to breath, panic, want. You didn’t know where he was—you didn’t have to. You felt him. Behind you. Closing in.

Leaves crunched somewhere to your left.

Another footstep, closer now.

Your lungs burned, your heart raced, and in the chaos of it all, a broken laugh escaped your throat.

This was real.

This was happening.

And god help you—

You’d never been so wet in your life.

Branches snapped behind you.

He was fast. Too fast.

Your lungs screamed for air, legs aching, body trembling with a rush of adrenaline and arousal so tangled you could barely tell them apart anymore. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, the shadows shifted. You could feel him getting closer.

And you wanted it. Craved it.

Another turn through the trees and back to where your car was parked. On your way there, your boot catching on a root—your balance faltered.

Too late.

A solid weight slammed into your back.

You shrieked, cut off by the air whooshing from your lungs as you hit the side of your car, body pinned against him in a blur of black fabric and raw dominance. His hand fisted in your hair, dragging your head back gently but firmly, exposing your neck.

The mask hovered over you, those hollow eyes boring into your soul.

“Found you,” he growled, voice unrecognizable—lower, darker, pure predator.

You whimpered beneath him, body arching into the pressure.

“Ran so well, baby,” he rasped, lips brushing the shell of your ear through the mask. “But did you really think you’d get away from me?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The weight of him, the way he caged you in with his body—it short-circuited your brain. You’d never felt so small. So owned.

“Say it,” he demanded, grinding his hips against your ass. You could feel him. Hard. Heavy. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“Y-You,” you gasped, eyes fluttering. “I belong to you.”

“Damn right you do.”

In one swift movement, he manhandled you so easily, turning you around and lifting you up in strong arms. You almost melted. In a few seconds you were sprawled on the hood of your black SUV, with him between your parted legs. The mask stayed on—somehow, that made it hotter. You couldn’t see his face, only feel the intensity of his stare as he ripped your tank top apart as if it was nothing. Your tits now on full display, nipples perky and hard, begging to be sucked. You heard him curse under his breath before his fingers dragged along your stomach like he was savoring you.

“So fucking beautiful like this,” he muttered. “All flushed, breathless, ruined from just running.”

His fingers left burning trails down your body, slow but greedy, until he was between your thighs.

You were full with adrenaline still, all sluttily sprawled out like this out in the open. He could see your glistening folds under the skirt as he wasted no time. He lifted his mask just enough to expose his plump lips and sharp jaw before he devoured you.

There was no teasing. No mercy. His tongue was relentless, licking, sucking, claiming you like a man starved. Your hips bucked against his mouth, but his strong hands held you down like you were nothing but prey beneath him.

Your moans echoed through the trees. Shameless. Wild. He groaned against your pussy, like your pleasure was his drug.

“Taste like fucking heaven,” he growled, voice muffled by your wetness. “You were made for me, baby. For this.”

You were already close, the pressure building fast and hot, your fingers tangled in his hair even through the mask. He didn’t stop. Not once.

And when you shattered—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream—he held you down and kept going. Licking up every last drop like a man obsessed, not letting you come down, not letting you breathe.

Only when you were squirming, tears in your eyes, did he finally pull back—mask tilted, breath ragged.

“I am not fucking done yet,” he said, reaching for his belt. “I’ve been patient long enough.”

And you knew, in that moment—

The chase was only the beginning.

He rose above you like a dark, towering figure, the mask casting shadows over his face, making him look like something from your deepest fantasies—something untouchable, dangerous, and yet… so very desirable.

You were still trembling from your release, body aching with need, but Jungkook wasn’t finished. Not even close.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer to him, your legs instinctively spreading wider. You could feel the heat of him against your thigh, the unmistakable hardness of his cock pressing against you, teasing.

“You’re mine,” he growled, and there was no question in his voice, no hesitation. He wasn’t asking for permission. He was claiming you. And you wanted it. Every part of you wanted it.

His lips were on yours then, bruising, demanding, as if he was trying to consume you whole. His tongue invaded your mouth, tasting you like you were a drug he couldn’t quit, a craving he needed to feed.

“Say it again,” he muttered against your lips. “Who do you belong to?”

You gasped for air as his hands moved to strip the last of your clothes off, exposing your bare skin to the cold night air. His eyes flickered to your naked form, drinking in the sight of you like a man starved.

“I belong to you, Jungkook,” you breathed, your voice raw, desperate.

He let out a dark chuckle as he slid his hand between your legs again, fingers teasing the slickness between your thighs. You gasped, hips moving on their own accord, desperate for more.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he whispered, dragging his fingers through your folds before slipping one inside. You moaned, body jerking at the sudden fullness, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

“Please,” you whispered, your eyes pleading. “I need you, Jungkook.”

His smirk was predatory, slow, as he pulled his finger away, positioning himself at your entrance. He paused, just for a moment, watching you squirm beneath him, his eyes dark with lust.

“Beg for it,” he demanded, his voice low, a quiet threat behind the words.

You swallowed, the burning need inside you making it hard to think, to focus. But you did it anyway, because you needed him. Needed this.

“Please… fuck me, Jungkook,” you begged, your voice raw, trembling with want.

He didn’t need to be asked twice. In one swift motion, he thrust into you, filling you completely in one go. You gasped, your body stretching around him as he filled you, claiming you in every sense of the word.

His movements were relentless, fast, and brutal, as though he was proving something—claiming you, reminding you that you were his, and he would never let you go.

“You feel so good, Y/N,” he grunted, his pace quickening, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the woods. “So fucking tight. You were made for me.”

Your body was on fire, every inch of you alive with sensation, the heat building higher with each thrust. You couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything except the raw pleasure flooding through you, the pressure mounting, the desperate need for release.

Jungkook’s hand found your throat, tightening slightly as he leaned down to growl in your ear, his voice dark and commanding.

“Don’t even think about running away again. You’re mine now. Forever.”

With a final, savage thrust, he pushed you over the edge. You screamed, body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you, your nails digging into his back, your legs locking around his waist.

He followed soon after, his body shuddering as he buried himself deep inside you, filling you completely.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, panting, heartbeats pounding in the silence of the woods. His mask was still on, but you didn’t care anymore. You were both too lost in each other, the connection too strong to care about anything else.

Slowly, he pulled away, gazing down at you, eyes intense even behind the mask. His lips parted as he finally spoke, his voice quieter now, but still carrying that dark edge.

“Never forget who owns you.”

You shivered at the command, still recovering from the intensity of what just happened. But deep down, you knew—he was right.

You were his.

[scarluna]

⠀ᅠ⠀⠀Court Of Nightmares

⸺ ݂ ํ Synopsis : ꣒

Zara was a brilliant Computer Science student with her whole future ahead of her—until everything collapsed.

When her sister Alex grows addicted to the deadly world of underground gambling, she makes a desperate deal with Vante, a merciless yakuza kingpin. That betrayal shatters Zara’s life, dragging her into a nightmare she can’t escape.

Broken but burning with vengeance, Zara claws her way into the yakuza's inner circle, hiding a dangerous secret.

The deeper she goes, the more the lines blur. Power. Seduction. Corruption. In a world that eats people alive, can Zara destroy the monster—without becoming one herself?

⸺ ݂ ํ Characters : ꣒ Kim Taehyung, Jeon Jungkook, Min Yoongi, Kim Seokjin, Original portrayal of ( female & male ), more characters to come.

⸺ ݂ ํ Trigger warnings : ꣒ Blood, violence, mature language, smut, a lot of psychological and physical torture, fucked up shit overall, reader discretion is advised. This story is not rainbows and butterflies.

⸺ ݂ ํ Other warnings : ꣒ Irregular uploads, grammatical errors.

ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀⠀⠀⠀CHAPTER O1.

My hands were shaking as if I was holding the deadliest weapon known to human kind. I could feel my head spinning and heart racing at a rapid pace. Pace I never thought my body would adjust to so fast even after years of intense football practices back at school.

My chest was raising at an alarming rate, my heart was thumping so fast I knew at some point it'd fly straight out of my ribcage.

Her words echoed in my mind over and over again like a broken record. I couldn't believe it.

I was staring at her, the person I've grown up with, the person I thought was my guardian angel after our parents tragic death, the person I have always trusted and leaned on. She was the only one that has remained in my life after everything that happened.

But right there, deep in my mind I remembered how my mom always used to tell me not to trust anyone. Even the closest people could stab you in the back - and unfortunately, she was painfully right. Here I was, staring at my sister as we both of us were sinking in uncomfortable silence.

I felt bitter. 

I felt betrayed. 

 I wanted to shout at Alexandra, I wanted to blame her, curse her and say things I'd regret afterwards as the anger was getting the worst out in me. I was never a person to get angry that easily. Never. 

How could she? How could she betray me like that? My own blood. 

 I felt my throat go dry and I couldn't say a word at this point. I was standing in the middle of the fucking living room, wearing nothing but my short shorts and a t-shirt, coming out right after shower.

Alexandra was standing in front of me, the mascara she wore was smudged under her eyes from all the crying and her head bowed down in pure shame. She knew she was guilty, she knew what she fucking did and yet she was the one who got out of this situation without a scratch. I ran my slim fingers through my damp hair, turning around with my back facing her. I reached over, moving the red curtain over as I stole a short glance through the window, noticing the black shiny jeep with tinted windows parked in front of the complex and the two men dressed in black suits.

 They were leaning on that car with guns hanging off their belts, looking all scary and intimidating. They were waiting. And I sure as hell knew that they wouldn't leave until they got what they were ordered to take. 

 "How could you do this to me… " I trailed off quietly before the anger got the best out of me. 

"I can't fucking believe it! " I shouted, not being able to hold off the pure animalistic rage that has been building up within my chest. 

Before I knew it, my body turned quickly toward my sister and I grabbed firmly her elbow, fingertips sinking in her skin harshly. I was seeing red. 

 "I am sorry. " she whispered weakly, her hair was a mess and I could visibly see the pain and regret within her eyes. She didn't squirm away from my brutish hold. Probably she knew she deserved it. 

 "Sorry isn't good enough! Sorry won't fix the shit you got me involved into, Suha!" I yelled and that made her flinch again. Honestly, I didn't care if I scared her or if I made her cry harder, I was pissed off. 

I had all the damn rights to be. Never had I imagined that I'd go through something like this. I thought that this was happening only in movies. 

 "How much…" I whispered after a few more minutes of me watching her weep. She sniffled quietly and slowly tried shake herself off my hold.

 "How much!" I yelled again, my voice raspy. I felt my nostrils flaring. 

 "Eighty grand." her voice was a whisper. That made her take a step backward, her frame was shaking uncontrollably. 

"You sold me. . . "I started quietly before my voice grew louder, "for eighty fucking grand!"

New set of tears streamed down her red cheeks.  "T-they threatened to kill me, Zara. I c-couldn't… " she stammered her words. "T-they promised that they w-won't harm you.. " 

 "I will be a fucking slave to those gorillas for life! I won't fucking live like this and you know it! They won't harm me? You serious? These men never tell the truth! They lie and murder for their own convenience." I whispered as if I was telling this to myself rather than to her. I though that today I'd do my physics lecture, go play some football with my friends and then meet up with my girlfriend. This day started normally, dammit! 

 "I will fix this, I promise! I will find the money and I will get you back. Please, don't cause any trouble. "

"You should've thought about that earlier!" I roared; my voice was loud enough to cause some of the neighbors to peek their heads through the windows to see what was happening. Then there was a silence. Suha kept sobbing helplessly. Short puffs of air came out from my lips. Soon enough two men burst through the door, guns pointed at me and my sister. I noticed that those tall bulky gorillas were the same damn men who were waiting by that shiny car downstairs.

 I froze immediately, my anger conversed into fear as I lifted my hands in surrender slowly. These men didn't react at all, they'd approach me and one of them spoke something in Japanese I didn't understood while the other one let out a low disgusting chuckle.

The panic slowly crept up in my heart. I turned to look at Suha who had stopped crying but her face remained twisted in pure horror. She was afraid of weapons but definitely not from the damn casino she went almost every night. She had gambled every single coin we had. 

Then I turned to look at those men. Their faces were unreadable yet covered in many battle scars that made their expressions more intimidating. If they reacted at all, of course.

I noticed how they held their weapons so damn confidently pointed directly at my head. It was a warning. They wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger. I didn't see myself jumping out of that window. It was two stories high and besides, I'd be dead before I even got to do that. For the first time in my life felt vulnerable and helpless. 

 "Times up, kiddo. Either move or I put a bullet in your head." one of the men grunted in annoyance. Fuck. I was slowly starting to realize the seriousness in this situation. Before my mind could react on whatever was happening, my body did it first and slowly, my legs dragged toward the door with my hands still raised in surrender. I didn't even turn to look back second time, I could hear her faint sobs and sniffling in the distance. 

The minute I walked out, I gasped when they tied my hands firmly and put a black cloth on my head. I tried to struggle, but one of them let out a low growl of a warning and I froze. 

Before I knew it, I was forcefully pushed on a leather surface, guessing it was the back seat of that jeep parked downstairs. Silence for a minute before the door got slammed shut and that alone made me jump a little. 

I started panting heavily in pure panic. Here I was, sitting at the back seat of a car with two dangerous men. What was going to happen to me from now on? I knew that the moment I stepped out of that building, everything has already changed for me.

I heard that those men were ruthless criminals. 

And I already had a taste of how ruthless they were at a dark alley a few weeks ago as I got ambushed and beaten up.  Of course, it was just a warning from whoever was in charge of these men to my foolish sister.  I had managed to do my research on internet a few nights after that event occurred, informing myself at the reason of their current whereabouts. 

They were the Yakuza clan called "Black Tigers" which came from Japan to Korea and settled in back in the 70's. Perhaps I'd find my death wherever they were going to take me? Those people were famous for gauging their enemies eyes out and cut their hands before burying them in tons and tons of cement ten feet underground.

As soon as I heard the low purring of the engine, I realized I couldn't run away. I had ruined every damn chance I had.

 So I had no where to run. 

 God help me. 

-⠀ -⠀ -

I had no fucking idea when or how did I passed out. My eyes were burning and there was a strange scent nestled in my nostrils that I couldn't name. I suddenly panicked that I couldn't see anything at all and it took me a while to remember what had happened. A pair of large hands were dragging me to somewhere. Whoever it was, they were in rush because they didn't even let me walk by myself, my feet were dragging on the pavement as the razor sharp cold air hit my exposed skin like a tidal wave.

I could feel that bruises were going to form on the places they held me. The tight ropes around my wrists were causing my skin to burn. I was struggling way too much.

"Where are you leading me?" I managed to whisper lowly, but it certainly came out as a muffled sound since the black cloth over my head was preventing any clear ones. I heard only a grunt and nothing else. I was scared.

The more we walked, the more my heart was racing. I could hear faint screams and gun shots in the distance as we slowly approached wherever I was lead to. Something wasn't right.

Soon enough those screams and yells intensified, my eyes buzzed from the constant gun shots and when I finally was thrown on the ground, I managed to plant my both now untied hands on the cold pavement before the black cloth over my head was removed. Blinking a few times, I managed to adjust to the light and as I finally was able to see, I looked around.

Dead bodies laid on the blood painted ground, some men, dressed in black suits were dragging the bodies outside. I realized we were in some sort of a warehouse since that building was large enough for entire concert and the walls were not exactly in their best condition. The lack of windows was evident since the cold air pierced through my body immediately. I had no time to panic because at this point, I heard another gunshot that made me flinch and soon I sensed the metallic taste that made me want to fucking gag.

I realized I was one of the men kneeling on the ground. On my either sides were men , perhaps broken and lost souls that either wanted to live or die. Nobody dared to look at me, the only woman in this chaos. I figured they were all scared so I focused my attention on the tall man holding a gun to one of the men's heads, muttering something in Japanese.

I could understand only a little and some of the words this man said were 'brain' and 'ground'.

Somehow I had given up on struggling or yelling, but the men with me didn't and they saw their death quite quickly. I only stood there, on my knees, my face was covered in splatters from blood, yet I couldn't say anything because I was too shocked to do so. I only managed to scan the killer's features.

The odd thing was that he was young. I expected him to be ugly old wrinkly man, but he wasn't. Quite the opposite. Epitome of angelic face laced with sin and poison.

He was much taller, broad shouldered and muscular than the rest of the men here as well. I also noticed how pale his skin was and how black his eyes were. He was like emotionless beast that nobody dared to cross paths with him. His hair was sandy brown, falling over his eyes, almost covering them and some tattoos peeked through the collar of the white shirt and jacket he wore. His hands were tattooed as well, silver rings covering his fingers.

"How odd, everyone is dead and no one had the luck of surviving. Guess this is the perk of playing reversed Russian roulette. " the same man spoke in a low groggy voice whilst changing the men as if he changed the model of his shoes. His eyes would briefly focus on the men before him and then another gunshot echoed. The disgusting sound of a helpless body slumping on the ground had me tense still.

"Another one dead, how unfortunate." he'd mutter casually. I noticed that he only had one man left before he was going to shoot me.

And then the panic arose back in me. My lips parted and I began struggling to somehow free myself off those tight ropes but no avail. My wrists were bleeding already, blood seeped through the thick material of the ropes. I began crying quietly, head bowed down so I wouldn't be seen how I suffer. I was sure that those bastards were going to get off on that.

Another gunshot echoed. It deeply yet painfully rang in my ears. 

The gunshot that It's going to be the last thing I fucking hear before I die. Alex, what the hell did you got me into!?

Even when my head was bowed down and vision blurred with the tears, I could see a pair of shiny black male shoes appear in front of me. I slowly lifted my head and our gazes met. The man's expression was blank as he held the gun right between my eyes.

Closing my eyes, I prepared for the end.

All of the memories flashed in my head.

My damn childhood, my friends at university joking around, my boyfriend's alluring eyes and heart throbbing smile… This was the end.

He pressed the trigger of the gun but only a loud 'Click' echoed in the warehouse.

"Huh…" I head the man's voice, this time it was filled with confusion and I managed to open my eyes. Then a sinister smirk appeared on the his features. The other men were behind him, eyebrows risen in confusion and shock as they watched me intently.

What was happening?

I saw the blonde press his only one knee on the bloody ground, other hand casually resting on his other leg, head bowed down to look at me in the eyes and at this moment I felt he pierced through my soul.

"I guess this is your lucky day." 

He'd look behind him and nod toward me. In seconds, two men were by my side grasping my elbows as they harshly picked me up back on my feet.

The stranger also rose up as he towered over the men and myself in height.

"Boss will be very pleased to see someone actually surviving this. Take her to the mansion. " he commanded and I could see from the corner of my eyes that the two men bowed their heads in respect and agreement before I was dragged out. The black cloth was put back on my face.

Fuck.

From one thing, I managed to involve myself into another shit.

-⠀ -⠀ -

An hour had passed since I was in the car, at the back seat, still tied like a fucking animal. I could hear the men talking something but couldn't muster out what exactly. At this point I cursed myself for not being able to speak Japanese well.

I was no longer going to see my friends, my sister who betrayed me nor my soulmate. I was sure that the moment there, with the gun aimed at me, was going to be my last.

Perhaps I was going to die in another way, perhaps I was going to get decapitated or hanged with my eyes gauged out. These men were sick, I could see it in their eyes, I could see it in the way they spoke or even walked. Nothing human in them was left, only a damn empty shell.

I felt the car stop to a halt soon enough and the loud creaking. I guessed that this could be a gate or something because after that the car began moving once again. In another ten or fifteen minutes I was forcefully dragged out from the car, falling face down on the ground. My nose was bleeding, I could feel it and also taste my own blood. Fuck. Fuck.

Where was I lead? To a worse place? To a graveyard perhaps? My head was spinning from all the worry. I could barely stand on my feet if it weren't for the large hands on my elbows that kept me from falling.

"Where is Big Brother?" I heard a groggy voice right beside me, it was one of the men that dragged me here and he spoke to someone.

"Out of the country."

"Dammit." I heard another voice, it was much high pitched.

"What are we going to do to her then?"

"Drag her underground. We have to wait until Big Brother comes back, he will figure out what to do. " then a silence followed and I was dragged to somewhere again. I had given up on asking questions since I would not receive any.

Who was the man they referred as their Big Brother?

Where was I going to be dragged?

Ten minutes later I was being pushed back on the ground, but this time my hands were untied. I quickly took off the clothing off my eyes and realized I was in a cell. A dungeon to be exact. Rats ran everywhere, it smelled like mold, the walls were moist. It was a disgusting place.

I backed up against a wall, my back pressing on the cold surface as I leaned my head back. More thoughts filled my head. At this point, I had given up life, I had given up everything I was building.

All for my sister's safety and sake.

My hands ran through my hair in frustration. I wanted to yell. Was this how I was going to end? In a damn cell and perhaps dying without food or water? Was luck by my side really? I was utterly fucked. 

Of course, for the next hours or days-I lost count- I was mainly laying on the ground, curled in a ball. Men would come occasionally to give me food that consisted of a piece of dry bread and a glass of water. That was enough to keep me alive.

My clothes were dirty, hair and face as well, I was covered in dust and the only company I had were the rats. I felt like I was going insane since I started hearing voices in my head that blamed me for everything.

I heard the clinking of keys and the door at the end of the small hall opened, footsteps were approaching. Perhaps was the guard, giving me my daily portion of food. I didn't even look at them, my head whipped to the side.

Usually someone would slide the tray of food under and leave, but when I heard the keys jiggling and unlocking the door of my cell, my head whipped around. Before I could manage to say something, my shoulders were roughly grasped so I could stand on my feet and my hands were now tied up behind my back again.

The man who took me was gazing at me for a few seconds before shaking his head as if he was feeling sorry for me.

What was this all about?

Thankfully, nothing was covering my eyes this time as I got lead out from that darkness. As soon as I was out from the dungeon, I noticed the long hallway covered in paintings, the walls in dark red and the blue carpet I stepped on.

We passed door after door, each door with even more beautiful decorations of wood. I noticed that all doors had tigers carved into them. We also passed a beautiful large saloon with piano in the mere middle and not too far away a long table decorated with goods was located. All the furniture was in Victorian style.

Soon enough, we stopped in front of large doors painted in dark red with golden carvings onto the wood. The door looked like the door leading straight to Hell.

I was too lost in my thoughts and the squeeze of my elbow made me come back to reality. I sensed his disgusting breath fanning across one of my sides, before he spoke out in a groggy voice.

"The worst is yet about to come, rabbit."

[scarluna]

hi!! I just read thoughts of you pt 4 and i just wanna say pls 🙏🏻 🙏🏻 🙏🏻 🙏🏻 make more parts like it was getting sooooo good...and i have a weak heart🥲 if u don't want to make them together then atleast let her have her boss b*tch era in which she starts accepting herself🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 pls u can't stop like that author...think abt us pls😭😭 it hurts that jungkook left her just like that

I understand where you are coming from, but sometimes, the harsh reality is not rainbows and unicorns. The harsh reality we live in is where we are afraid and scared to move on or be in a bad bitch era. The reality is where we regret opening to someone and them playing with our hearts. It is harsh and my point was not to drag this story to a very unrealistic ending because believe it or not, people find it hard to move on or glow up even revenge when their heart is broken and they suffer....this was a piece of my own life and this is how it ended. And instead of dragging the story to the unreleastic ending, I decided to end it in the most realistic way. Hope you stay tuned for future stories tho, this was the only story that is a real life work with small elements of fiction.

[scarluna]

I'm sending you a big hug! I have been in alot situations similar to this too sometimes points I've been on 5 or 6 dates and then I get ghosted out of nowhere :/ It really isn't fun because you constantly have to go through the same process all over again. Please don't let this guy's behaviour dictate how you feel FOCUS ON YOURSELF! ON YOUR CAREER!! I promise you, in the long run, love will find you may that be a man or woman you deserve so much. I love your writing.

I really really really really appreciate this sweet message. You have no idea how much I need a hug right now. I have not included some things in this short fic but I have been crying for days, growing more broken and wondering If I am still good enough. I try to focus and move on but it's hard for me when I am currently seeing him everyday at work. I know eventually it will pass and it all gonna be back to normal. My lesson is to never open my heart to anyone with bad intentions again. Sending big hugs your way as well! <33

[scarluna]

I typically never reach out to writers, always silently liking and building my little personal library but I just had to let you know that although I haven’t read the last part yet, TOY is easily one of my favorites. I will forever be hoping for a sequel! And still wishing the best for you since it’s a personal story 💗

Thanks again for writing it! And all your other fics 🥹

I am glad you reached out. Thank you for your kindness and your words. I wrote this out because I want everyone to understand how the relationships between a plus sized girl and a player work. Unfortunately it's not flowers and unicorns. Sometimes it's the sad ending that leaves no one happy. Please stay tuned for future stories of mine, I appreciate you sm. <3333

[scarluna]

i literally LOVEEEEE 'thoughts of you' i fear you GAGGED w ts boo 🫶🏾🫶🏾

You are so kind! <33333333 I am glad you enjoyed it. It was a healing thing to write out how I felt and see everything that had happened in another perspective. Please stay tuned for future stories.

[scarluna]

Thoughts of You

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 1 | 2 | 3 | 5

Chapters: 4 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: SIKE I DECIDED TO FINISH IT. Thank you to everyone who stayed and enjoyed my little diary.

The evening air was soft, not quite cold, but enough to make Y/N hug her arms as she stepped outside. Her cigarette lit with a lazy flick, and as she took a long drag, she heard the door creak behind her.

Of course, it was Jungkook.

“Yo,” he greeted casually, flipping his lighter between his fingers as he joined her by the railing. “You ghosted me on the last break.”

Y/N smirked slightly. “Sorry. Had to pretend I care about this job for once.”

He chuckled, leaning against the wall beside her. “Fake it till you make it, queen.”

They stood in silence for a few beats, smoke curling between them, the sky fading into a dull gray.

Then, without fully planning to, Y/N spoke.

“Can I vent for a second?”

Jungkook blinked. “Always.”

She glanced down, watching the ash crumble off her cigarette. “I’m just so tired, Jungkook. Not physically. Emotionally. Of men.”

He made a low, thoughtful sound but didn’t interrupt.

“They act like they want something real,” she continued. “Like they’re ready. Like they’re grown. But it’s all talk. And then they either flake, freeze up, or end up emotionally constipated.”

Jungkook laughed at that. “Emotionally constipated? Damn.”

“I’m serious,” she said, though her lips twitched. “One minute they’re all deep and vulnerable and telling me they want a mature relationship, and the next, they’re ghosting me and reposting gym selfies with Drake captions.”

Jungkook snorted, nearly choking on his smoke. “Yo, not the Drake captions.”

“I’m just saying!” Y/N huffed, half-laughing now. “I’m not even asking for that much. Just… someone who knows what the hell they want. Who doesn’t treat me like a placeholder until something better walks by.”

He turned to look at her then, something unreadable flashing in his expression.

But instead of offering some grand insight, he just grinned and said, “Damn. I feel attacked.”

Y/N laughed, grateful for the way he could still make her exhale the weight of it all. “If the emotionally unavailable shoe fits…”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m reformed now, okay? I’ve been in therapy.”

She rolled her eyes. “You still flirt like a Gemini.”

“Hey,” he grinned. “That’s a hate crime.”

Their laughter faded into comfortable silence, and for a moment, things felt good again. Familiar.

Until the next few days began.

-

It started small.

Jungkook didn’t sit near her during the morning briefing. He always had before, slouching in the seat behind hers, whispering snide comments that made her bite back laughter. But now?

He chose the other side of the room.

Then, he started bringing his personal laptop to the office. No more lingering at his desk, no more casually watching videos with her or dragging her into memes she didn’t care about until she did.

Now he sat in the break room, headphones in, laughing with the guys over something on his screen. Y/N passed by once, hoping maybe he’d wave her over like he usually did — a smirk, a head tilt, a “Come see this shit” — but all she got was a distracted glance and a polite nod.

It was enough to make her stop mid-step.

She didn’t want to overthink it.

Maybe he was just busy.

Maybe she was just being weird.

But then came the group lunch, and he didn’t walk beside her. Didn’t save her a seat. He sat between two of the guys, cracking jokes, his attention miles away.

And Y/N… just sat there. Fork pushing food she didn’t want around her plate. Smiling when she was supposed to. Nodding like she was present.

But in her chest, something uneasy twisted tighter.

Had she said too much that night? Did venting about men push him away? Did he think she was talking about him?

She replayed every word, every expression, every laugh that maybe wasn’t really a laugh.

She wondered if her honesty had made her heavy.

If she’d ruined something by expecting too much.

And the worst part?

She didn’t even know how to ask.

Because how do you bring up distance to someone who was never officially yours to begin with?

-

Y/N stood near the edge of the group, taking slow drags from her cigarette, half-listening to the ongoing banter between Mina and one of the guys from tech, Taehyun. She hadn’t expected Jungkook to show up this early—he’d been unpredictable all week, floating in and out of conversations, always orbiting but never really landing.

But then she heard it.

“Eyo, get off my girlfriend.”

The words cut through the group like a record scratch.

Y/N’s eyes snapped up just in time to see Jungkook stroll into the group like he owned the morning, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, his grin smug as hell.

He was looking right at Taehyun.

Taehyun, who’d just been leaning a little too close while showing Y/N a video on his phone.

Everyone froze for a second.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Taehyun burst out laughing. “Damn, bro, jealous much?”

Jungkook shrugged, unfazed. “I’m just saying. She’s mine. Back off.”

He said it so casually, like it was an inside joke. Like he hadn’t been ignoring her all week.

The group erupted into laughter, Mina nearly choking on her drink.

Y/N, caught between confusion and that weird flutter in her chest, managed to roll her eyes dramatically. “Ugh. Don’t fight over me, please.”

More laughter.

Someone whistled. “Alright, alright, damn. Y/N’s got men lining up now.”

Y/N snorted, flicking her ash and doing her best to play it cool. “One of you fights, the other buys me breakfast. Your choice.”

Jungkook smirked, eyes meeting hers for half a second—just long enough to make her chest feel too tight.

“Bet,” he said, tipping his head at her with a wink.

And just like that, the moment passed. The conversation shifted. Everyone went back to teasing each other and complaining about the early call time.

But Y/N?

She stood a little quieter, a little warmer, wondering what the hell that had just been.

Because maybe it was a joke.

But maybe it wasn’t.

-

The office smelled like lavender and old books, and the soft hum of the air purifier filled the space between them. Y/N sat curled into the corner of the couch, arms around her knees, sipping slowly from the bottle of water her therapist had offered.

Her voice was a little hoarse when she finally spoke.

“I think I like him.”

Dr. Haneul didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just nodded, calm and expectant.

Y/N gave a small, breathy laugh. “I know. Shocker, right?”

Dr. Haneul folded her hands on her lap. “Tell me what makes you think that.”

Y/N hesitated, staring at her knees. “I mean… he makes me feel seen. And not in that dramatic, romantic way. Just… noticed. Heard. Like when I talk, he actually listens. And yeah, he flirts a lot — but sometimes, it feels like it’s not just flirting. Like it’s real.”

Dr. Haneul nodded again. “And what’s stopping you from telling him?”

“I don’t know. Fear? Rejection? I keep thinking I’m just reading into things. Like I’m not the kind of girl someone like him falls for. I’m not that girl.”

Silence.

Then—

“What if you are?”

Y/N blinked.

“What if you are that girl — for him? What if you’re more than enough, exactly as you are?”

Y/N swallowed hard, eyes burning, but she didn’t cry.

“You’ll never know unless you let yourself try,” Dr. Haneul added gently. “And maybe it works out. Maybe it doesn’t. But either way, you will know. And that’s powerful.”

Y/N nodded, voice quiet. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll tell him. Monday.”

Dr. Haneul smiled. “Good. You deserve clarity, not chaos.”

-

Y/N came in ten minutes early, heart hammering in her chest. She wore soft pink lip gloss, the blouse she always felt confident in, and had even straightened her hair — not for him, she told herself.

But also a little for him.

She rehearsed it in her head. “Hey, can I talk to you?” Simple. Direct. No games.

He was by the coffee machine when she found him, dressed down in his usual black tee and silver chain, talking to one of the guys with that easy grin she always secretly watched too long.

She waited until his coworker peeled off, then took a slow breath.

But before she could step forward, Jungkook turned to her, eyes lighting up.

“Yo! I have to tell you something.”

Y/N froze. “What’s up?”

Jungkook leaned casually against the counter, sipping his coffee like it wasn’t about to change her entire week. “I finally got a girlfriend.”

The words didn’t register at first.

“You… what?”

He smiled, scratching the back of his neck like it was still fresh in his mind. “Yeah. Crazy, right? I knew this girl for a while — like we’d see each other at mutual stuff but never actually talked? Anyway, we ran into each other on Saturday and ended up spending like seven hours together. Just… clicked. Talked about everything. Made out. Now we’re official.”

His grin widened. “Feels good, honestly. Like I wasn’t even looking, but she gets me.”

Y/N blinked once. Twice.

Her body moved before her brain could catch up.

“Wow,” she said, voice light, fake-smiling. “That’s… that’s great, Jungkook.”

He beamed, completely unaware of the way her world had just quietly collapsed.

“I knew you’d be chill about it,” he said, nudging her shoulder. “You’re always cool.”

Y/N laughed—short and sharp, like something inside her cracked. “Yeah, of course. Super chill. Ice queen, that’s me.”

He grinned. “You’re the best.”

And then he walked off, still sipping his coffee, already calling out to someone across the office.

Y/N stood there, her smile frozen on her lips, the taste of her own breath suddenly metallic.

She had tried.

She was ready.

And now?

Now she had to sit through eight hours of pretending she wasn’t heartbroken.

-

The bus ride home was a blur.

Y/N sat near the back, headphones in but no music playing, her fingers resting limply in her lap. She kept her gaze on the window, watching the world smear past in muted colors. Her reflection stared back at her — tired eyes, pink gloss long faded, hope wiped clean.

She hadn’t spoken much the rest of the day.

Had smiled when she needed to, nodded when spoken to, even made a half-hearted joke when Mina asked her if she was okay.

But now the sun had dipped, and the world was quiet, and there was nothing left to distract her.

Her chest ached. Her throat burned. And somewhere between the last stop and hers, it hit.

Hard.

The first tear slipped down without warning. Then another. And another.

By the time she stepped off the bus, she was clutching her phone in her hand like it could somehow hold her together.

She made it to her building in autopilot, let herself in, dropped her bag by the door like always.

And then—

She collapsed onto the floor, back pressed against the wall, legs folded beneath her, and finally—

She sobbed.

Not the quiet kind.

Not the cinematic single tear.

The kind that sounded like something breaking loose.

“He wasn’t even mine,” she whispered through gritted teeth, her voice shaking. “He wasn’t even mine and it still hurts this much.”

Her shoulders trembled as she pressed her palms into her face, trying to smother the ugly sobs that poured out of her.

“Why did I let myself think… why did I believe…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Because there were too many endings and none of them were kind.

She curled tighter into herself, heart pounding with self-loathing and shame.

“I should’ve known,” she choked out. “Of course someone like him… of course he wouldn’t want someone like me.”

It all came rushing back — the way she second-guessed every laugh they’d shared, every glance he gave her, every casual brush of his hand near hers.

It had all meant something to her.

And nothing to him.

“I’m such an idiot,” she whispered. “I thought… I actually thought…”

She trailed off again, her voice barely audible over the sound of her crying.

And beneath all the heartbreak, beneath the rejection, a cruel thought rooted itself deep:

It’s because of how I look.

It’s always that.

Too big. Too plain. Too invisible. Too easy to overlook.

She hated herself for thinking it — hated herself for believing it — but in that moment, it felt like the only answer.

Because how else could she explain why she wasn’t enough?

Why no one ever stayed?

Why even when she let someone in — someone she trusted — it still ended with her being left behind?

Y/N didn’t know how long she sat there, crying into the silence of her apartment.

But when her dog padded over and curled against her leg, she buried her face into its fur and let herself fall apart a little longer.

Because tonight, she didn’t have to pretend.

Tonight, it was okay to break.

-

Y/N arrived earlier than usual.

She sat at her desk with her earbuds in, a neutral playlist playing softly — nothing too emotional, just ambient noise. Enough to keep her from thinking too hard.

When Jungkook walked in, she didn’t look up.

But she felt it — the shift in the air, the subtle drop in the noise of the office as he passed by, eyes lingering on her.

She didn’t turn around.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

She was calm. Measured. Walls firmly back up.

Because if there was one thing she knew how to do, it was make herself disappear.

-

She chose to sit with a different group today — people she didn’t normally engage with, quieter coworkers who kept to themselves and mostly talked about client calls and weekend errands.

It was peaceful.

Safe.

But halfway through her sandwich, Jungkook appeared behind her.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but casual. “Haven’t seen you all day.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. She finished chewing, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, and then turned her head slightly toward him. “Yeah. Been busy.”

He blinked. “Ah. Right.”

A pause.

“Mind if I sit?”

She shrugged. “It’s a free country.”

Her tone was polite. Not rude. But cold — the kind of cold that didn’t come with anger, just distance. The kind that made it clear: you don’t have access to me anymore.

Jungkook sat slowly beside her, clearly picking up on the shift.

“You good?” he asked after a moment.

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I guess I don’t have much to say.”

He stared at her for a few seconds, trying to read her.

Y/N looked up, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were steady — not angry, not bitter.

Just tired.

“I figured I should give you space,” she said simply. “You have a girlfriend now. It wouldn’t feel right… hanging out the way we used to.”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed slightly. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

She gave a small, closed-mouth smile — almost pitying.

“I know you think that. But you weren’t the one falling.”

He blinked, caught off guard. She stood up, grabbing her tray.

“I should get back. Deadlines.”

And with that, she walked away.

No dramatics. No tears.

Just quiet, brutal honesty — and a silence that followed her all the way back to her desk.

-

Y/N was curled up in bed, blanket over her legs, her phone screen glowing in the dim light of her room. She was doing what she shouldn’t have been doing — scrolling Instagram while pretending she didn’t care.

Mina had tagged a few coworkers at a bar, and she tapped through absentmindedly, muted laughter and blurry drinks passing by.

Then she landed on his story.

Jungkook’s.

She hesitated. Her finger hovered — but curiosity was cruel.

She tapped.

The video started with music playing faintly in the background — some soft indie track. It was shaky, handheld, like someone laughing behind the camera.

And then — there it was.

A girl’s perfectly manicured hands holding a large bouquet of white tulips, fingers dainty against the soft petals. The camera panned up briefly to reveal the side of her face — smiley, radiant, glowing. The kind of glow that comes from being wanted.

She had tagged him.

@jungkook97 🤍✨

Y/N’s screen blurred instantly as tears swelled, her lungs tightening.

But it wasn’t just the image.

It was the memory that slammed into her seconds later, vicious and uninvited.

Flashback – Two Weeks Ago

They were sitting outside after lunch, the two of them alone on the bench near the smoking area.

Jungkook had been leaning back, arms spread across the backrest lazily, looking at the clouds like they owed him something.

“You should just marry me,” he said suddenly, voice light.

Y/N had rolled her eyes. “God, shut up.”

“No, seriously. You’d be a fun wife,” he grinned. “We’d just chill all day, smoke, talk shit. I’d never get bored.”

She’d laughed — awkward, disbelieving. “And where’s my ring, huh? My bouquet? My effort, Jungkook?”

He’d tilted his head, smirking. “You want flowers?”

“Yeah,” she’d replied, more serious than she meant to be. “You tell a girl to marry you, at least bring her a damn bouquet.”

He had laughed. That loud, boyish laugh. “Alright, alright. I’ll get you a flower from 7-Eleven next time. A real fancy one.”

And she had smiled through it — tried to match his energy — even though, deep down, it stung.

Because something about the way he said it made her believe he might have meant a piece of it.

Back to Now

Y/N shut off her phone.

Her chest heaved once. Then again. And then the tears came — hot, fast, and furious.

She wasn’t just sad now.

She was angry.

Angry at him — for playing with her heart like it was a toy he never planned to keep.

Angry at herself — for letting those jokes slide, for reading into things that were never meant to be read.

For letting herself hope.

For letting herself want.

“How stupid am I?” she whispered aloud, her voice trembling.

All those little things — the teasing, the flirtation, the “you’d be my wife” jokes — they weren’t affection.

They were just jokes.

And now some other girl got the real version. The soft music. The flowers. The story tag. The seven-hour conversation.

The genuine thing.

Y/N wiped her face, her jaw clenched tight.

No more tears. Not tonight.

She was done romanticizing someone who never meant a damn thing he said.

[scarluna]

Thoughts of You

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 1 | 2 | 4 | 5

Chapters: 3 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: HOLY HELL BEEN COLLECTING THEM MOMENTS LIKE RHINESTONES. Btw, if ya wanna follow me on instahgram and wanna learn more with what is going on with my situation: scar.lunaa

The next morning, Y/N walks into the office, feeling the weight of yesterday still lingering in the back of her mind. She wasn’t sure what to expect from Jungkook today, but when he arrives, he does something odd. His eyes scan the room lazily, skipping over everyone else as if they don’t exist, and then he greets only her.

“Morning, Y/N,” he says, his tone casual, but something about the way he looks at her feels… off. Like she’s the only one in the room.

The rest of the office barely notices, but Y/N does. Her stomach tightens as she gives a small nod in return. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t start a conversation—just acknowledges her and moves on.

The day progresses, but somehow, they keep gravitating toward each other. Coffee breaks turn into casual chats, stolen moments between tasks stretch longer than necessary, and their smoke breaks? Those become something else entirely.

“You’re late,” Jungkook mutters as Y/N steps outside for their second cigarette of the day.

“I had work to do.” She rolls her eyes, lighting up.

Jungkook smirks, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “Tch. Excuses.”

Their conversations are easy, but there’s an edge to them now. A push and pull. Y/N feels bolder today, maybe because she’s growing used to the way Jungkook just… is. The way he leans against the wall, the way his lips curve around his cigarette. The way he says things without saying them.

So she asks, “Do the girls you sleep with ever catch feelings for you?”

Jungkook glances at her, amused but not surprised. “Yeah.”

Y/N expected that. What she didn’t expect was how casually he says it, like it’s a simple fact, like he’s completely detached from it.

“I’m always upfront about it, though,” he continues, flicking ash to the ground. “They know not to expect anything else from me.”

Something about the way he says it makes Y/N pause. It’s honest, blunt. Almost cruel, but not quite.

Still, she keeps going. “Have you ever caught feelings?”

Jungkook takes a drag, eyes flickering to hers. This time, his answer takes a beat longer.

“Yeah,” he admits. “But it was different. It wasn’t about her, it was about the sex.”

Y/N’s breath catches, but she keeps her face neutral. “What do you mean?”

Jungkook exhales, gaze darkening just slightly. “She made me fall for her. She got on top, took control. It was like…” He trails off, tilting his head as if searching for the right words. “Like she melted me. I couldn’t get enough of her.”

Y/N’s cheeks burn. Not just from his words but from how easily he says them, how shameless he is about his own experiences. Meanwhile, she hasn’t even had her first kiss.

But somehow, she doesn’t shrink back. Instead, she presses on, confidence bubbling up from nowhere. “What happened to her?”

Jungkook’s smirk fades a little. He glances away, tapping his cigarette. “Got into a real relationship. Lost contact with her after that.”

There’s something final in the way he says it, but Y/N doesn’t miss the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he still remembers. Like maybe, in some way, she still lingers in the back of his mind.

And for some reason, that makes her feel something she doesn’t quite understand.

Y/N takes a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling as she side-eyes Jungkook. “You know, if I become your personal therapist, I’m gonna start charging you.”

Jungkook chuckles, tilting his head. “Good thing I already have one then.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And how’s that going for you?”

“She’s good,” he admits, tapping his cigarette to flick the ash. “I’ve been seeing her for a while now. Helps clear my head.”

Y/N nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “That’s good. Therapy helps.” She pauses, then casually adds, “I’ve been going for seven years now.”

Jungkook glances at her, something shifting in his expression. It’s not pity, not surprise—just understanding. A quiet acknowledgment. He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t push, and Y/N appreciates that.

They finish their cigarettes in comfortable silence before heading back inside.

-

Back in the office, the workload slows down, leaving them with time to kill. Jungkook pulls up YouTube on his screen, clicking through random videos. Y/N, bored out of her mind, leans over. “What are you watching?”

Jungkook smirks. “Something stupid.”

“Perfect. I love stupid things.” She pulls her chair closer, watching along with him.

As the video plays, she barely notices Mina watching them from across the room. That is, until she catches the knowing smirk on her colleague’s face. Y/N rolls her eyes playfully but doesn’t bother acknowledging it.

Mina doesn’t say anything, but the look is enough. Y/N knows what’s going through her head.

She ignores it, choosing instead to focus on the video playing in front of her, though she’s keenly aware of Jungkook’s presence beside her.

-

Later, they step out for another break. The air is cooler now, and the office lights glow against the darkening sky.

Jungkook suddenly starts humming a tune, his voice effortlessly smooth as he moves to the rhythm. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he starts playfully dancing—small, exaggerated moves that are meant to be ridiculous.

Y/N watches, amused. “Are you—?”

Before she can finish, Jungkook grins and walks toward her, his movements slow and teasing. When he reaches her, his fingers brush against her elbow, gliding down to her wrist in a light touch.

Y/N feels it instantly. A warmth that spreads up her arm, a static charge that makes her freeze. Her breath catches for a split second, and when she lifts her eyes, she finds his already on hers.

The moment is brief—just a second, maybe less—but it’s enough to send her mind spiraling.

She quickly tries to laugh it off, shaking her head. “Jungkook, please. Don’t give me a lap dance in public.”

He snorts, amused, but Y/N’s insides are a mess. Because in all the time they’ve spent together, he hasn’t once touched her. Not like that.

And now she doesn’t know what to make of it.

She stepped back, beath hitched, cheeks flushed a little as she cleared her throat, silence between them for a few minutes. He suddenly huffs out a sigh and says, “Man, I feel like going out to a bar tonight.”

Y/N glances at him, unimpressed. “So go out.”

Jungkook smirks, tilting his head at her. “I don’t have a girlfriend to go with.”

Y/N snorts, flicking her cigarette. “Then go with one of the girls you sleep with.”

He laughs, the sound deep and genuine. “Damn. You really said that without hesitation.”

Y/N shrugs, amused at his reaction. “Why not? You have plenty of options.”

Jungkook shakes his head, leaning back against the railing. “Nah. That’s different.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

Jungkook looks at her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a small smirk, he says, “Going out drinking is… I don’t know. More of a ‘spend-time-with-someone-you-like’ thing.”

Y/N blinks, momentarily thrown off by his words. It’s the way he says it—so nonchalant, yet there’s an underlying weight to it.

She recovers quickly, scoffing. “You ‘like’ a lot of people then, huh?”

Jungkook chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. “Touché.”

But for some reason, the conversation lingers in the air between them, unspoken questions hanging in the space they don’t dare to fill.

-

Their last break of the day comes with an unexpected drizzle, the sky dark and heavy with rain. Y/N and Mina stand under the small roof outside the office building, watching as the streetlights shimmer against the wet pavement.

“I swear, this weather is just depressing,” Mina mutters, hugging her arms.

Y/N exhales, leaning against the cold wall. “Yeah, well, at least it’s not snowing.”

The door creaks open, and Jungkook steps out, hands stuffed into his pockets. He takes one look at the rain and clicks his tongue. “Tch. Of course, it starts raining now.”

He moves closer, joining them under the tiny shelter. The space suddenly feels smaller with him there.

“What are you two talking about?” he asks, looking between them.

“Just complaining about the weather,” Mina says with a small smile.

Jungkook hums in response, then turns to Y/N with a smirk. “Bet you hate it even more, Miss I-Refuse-To-Bring-An-Umbrella.”

Y/N scoffs. “Excuse me? I don’t need an umbrella. I thrive in the rain.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh yeah? You’re telling me you don’t look like a drowned rat when it starts pouring?”

Mina stifles a laugh, watching the two of them go at it.

Y/N places a hand over her chest dramatically. “Wow. The disrespect. Just say you think I’m ugly and go.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

Jungkook sighs, rolling his eyes before suddenly blurting out, “You know what? I’m gonna eat you up.”

Silence.

Mina’s jaw drops. Y/N’s eyes widen.

The rain is the only sound between them for a few seconds before Y/N quickly recovers, laughing. “Well, too bad. I’m poisonous.”

Jungkook shrugs, completely unfazed. “Been told that before.”

Y/N narrows her eyes. “I mean it, though. I’m actually toxic.”

Jungkook tilts his head, studying her for a moment. Then, with a smirk, he says, “We’ll see about that.”

The air is thick with something unspoken, something electric. Mina stays quiet, eyes flicking between them like she’s witnessing something she shouldn’t.

Jungkook flicks his cigarette, then stretches. “Alright, I’m heading back in.”

As soon as the office door swings shut behind him, Mina immediately bursts into laughter, hitting Y/N’s arm. “What the hell was that?!”

Y/N groans, covering her face. “Don’t start.”

Mina is relentless, grinning like a madwoman. “He said he was gonna eat you up. Y/N. What is going on?!”

Y/N shakes her head, laughing despite herself. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Mina wiggles her eyebrows. “Well, I do. And I like it.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can’t ignore the way her heart is still beating a little too fast. “You know who calls he he is gonna eat me up? My husband.” Mina confesses and Y/N stiffens a little. “It’s just a friendly banter!” “That’s not what his eyes told, for a second I felt a third wheel, you two looked at each others eyes, like damn.” Y/N frowned and took a drag from her cigarette, not being able to say anything else for a few minutes. “Let’s go back up, I am freezing.” Y/N mumbled and Mina agreed, both climbed the stairs and got back into the office. -

Later that evening, Y/N finds herself sprawled out on her bed, phone pressed against her ear as she vents to her best friend, Luna.

“I swear, I don’t even know what’s going on anymore,” Y/N groans, rubbing her temples. “Jungkook is just—ugh. He’s so confusing.”

Luna hums on the other end of the line. “Okay, slow down. What happened now?”

Y/N sighs dramatically. “We spent the whole day together. Like, literally, from morning to our last break. And the way he acts sometimes—it’s like he’s flirting, but I don’t even think he realizes it. He probably just treats all the girls he sleeps with the same way.”

There’s a pause before Luna responds. “And that bothers you?”

Y/N huffs. “It’s not that it bothers me. It’s just… frustrating. All the men in my life have been so indecisive, and I’ve lost hope that Jungkook is any different. He probably just thinks I could be one of them.”

Luna stays quiet for a moment, then sighs. “Okay, first of all, let’s break this down.”

Y/N groans. “I knew you were gonna get all psychologist on me.”

“You called me, Y/N.” Luna laughs. “Now shut up and listen.”

Y/N rolls her eyes but stays quiet.

Luna continues, “Jungkook is naturally playful, yeah? He’s charming, flirty—some people just are like that without realizing it. But here’s the thing: if he really treated you like he treats the girls he sleeps with, don’t you think he would’ve made a move by now?”

Y/N opens her mouth, then closes it. She hadn’t considered that.

Luna presses on. “And if he only saw you as an option, don’t you think he’d already be trying to take you home? Instead, he’s spending time with you. He’s making you flustered. He’s testing the waters.”

Y/N frowns. “Testing the waters?”

“Yes! He’s trying to see how you react. And from what you’ve told me, he doesn’t just treat you like some random hookup.”

Y/N groans again, flopping onto her stomach. “Then what the hell does he want?”

Luna chuckles. “That’s for you to figure out, babe.”

Y/N groans dramatically, dragging a pillow over her face. “I hate men.”

Luna snickers. “Sure, sure. Keep me updated when he flirts with you again tomorrow.”

Y/N doesn’t respond, but deep down, she knows she’ll have plenty to tell.

[scarluna]

omg you're back

I was never gone, just busyyy T////T

[scarluna]

Thoughts of You

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 1 | 3 | 4 | 5

Chapters: 2 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: In sake of this fic, some things are added, others are a little changed, but the overall story is true. I AM AS CONFUSED AS Y/N OK? OK.

A week had passed, and Y/N found herself standing in front of her mirror, dreading the idea of stepping out. The past few days had been a relentless battle between her self-doubt and the need to push herself beyond her comfort zone. She hated the way she looked—how big she felt in her own skin. Every outfit she tried on made her feel worse, her reflection in the mirror only reinforcing the insecurities gnawing at her.

Sighing, she settled on oversized clothes, ones that concealed rather than accentuated, offering her a semblance of security. Her hair was curled loosely, cascading down her shoulders, a contrast to the chaos in her mind. A touch of makeup—just enough to make her feel like she had put in some effort, yet not enough to draw attention—completed her look.

Her dog whined at her feet, sensing her reluctance, but Y/N gave the pup a small smile before grabbing her bag and stepping out the door. The fresh air hit her face, yet it did little to ease the weight in her chest. The car ride was silent, save for the occasional deep breath she took to steel herself.

Arriving at the meetup spot, she saw her colleagues already gathered, laughter filling the air. They greeted her warmly, joking about the upcoming night, their energy so effortlessly light compared to the storm within her. For a fleeting moment, she managed a small smile, allowing herself to feel a bit of ease in their presence.

Then came the loud roar of an engine, bass-heavy music thumping through the air. The group turned, already knowing who it was before they even saw the sleek car roll up beside them. Jungkook. His presence was impossible to ignore, commanding attention the moment he stepped out.

Y/N swallowed as she caught sight of him. The disheveled hair, the relaxed posture, and—what made her stomach churn—the faint but unmistakable hickeys littering his neck.

Her heart sank, her mood plummeting instantly. She had been struggling to even step out of her house, to feel like she belonged among them, while he... he had been out, living effortlessly, having fun, and clearly enjoying the company of someone else.

She shifted her gaze away, forcing herself to maintain composure as their friends greeted him with teasing remarks. She wanted to disappear, to retreat into the comfort of her home, where she could be alone with her dog and her thoughts.

But she was here now, and she had to endure it. Even if it hurt.

The teasing began almost instantly.

“Damn, Jungkook,” one of their colleagues smirked, nudging him playfully. “Rough night?”

Another chimed in, laughing. “Or should I say, rough nights? You’ve got enough hickeys to last the week.”

Jungkook, ever the cocky one, simply grinned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “What can I say?” he shrugged, his voice dripping with amusement. “Gotta keep life interesting.”

The group erupted into laughter, the energy high and unbothered. Y/N, on the other hand, remained quiet, staring ahead as if their conversation didn’t concern her. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket, lighting it with steady hands, despite the storm raging inside her. Taking a slow, deep drag, she let the smoke swirl around her, masking the bitter taste of disappointment that sat heavy on her tongue.

She had no right to feel this way. She knew that. He wasn’t hers—never was, never would be. But for even a second, she had allowed herself to believe there was something. A fleeting glance, a moment of warmth, a shared silence that had meant nothing to him but had kept her awake at night, foolishly hoping.

Stupid. She was so, so stupid.

“Hey, you good?” One of her colleagues leaned toward her, their voice laced with concern.

Y/N forced a lazy smile, exhaling the smoke as she waved them off. “Yeah, just too sleepy to function.” A lie, but an easy one.

They seemed satisfied with her answer, turning back to the conversation as Jungkook smirked at another crude joke thrown his way. Y/N, meanwhile, sat in silence, the cigarette burning between her fingers as she fought the cruel thoughts in her head.

She needed to stop. Stop pretending. Stop romanticizing. Stop letting herself fall into this ridiculous fairytale where she was ever anything more than just another face in his orbit.

Jungkook would never see her the way she wished he would.

And it was time she stopped seeing him that way too.

The break room was lively, filled with the usual chatter and laughter as everyone settled in for their lunch break. Some were sprawled out on the couches, others engaged in a casual game of football, while a few gathered around the vending machines debating over snacks. Y/N sat at the table in front of Jungkook, absentmindedly picking at her food, her mind drifting elsewhere as the conversation carried on around her.

Jungkook, spinning lazily in his chair, suddenly spoke up, dragging everyone’s attention back to him. “You know,” he mused, stretching his arms behind his head, “I think I should date an older woman. Maybe even a MILF.”

A chorus of laughter erupted around the room. “Oh yeah?” One of the guys smirked. “Thinking of settling down already?”

Jungkook grinned, shaking his head. “Nah, just think it could be fun. Older women have their shit together, know what they want, plus…” He trailed off as he turned slightly in his chair, catching movement outside the window. His gaze locked onto a woman walking past the building, pushing a baby stroller. She was effortlessly beautiful—dressed casually yet put together, her confidence apparent in the way she carried herself.

“Damn,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Now she’s hot.”

Some of the guys turned to look, chuckling at his sudden distraction. “She’s got a baby, dude.”

Jungkook shrugged, still watching her. “So? Doesn’t mean she’s taken.” He smirked, clearly entertained by his own train of thought. “Think I should ask if she’s single?”

Y/N felt her stomach twist in disgust. She had spent the last week trying to fight off the stupid storm of feelings and confusion she had toward him, trying to remind herself that this was the reality and no matter how his words were gathered, he was still a fuckboy and probably did not mean anything he had told her so far about him being loyal. Here he was, proving her right without even realizing it.

She didn’t think. She just moved.

Pushing her chair back abruptly, she stood up and walked straight out of the break room, her face blank, her heart pounding with frustration. She didn’t even care how obvious it looked—she just needed to get out of there.

As the door swung shut behind her, Jungkook’s amused voice carried through the room. “Oh, no, Y/N is tired of my shit!” he joked, shaking his head as the others laughed.

But for the first time, something about her reaction made him pause.

-

Y/N had made it a habit to slip away during breaks, finding solace in the quiet outside. The crisp air, the burn of the cigarette between her fingers—it was the only thing that seemed to ground her these days. She avoided the break room, avoided the easy laughter and meaningless conversations, and most importantly, she avoided him.

Jungkook.

But of course, he found her anyway.

She barely had time to take another drag when she heard the door creak open behind her. She knew it was him before he even spoke.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate in the air before she turned her gaze to him. “No, I haven’t.”

Jungkook let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, his presence too overwhelming, too intoxicating. “Liar.” His tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it—curiosity, maybe even concern. “You barely look at me. You don’t sit with us anymore.”

She shrugged, taking another drag, feigning indifference. “I’m just tired.”

Jungkook didn’t look convinced. His dark eyes scanned her face, as if searching for something beneath her guarded expression. The silence between them was heavy, charged. Y/N could feel the heat of his gaze, the way he was studying her, trying to read between the lines of her simple excuse.

“You sure that’s all?” His voice was lower now, softer, and it made her stomach tighten in a way she hated.

Before she could answer, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket, breaking whatever unspoken thing had been building between them. Jungkook sighed, pulling it out and glancing at the screen. He didn’t answer immediately, but whatever he saw on the display made him smirk slightly before he finally picked up.

“Yo,” he answered casually, his voice shifting into something more playful. A few short words, and then he hung up.

Moments later, Y/N heard heels clicking against the pavement. She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was—she could already picture the kind of girl Jungkook surrounded himself with. And when she did look, her stomach twisted.

The girl was thin, almost unnaturally so, her long hair spilling down in artificially perfect waves. Everything about her was polished—the exaggerated lashes, the overly plumped lips, the body sculpted to perfection.

“Hey, you,” she greeted Jungkook with a slow, knowing smile, her voice dripping with familiarity.

They were close. Too close. The way she looked at him, the way he smirked at her—it didn’t take much to guess what kind of history they had.

Y/N felt something ugly crawl up her throat, but she swallowed it down. She refused to let it show. Instead, she forced a weak smile, one that probably looked as fake as the girl’s hair extensions.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” she murmured, flicking her cigarette away as she immediately slipped back into the building without giving Jungkook time to respond. This entire thing kept running in her mind, it was as if this was all she could think of the month she has been here. Y/N had to get a fucking grip and get over this, all of the men she had met in her past were the same, men who were one in words yet did the opposite. She shouldn’t have been surprised about this, it was as if Universe sent a huge middle finger her way for being so closed off. -

Y/N sat across from her close friend at their usual café, the scent of fresh coffee filling the air. She stirred her drink absentmindedly, sighing as she recounted everything—Jungkook, the break room incident, the fake-looking girl, and the way she had walked away, feeling small and ridiculous for even being affected.

Her friend had a a knack for reading people far too well, listened attentively, nodding along as Y/N spoke. When she was finished, her friend leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

“You know what I think?” she said thoughtfully.

Y/N groaned. “Here we go.”

“I think you’re stuck.”

Y/N frowned. “Stuck how?”

“You’ve been in your comfort zone for too long, Y/N,” her friend said seriously. “You’re always playing it safe, always hiding. And I get it—you like your space, your quiet world. But growth doesn’t happen in places that are comfortable. If you want to move on, if you want to feel better about yourself, you need to push yourself.”

Y/N arched a brow. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

“Easy. Start by doing things you wouldn’t normally do. Wear something different, change up your makeup, say yes to things instead of immediately retreating.” Her friend smiled. “Do it for yourself. Not for Jungkook, not for anyone else. Just you.”

Y/N hesitated, biting her lip. It sounded simple enough, but it wasn’t. She had built her world around comfort and control, and stepping outside of that felt terrifying. But at the same time, a part of her knew her friend was right.

And so, the next morning, she did just that.

For once, she didn’t reach for her oversized clothes. Instead, she slid into a pair of skinny jeans, ones that hugged her figure in a way she wasn’t used to but didn’t hate. She paired it with a soft, slightly low-cut blouse—work-appropriate yet subtly flattering. Her makeup was a little more refined, enhancing rather than hiding. She stared at herself in the mirror, unsure at first. But the longer she looked, the more she felt… okay. Not completely confident, but okay.

And that was a start.

When Y/N arrived at the office, the reaction was immediate.

“Damn, Y/N, look at you!” one of her colleagues grinned.

“You look amazing!” another chimed in, eyes flickering over her in genuine appreciation.

She offered them a small, almost shy smile, mumbling a quiet “Thanks” as she made her way to her desk. It felt strange, the attention, but it wasn’t bad. For once, she wasn’t trying to disappear into the background.

The door opened, and in walked Jungkook.

She held her breath, but he barely reacted. He walked past her, barely sparing a glance before offering a casual, “Hey,” before settling into his place.

That was it.

Y/N exhaled, realizing something.

She hadn’t done this for him. And that meant his reaction—or lack of it—didn’t matter.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt something close to free.

The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky as Y/N stepped outside for a quick smoke break. The air was thick with casual conversation and laughter as a few colleagues gathered, all taking a moment to unwind. She leaned against the railing, taking a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling as she listened to the chatter around her.

“Y/N, you look different lately,” a voice piped up beside her. She turned to see one of her colleagues, a guy who had always been a little too flirty, watching her with an interested smirk. “In a good way,” he added, his eyes running over her outfit.

She gave him a polite smile, shrugging. “Just trying something new.”

“Well, it suits you,” he said, stepping a little closer. “We should celebrate the new you. Maybe grab some drinks after work? My place, maybe even watch a movie?” His voice had a certain implication to it, and Y/N felt her stomach twist.

She chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “Thanks, but I’ll have to pass.”

“Oh, come on,” he pressed, his tone playful but persistent. “It’ll be fun. Just a casual hangout.”

Y/N stiffened slightly, the forced smile on her lips faltering. “I said no,” she replied, firmer this time, but he didn’t seem to take the hint, leaning in just a little too much.

Before she could react, another voice cut through the air.

“Is there a problem here?”

The mood shifted instantly.

Jungkook had been standing nearby, leaning against the wall with his own cigarette in hand, casually listening in. But now, his entire posture had changed—his jaw tight, his expression unreadable as he stared at the guy with an intensity that made everyone else go quiet.

The colleague blinked, caught off guard. “Nah, man. Just talking.”

Jungkook didn’t break eye contact. “Didn’t sound like just talking.” His voice was low, calm, but there was something sharp in it. Something warning.

The guy let out a small, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Relax, dude. Just asking her out.”

“She said no,” Jungkook stated plainly.

Silence stretched between them, tension thick enough to cut through. Y/N glanced between the two, her heart beating a little faster, not expecting Jungkook to step in like this.

The colleague raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. No harm done.” He took a step back, throwing Y/N one last glance before mumbling something under his breath and walking off.

Jungkook took a slow drag from his cigarette before flicking his gaze toward Y/N. “You good?”

She exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just studied her for a moment before finally nodding back, looking away as he took another drag.

But even as the conversation around them resumed, Y/N could still feel his presence beside her, solid and unwavering. And for some reason, that alone made her feel a little lighter.

-

The workday finally came to an end, and the office slowly emptied as people grabbed their bags, exchanging casual goodbyes. Y/N slung her purse over her shoulder, taking a deep breath as she stepped out into the cool evening air.

She made her way toward the bus stop, the day’s events still sitting heavy in her mind. Just as she was about to put in her headphones to drown out her thoughts, she heard the familiar sound of an engine purring beside her.

Jungkook’s sleek car rolled up, the passenger window sliding down effortlessly. “Where you headed?” he asked casually, one hand resting on the wheel.

Y/N blinked, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “Uh… home?”

Jungkook smirked. “Get in. I’ll drive you.”

She hesitated.

This was unexpected. It wasn’t like they were close. Sure, they shared breaks, exchanged words, but this? This felt like something else.

“I’m fine, the bus is—”

“Slow. And uncomfortable,” he cut in smoothly. “Come on, it’s a thirty-minute ride. You’d rather sit in a crowded bus when I’m right here?” His gaze flickered toward her, something teasing yet unreadable behind those dark eyes.

Y/N bit her lip, the refusal sitting on the tip of her tongue. But then she remembered her friend’s words—step out of your comfort zone.

Maybe this was one of those moments.

With a small sigh, she relented. “Fine.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, she was instantly engulfed in warmth, the subtle hum of the car’s engine vibrating beneath her. And the scent—God, his scent—wrapped around her, all masculine spice and something distinctly him. She forced herself to focus on buckling her seatbelt rather than the fact that she was sitting next to Jungkook in a confined space, inhaling his cologne like it was some kind of drug.

He pulled onto the road, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift.

“So,” he mused after a moment, glancing at her. “What’s your deal?”

Y/N frowned. “My deal?”

“Yeah. You don’t talk much. You keep to yourself. And yet…” He trailed off, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve been looking different lately. Acting different too.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “So I put on better clothes and now I’m a mystery?”

Jungkook chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through the car. “You were already a mystery. This just makes you more interesting.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but felt the heat creeping up her neck. The conversation flowed easier than she expected, light banter mixed with moments of silence that weren’t uncomfortable. The drive went by quicker than she thought, and before she knew it, Jungkook was pulling up in front of her apartment building, shifting the car into park.

She turned to thank him, but the words caught in her throat.

The air between them shifted.

The low hum of the engine did nothing to mask the way the tension suddenly thickened, heavy and lingering. The dim glow of the streetlights outside barely illuminated the inside of the car, casting soft shadows across Jungkook’s sharp features.

His gaze settled on her, slow and deliberate.

Y/N swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly around her purse.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering down to her lips before meeting her gaze again. “You’re hard to read, you know that?” His voice was lower now, smoother.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, forcing a small smile. “Maybe I like it that way.”

Jungkook’s smirk deepened, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah?”

She nodded, gripping the handle of the door before things could spiral into something she wasn’t sure she was ready for. “Thanks for the ride, Jungkook.”

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say anything else. Just watched as she slipped out of the car and made her way to her building.

But she could feel his gaze on her, lingering, burning, until she finally disappeared inside—her heart hammering against her ribs the entire way up to her apartment.

[scarluna]

Thoughts of You

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Chapters: 1 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: So, this is something like a diary slash fanfic with Jungkook being the main character. It's something that is currently happening to me so. Stay tuned, xoxo.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Y/N sat in the back of the large training room, her hands wrapped tightly around the company-issued manual. She knew no one in this room. Fifty new hires, all squeezed into the corporate world like a fresh batch of recruits, eager to prove themselves.

But not her.

She wasn’t eager. She wasn’t excited.

She was terrified.

Not that she would ever let it show.

With her best neutral face in place, she kept to herself, making sure her laughter was just enough to blend in but not enough to invite attention. Years of perfecting the art of invisibility had turned her into a master at it.

That is, until he walked in.

Jeon Jungkook.

He was hard to ignore. Even if you wanted to.

Loud, energetic, effortlessly confident. The kind of person who could make friends in under five minutes just by existing. His laughter boomed across the room, a stark contrast to the dry corporate environment, and people naturally gravitated toward him like he was some kind of human magnet.

Y/N wasn’t immune to noticing him either.

But she refused to acknowledge it.

At least, not in the first week.

By the second week, she couldn’t help it.

It started small.

Jungkook had a way of filling up space—his energy, his voice, his stupidly attractive presence. She noticed the way he cracked jokes at the trainers, making even the most monotonous lectures somewhat bearable. He was the kind of person who could probably make the apocalypse seem like a minor inconvenience.

He got along with everyone.

And yet, somehow, his gaze found her.

She wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe during the lunch breaks where she sat at the end of the table, eating quietly while the rest of the team talked over each other. Or during the moments when he’d glance back at her in the training room and smirk, like he knew she was trying not to laugh at whatever nonsense he was spouting.

But the real turning point?

Smoking breaks.

The first time they all went out for a smoke, it was just a casual thing. A group of them—seven or eight—gathered outside, sharing lighters, passing around cigarettes like they were some kind of currency. Y/N had only gone because she wanted to escape the suffocating training room for a bit.

Jungkook had been there, of course.

And unlike the others, he noticed her.

“You smoke?” he asked, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable as she exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the cold air.

Y/N shrugged. “Only when work stresses me out.”

He grinned. “You’re gonna need a whole carton by the end of this training, then.”

She had chuckled at that. It was the first time she let her guard down around him.

The next day, the group went out again, but the day after that, it was just the two of them.

She hadn’t expected it.

Jungkook had caught her right before she was about to leave the training room, twirling his lighter between his fingers like a habit.

“Coming for a smoke?” he asked, casual as ever.

She hesitated.

Going with the group was fine. It was easy to blend in, to be just another face in the crowd.

But just with him?

Dangerous.

Still, she found herself nodding.

And as the two of them stepped outside, the crisp evening air wrapping around them, she realized something.

Jungkook wasn’t as loud when it was just the two of them.

He was different.

And for the first time in a long time, someone was paying attention to her.

She just didn’t know if she was ready for it.

The first few drags of the cigarette were always the best. The instant hit, the brief distraction. Y/N inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl in her lungs before exhaling slowly. The cold air outside the office made it even sharper, grounding her in the moment.

Jungkook stood beside her, one foot propped against the wall, his cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. His gaze flickered up to the dimly lit sky before shifting back to her.

“So,” he exhaled, watching the smoke swirl into the night, “what do you think of everyone so far?”

Y/N hesitated, fingers tightening around her cigarette. This was easy. Casual. Just workplace gossip.

Still, she took her time answering.

“They’re… alright,” she finally said, keeping her tone neutral. “A lot of them seem too eager, though. Like, they actually care about impressing management.”

Jungkook snorted. “Right? Like, chill, we’re just client agents, not the CEO’s personal army.”

She smirked, a small victory that he agreed. But even as she spoke, she was hyper-aware of herself—of the way her coat hugged her arms, of how her thighs felt too large even when standing still, of the way her stomach folded slightly as she leaned against the railing.

She wasn’t comfortable. Not really.

But she was good at pretending.

“What about you?” she asked, flicking some ash off the tip of her cigarette. “You get along with everyone, don’t you?”

Jungkook shrugged. “I guess? I dunno. I just don’t like awkwardness. People make everything so weird when they could just talk.”

I wish it was that easy for me, she thought.

She didn’t hate people. She just hated how she felt around them.

She’d spent years perfecting the art of shrinking herself, even when her body refused to comply. In school, in college, even in her previous jobs—she had mastered the skill of being there, but not seen. She had laughed at jokes, participated in conversations, even flirted a little when the situation called for it.

But she never let herself believe it was real.

Because how could it be?

Desire, attraction, intimacy—those things weren’t meant for girls like her.

They were for women with effortless beauty, with curves in the right places, with confidence that didn’t feel like a carefully curated performance.

Not for someone who had spent years avoiding mirrors.

Not for someone who learned early on that “you have such a pretty face” was just a polite way of saying “if only you were thinner.”

Not for someone like her.

Jungkook’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Okay, but tell me you haven’t noticed how weirdly competitive the trainers are with each other.” He grinned, flicking his cigarette. “I swear, I saw Mark and Rachel fighting over who knew more about company policies.”

Y/N huffed a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I did notice. Mark’s insufferable, though.”

“Right?” Jungkook groaned. “Dude acts like he owns the company, but he’s literally just reading from a PowerPoint.”

She laughed again, and for a second, it felt normal.

Like she wasn’t overthinking every single thing.

Like she wasn’t hyper-aware of her body, of the space she took up, of the fact that she wasn’t the type of girl who ended up alone outside with a guy like him.

Because that’s what Jungkook was.

The kind of guy who was too attractive for his own good. The kind of guy who never had to second-guess himself. The kind of guy who could be loud and take up space and be seen without shame.

And the worst part?

She wanted to think about him that way.

She wanted to let herself have that.

To allow her mind to wander into thoughts that she had long denied herself—fantasies she had always buried under layers of self-doubt and self-disgust.

But the moment they surfaced, shame followed.

Because that wasn’t for her.

That wasn’t allowed.

She didn’t deserve to feel that way about herself.

Or about anyone.

Jungkook exhaled one last stream of smoke before stubbing out his cigarette on the railing. “Wanna head back in?”

Y/N nodded quickly, eager to escape her own thoughts.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

As they walked back, she couldn’t help but wonder.

If Jungkook saw her the way she saw herself…

Or if, somehow, impossibly, he saw something else.

The training room buzzed with idle chatter, the afternoon slump creeping in as people half-listened to the trainer drone on about client retention strategies. Y/N sat in her usual spot, close to the back, where she could blend in without looking like she was actively avoiding people.

Jungkook, on the other hand, had no such concerns.

He had claimed the seat right behind her, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking effortlessly comfortable as if he owned the damn place. It had become a pattern over the past week—him choosing to sit near her, striking up random conversations, joking around like it was second nature.

She told herself it was nothing.

That it meant nothing.

Just Jungkook being Jungkook.

The way he was with everyone.

But then, the senior colleague walked in.

A woman from another department—older, energetic, and always in high spirits. She clapped her hands together, getting everyone's attention.

"Alright, guys! I know work can be exhausting, but let's put some good energy out there!" she announced. "Let’s do a little manifestation exercise. I’m gonna type out a few names—yours, mine—and we’ll manifest success, abundance, and money. Sound good?"

A few people chuckled, others nodded along.

Y/N shifted in her seat.

She never liked being called on, but since everyone was volunteering their names, she figured she should do the same.

"Y/N," she said softly, lifting her hand slightly.

Before she could say her last name, Jungkook’s voice cut through the room—clear, loud, and so damn casual that it took her brain a second to process.

"Jungkook's girlfriend."

Silence.

Then—laughter.

A few of their colleagues snickered, some making teasing "Ooooh" sounds like a bunch of high schoolers, and Y/N felt her entire body seize up.

Her face heated instantly.

Jungkook just grinned, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek like he was so pleased with himself.

The senior colleague chuckled, playing along. "Oh? Should I type that in?"

"Manifest it!" someone from across the room called out, making everyone laugh harder.

Y/N forced out a dry laugh, willing herself to stay composed. "Oh my god, shut up," she muttered under her breath, but Jungkook heard.

He leaned forward slightly, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence behind her.

"What?" he teased, voice low, just for her. "Wouldn't be the worst thing to manifest."

She refused to turn around.

Refused to acknowledge whatever the hell that meant.

Refused to let her mind go where it wanted to go.

It was a joke.

Just a joke.

Just Jungkook being… Jungkook.

Later that afternoon, Y/N found herself outside with a few of the girls from the office, their usual smoking spot tucked away from the main entrance. Jungkook wasn’t there—off doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t making her life unnecessarily difficult.

She exhaled a slow stream of smoke, grateful for the quiet.

Until one of the girls, Mina, smirked at her.

“So,” she started, her voice teasing, “you and Jungkook, huh?”

Y/N’s heart nearly stopped.

She scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on. He was just messing around.”

Another girl, Hana, raised an eyebrow. “Was he, though?”

“Yes!” Y/N insisted, but Mina wasn’t convinced.

“He does flirt with you a lot,” she pointed out, taking a drag of her cigarette.

Y/N stiffened. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Oh my god, are you blind?” Hana laughed. “He’s always around you.”

“That’s just because we started at the same time,” Y/N reasoned. “He’s like that with everyone.”

Mina hummed. “Not really. He jokes with everyone, sure, but have you noticed how close he sits to you?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Seriously,” Hana chimed in. “When we’re in the training room, he’s always scooting closer. Like, unnecessarily close.”

Mina nodded. “Yeah. And whenever he talks to you, he leans in just enough.”

Y/N shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted.

They were wrong.

They had to be wrong.

Because if they weren’t—if there was even a chance that Jungkook did flirt with her—then what?

Then she’d have to consider the possibility that someone like him could see someone like her that way.

And that was dangerous.

Because she knew better.

She knew her place.

She wasn’t the kind of girl men leaned into.

She wasn’t the kind of girl men scooted closer to.

She wasn’t the kind of girl men flirted with—at least, not seriously.

Not with any real intention.

And yet…

She thought back to the way he had said it.

"Jungkook’s girlfriend."

The way his voice had wrapped around the words so easily.

She shook her head, exhaling sharply.

“Nope. Not reading into this,” she muttered. “It was a joke.”

Mina and Hana exchanged a look, clearly amused.

“Whatever you say,” Mina said with a knowing smile.

Y/N took another slow drag of her cigarette, letting the smoke settle in her lungs.

She wouldn’t let herself get caught up in delusions.

Because if she let herself believe—even for a second—that Jungkook could actually be interested in her…

Then she wouldn’t know what to do when reality reminded her that he never would be.

A few days had passed since the whole “Jungkook’s girlfriend” joke, and Y/N had done everything in her power to push it out of her mind.

It was nothing. Just him being playful, just the kind of thing someone like him could say without thinking twice.

She shouldn’t be thinking about it.

And yet, she still found herself too aware of him.

Of how he always ended up near her. Of how he leaned in when he talked. Of how she caught him looking at her sometimes—not in a mocking way, not in a wow, she’s huge way, but in a way that she couldn’t figure out.

It made her stomach twist.

It made her hope.

And that was dangerous.

Because hope was something she didn’t allow herself to have.

So, when the group went out for a smoke again, she tried to keep her distance.

The usual crowd was there—Jungkook, Mina, Hana, a few of the guys from their team. Lighters flicked, cigarettes lit, and the casual flow of conversation filled the crisp air.

Jungkook was in the middle of telling some stupid story, something about a girl he’d been with last weekend. Y/N tried not to listen too closely, tried not to let the words settle too deep.

Then he said it.

“I like pretty girls with fuller lips,” he mused, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “Y’know, the ones who’ve had some work done. Looks so good.”

Y/N felt herself stiffen.

He wasn’t even talking to her, wasn’t looking at her when he said it. But the words hit anyway, like a cold slap to the face.

She turned slightly, watching as he took another drag of his cigarette, completely unaware of how her mind had just flipped on itself.

Mina smirked. “Oh, so you like the Instagram model type?”

Jungkook shrugged, grinning. “I mean, yeah. I like a girl who knows how to enhance what she’s got.”

“Yeah? And how many of those girls are you seeing?” one of the guys teased.

Jungkook chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t keep count, man. Just having fun.”

And that was it.

That was all Y/N needed to hear.

She took a slow step back, distancing herself from the conversation, suddenly feeling like an idiot for ever letting her mind wander in the first place.

Oh, he definitely isn’t into me.

Why was I even thinking about it?

The relief was almost immediate—like a weight lifting off her chest. Because now she had proof. Now she could shove away any lingering thoughts, any ridiculous ideas that maybe, maybe, there was something in the way he looked at her.

Because there wasn’t.

Jungkook liked confident girls. The kind who knew they were beautiful. The kind who walked into a room and owned it. The kind who got their lips done because they knew people would be looking at them.

And Y/N?

She barely wanted to be perceived.

She was nothing like the women he wanted.

And she never would be.

So she took another slow drag of her cigarette, let the smoke settle deep in her lungs, and decided that whatever she had been feeling before—

It was over.

The conversation had moved on.

Jungkook’s words about his type had already sunk into Y/N’s mind like a stone in deep water, and she had done her best to detach herself from it.

She was good at that—convincing herself not to care.

But then, casually, almost like an afterthought, he said something that made her pause.

“Yeah, I was in a relationship for four years,” he admitted, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

Y/N glanced at him before she could stop herself.

He had never mentioned that before.

“Wait,” Mina blinked, interested. “You? In a serious relationship?”

Jungkook chuckled. “Yeah. Long time, huh?”

“What happened?” one of the guys asked.

Jungkook shrugged. “It just ended. That’s all.”

Something in his tone told Y/N that wasn’t all, but she didn’t ask.

It wasn’t her place to.

And that was it. The topic drifted, people moved on, and she told herself she wouldn’t think about it.

But later—when it was just the two of them outside, the others having already gone back in—he brought it up again.

Y/N shivered slightly, rubbing her arms for warmth as she exhaled smoke into the cold night air. She had stayed behind for one last cigarette before heading back in, and somehow, Jungkook had done the same.

Now it was just them.

Quiet. No distractions.

And then, out of nowhere—

“I think I’m ready for something serious again.”

She turned to look at him, caught off guard.

His eyes weren’t on her. He was gazing at the ground, his cigarette between his fingers, expression unreadable.

Y/N swallowed. “You mean… a relationship?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

Jungkook—the same guy who had just admitted to sleeping with countless women, the same guy who had laughed about not keeping count—wanted to be in a relationship?

“You said you were with someone for four years,” she said carefully. “What happened?”

He was quiet for a moment, then sighed.

“I was loyal to her,” he said simply. “But she cheated on me.”

Y/N felt something twist in her stomach.

She hadn’t expected that.

He took another slow drag, exhaling before speaking again. “Before I met her, I slept around a lot. Just… had fun, you know? And after she cheated, I guess I just went back to that.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Except now, I don’t even think about it. It just happens.”

Y/N stayed silent, absorbing his words.

She shouldn’t be feeling anything about this.

She shouldn’t care.

But for some reason, the way he said it—the way he admitted it, so bluntly—it made her uneasy.

Jungkook glanced at her then, eyes dark under the dim light. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?” she murmured.

“I don’t sleep next to them,” he said. “After we’re done, I leave. Or I ask them to.” He tilted his head slightly. “I just… I don’t like being next to someone I have no feelings for.”

Y/N’s pulse jumped.

She didn’t know why, but something about the way he said it, about the way his voice lowered just slightly, sent a strange heat crawling up her spine.

She forced a chuckle, trying to keep it light. “Wow. Such a gentleman.”

Jungkook smirked, flicking his cigarette away. “I never said I was a good guy, Y/N.”

Her breath hitched slightly.

The way he was looking at her now—like he was studying her, like he was waiting for something—was making it hard to breathe.

The tension was thick.

And she hated it.

Because she knew her place.

She knew she wasn’t the kind of girl men looked at like that.

And yet, as Jungkook’s gaze lingered, as the silence stretched between them, she found herself struggling to remember why.

Y/N didn’t know what to say.

The way Jungkook was looking at her, the weight of the conversation—it was too much.

She wasn’t used to this kind of talk.

She wasn’t used to him like this.

He was always loud, always playful, always joking around, but now… now he was just raw. Unfiltered. And she didn’t know what to do with it.

So, finally, she forced herself to ask, “Then… what are you looking for in a relationship?”

Jungkook exhaled, thinking for a moment before answering.

“I’ve lowered my standards,” he admitted, his tone casual, but there was something sharp beneath it.

Y/N’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I used to have all these ideas of the perfect girl,” he said, leaning against the railing. “But now? I just want someone mature. Smart. Someone who actually knows how to communicate instead of just expecting things.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, trying to understand.

Jungkook sighed. “The girls I’m with now… they only care about their nails, their hair, their outfits—girly shit like that. And I don’t mind it, but sometimes I talk to them, and it’s like—” he snapped his fingers “—nothing. Zero brain capacity.”

Y/N blinked.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

Part of her wanted to laugh, to tell him he sounded ridiculous, but another part of her was just… confused.

Because he was acting like he wanted something real. Something deep.

And that didn’t make sense.

Not coming from him.

Not after everything he had just told her.

“So,” she started slowly, “you want someone who actually understands you?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”

Y/N hesitated, shifting slightly on her feet. “And what kind of boyfriend are you?”

Jungkook smirked at that, running a hand through his hair before answering.

“I don’t hold onto people too tight,” he said simply. “I’m not a jealous guy. I don’t believe in that possessive bullshit. If I’m with someone, it’s because I trust them. They’re their own person, I’m my own person. We have different friends, different lives.”

He paused for a second, then gave her an example.

“Like, let’s say we’re together,” he said, and Y/N’s heart skipped a beat.

She felt her breath hitch, but he didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did.

But he continued anyway.

“If we’re together, and we’re out somewhere, and some guy starts checking you out,” he said, “I wouldn’t freak out. I wouldn’t get mad. Because, at the end of the day, I know you’re mine. That’s it. Simple.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Because none of that should have meant anything.

And yet, her mind clung to a single, ridiculous thought.

Some guy checking me out?

She almost wanted to laugh.

Because that would never happen.

She wasn’t the type of girl men looked at like that.

But the way Jungkook had said it—so effortlessly, like it was a completely normal scenario—made something strange bloom in her chest.

It made her want to believe it.

Just for a second.

Just to see what it would feel like.

But she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

So, instead, she forced herself to focus on his words.

“I think jealousy is unbelievably stupid,” she admitted, her voice quieter than before. “If there’s trust, care, and love… then what’s the point?”

Jungkook hummed, considering her answer.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Exactly.”

Silence stretched between them.

Something unspoken lingered in the air—thick, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Y/N’s mind was racing, trying to make sense of this, trying to convince herself that none of it meant anything.

But then Jungkook looked at her again.

And suddenly, she wasn’t so sure.

Y/N had been trying to avoid the weight of Jungkook’s words, trying to brush them off like they meant nothing, but then—

“You have pretty eyes.”

She froze.

The words came out so casually, so effortlessly, like he hadn’t even thought twice before saying them. But Y/N had never been told that before.

Not in a way that mattered.

Not in a way that wasn’t followed by some joke, some empty compliment thrown her way to be nice.

She kept her expression neutral, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before giving him a skeptical glance. “What?”

Jungkook leaned against the railing, looking at her—not through her, not past her, but at her.

“I said you have pretty eyes.” His gaze flickered to her glasses. “Why are you hiding them behind those?”

Y/N’s stomach clenched.

Her fingers instinctively twitched at the frame of her glasses, but she didn’t dare remove them.

She needed them.

Not just to see, but to conceal.

They were her safety net, a barrier between herself and the world—a world that never really saw her, that never wanted to see her.

She forced out a chuckle, shaking her head. “I’m not hiding anything. I just need them.”

Jungkook didn’t push, but he didn’t look convinced either.

He just took another drag of his cigarette, watching her through the smoke.

Y/N’s mind spiraled.

Because that was just it, wasn’t it?

They were too different.

They were from completely different worlds.

Jungkook was charming, effortless, someone who moved through life with ease. He surrounded himself with people who were just like him—beautiful, confident, carefree.

And her?

She barely wanted to be perceived.

Even if, in some ridiculous, alternate universe, they were together… she’d never fit into his world.

His friends wouldn’t understand her.

She’d always be second-guessing herself, always feeling like the odd one out, always waiting for someone to question why Jungkook was with her in the first place.

The thought settled deep inside her chest, heavy and painful.

Because even if she wanted to believe there was something here, something small and unspoken—

It didn’t matter.

It never would.

The days without Jungkook felt different.

He had taken some vacation leave, and Y/N told herself it was nice to have a break from him.

No teasing remarks.

No lingering stares.

No reason for her stupid, ridiculous thoughts to resurface.

But the office felt… emptier.

It wasn’t just that Jungkook was loud, that he filled the room with his energy. It was something else, something she didn’t want to name.

She wasn’t supposed to miss his presence.

She wasn’t supposed to care.

But she found herself noticing his absence anyway.

And then—he came back.

And everything felt different.

Not because he acted differently.

But because now, every time she saw him, he was on his phone.

Texting.

Talking.

Always busy, always distracted, always somewhere else.

He’d laugh at his screen, fingers flying over the keyboard, sometimes whispering something to his male friends, chuckling under his breath.

And Y/N knew.

She knew.

He was talking to them.

The girls.

The ones he slept with. The ones who fit into his world, who had the kind of beauty that turned heads.

And maybe, before, she could have convinced herself that none of it mattered.

But after that night—after his words, after the way he had looked at her—

It did matter.

And that was the worst part.

Y/N sat across from her best friend, Luna, stirring her iced coffee absently as she tried to figure out how to explain the mess inside her head.

Luna, being a psychologist, always had a way of cutting through her bullshit. It was annoying, but Y/N knew she needed it.

“So let me get this straight,” Luna leaned forward, crossing her arms. “You have a thing for this guy—”

“I don’t have a thing for him,” Y/N interrupted quickly.

Luna gave her a flat look. “Okay. You don’t have a thing for him. But you’re clearly affected by him.”

Y/N sighed, taking a sip of her drink. “… Maybe a little.”

Luna smirked. “Thought so. Go on.”

Y/N hesitated before continuing. “It’s just… sometimes it feels like he sees me. Like he says things that catch me off guard, things I’m not used to hearing.”

“Like?”

Y/N sighed. “Like telling me I have pretty eyes and asking why I hide behind my glasses.”

Luna’s brows lifted slightly. “And that bothers you because…?”

“Because he’s him,” Y/N exhaled sharply. “Because I don’t fit in his world, Luna. I mean—he literally sleeps with different girls all the time. He’s always on his phone texting them. And when he does talk about relationships, it’s like—he wants someone mature, someone who understands him, but at the same time, he surrounds himself with the opposite.”

Luna tilted her head. “So what’s the real problem here?”

Y/N frowned. “What do you mean?”

Luna leaned back in her chair, studying her. “The way I see it, you’re not upset about Jungkook himself. You’re upset because, for the first time, you’re actually considering the possibility that someone like him could see you in a way you’ve never allowed yourself to be seen.”

Y/N froze.

That hit too deep, too fast.

Luna continued. “You’ve spent so long believing that you don’t belong in certain spaces, that men like him would never look at you in that way, that even the idea of it makes you uncomfortable. So now, when something happens that contradicts that belief—like him telling you that you’re beautiful in some way—you panic. Because it doesn’t fit the story you’ve told yourself.”

Y/N stared at her drink, feeling her throat tighten.

She wanted to argue.

She wanted to say Luna was wrong.

But she wasn’t.

Because it was true.

Y/N had spent years convincing herself that attraction, desire, and romance were things meant for other women.

Women who were smaller.

Women who fit in.

So when someone like Jungkook—someone who shouldn’t even notice her—said something that made her feel seen, she didn’t know what to do with it.

It hurt more than it should.

Because even if, in some impossible, alternate reality, Jungkook did look at her like that—what then?

She still wouldn’t belong in his world.

She still wouldn’t fit.

And that thought burned more than she wanted to admit.

Luna sighed, her voice softer now. “Look, I’m not saying he’s in love with you or anything. Maybe he’s just naturally flirty, maybe he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. But Y/N… you deserve to stop hiding. Whether it’s him or someone else, you deserve to be seen.”

Y/N swallowed hard, gripping her coffee cup a little tighter.

She didn’t know if she was ready for that.

But a part of her—a tiny, fragile part—was starting to wonder if maybe, maybe, Luna was right.

Avoiding Jungkook was easier said than done.

Y/N told herself it was for the best—that she needed space, that she was just overthinking things, that none of it mattered in the grand scheme of things.

So, she distanced herself.

She stopped going for smoke breaks when she knew he’d be there.

She started sitting on the opposite side of the training room.

She spent more time with her other colleagues, forcing herself to engage in conversations and laugh at jokes she barely paid attention to.

And for the most part, it worked.

Jungkook was always surrounded by people anyway. He was always talking, always laughing, always moving. He barely even noticed she was keeping her distance.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

But then there were moments—small, fleeting ones—where she could feel his eyes on her.

When she’d be chatting with Mina and the others, laughing at something ridiculous, and suddenly, she’d catch the slightest shift in the air.

When she’d glance up just in time to see Jungkook looking at her across the room, brows slightly furrowed, like he was trying to figure something out.

But he never said anything.

And neither did she.

She just kept pulling away, convincing herself that it was the right thing to do.

That she wasn’t meant to be part of his world.

That she was better off staying exactly where she was.

[scarluna]

Is line of deception a poly fic?

I have not decided yet. It probably won't be poly.

[scarluna]

And oh god I just finished reading all the chaps till the date and woahhh???? she's got all the men wrapped around her finger and I'm here forrrr it!!!!!!!!!!

It's finna get SPICEY soon js

[scarluna]

You've actually created such a good fic when I tell you my jaw was on the floor when I found out it was simply a dream 😭😭😭😭 and the suspension of the mystery. Oh, I'm hooked.. IM SAT!

Thank you so much for reading and supporting my story! It means so much and it keeps me inspired. Stay tuned for future chapters. xxx