#hoseok is pining for the reader

[bangtan-junkie]

BTS MASTERLIST

Thank you for enjoying my work! <3

Dissonance |  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, …

more to come...

[lovieku]

INTRO ⋆ 정국

you’re jeongguk’s secret santa this year, so you give him the best gift he’ll ever receive.

⋆⁺₊❅. 1/6 from christmas & chill

pairing virgin!jk x fem reader

genre smut, fluff, friends to lovers, first time

warnings painfully oblivious jk, even more painfully oblivious oc, mutual pining unlike anything you’ve seen, jk being a hot nerd ceo who’s loaded rich and unaware of his potential, please imagine him as nam joohyuk in start up, oc just creaming her pants for jk, hand job, lowk strip tease, dry humping, nipple play (m&f), unprotected p in v sex, creampie, jk is so needy and impatient but also very polite, smut is kinda rushed because well… it’s his first time! sawrry! also i open gifts on xmas eve please don’t come for me and my traditions (it’s lich just because i’m impatient)

word count 8.3k

author’s note hello hello hello!!! i’m so nervy to post this because it’s what finally inaugurates c&c!!!! i hope it can be a pleasing (intro)duction to the series hehe… either way you’ll get something totally better from miss lyssa tomorrow so stay tuned Wink 🩷 luv u always

banner by the talented @awrkive ⟡ ݁₊ .

Secret Santas have become the only way you’ve been able to deal with Christmas. When it comes to gift-giving, you’re embarrassed to admit that creativity in that department doesn’t exactly come naturally to you.

You try your best, truly. But you either end up going over budget, striving to please all your loved ones with unnecessarily expensive gifts which will only leave you with empty hands and an empty wallet, or having your brain completely stop working, if not to come up with the most basic and useless options that will get you forced smiles and polite nods in fake recognition.

It’s exhausting, demoralizing, and frankly, a recipe for holiday burnout.

So when two years ago, on the brink of giving up entirely and seriously contemplating hibernating through winter, your dear friend Jimin swooped in and suggested Secret Santa, it completely reshaped your next Christmases.

Exactly a month before Christmas Eve, you reunite over drinks and food at Jeongguk’s house to draw names. His place always ends up as the default spot for dinners, movie nights, or even football matches. Those don’t usually get the attention of everybody, especially of some of the girls, and it wouldn’t get yours either.

But you never skip game night. Correction, you never miss an excuse to be in Jeongguk’s space, even if it means sitting through 90 minutes of men chasing a ball on a screen. After all, you’re never truly paying attention, always stealing glances at the boy who seems almost even more uninterested than you.

It’s about witnessing him in his house— which, truthfully, is more of a mansion. The spacious, cozy interiors mirror a part of him that’s hard to miss: his perfectionist side, the one that likes to keep things understated but can’t help leaving subtle, telling marks of his presence on everything he touches, is woven into every corner.

Over time, you’ve naturally come to associate the place with holidays, laughter, and celebrations that fill you with a sense of belonging. Being here, surrounded by your closest friend, makes you feel profoundly grateful.

And there’s so many traces of you all, too. The faint wine stain on Jeongguk’s carpet that is only still noticeable if you squint, the one that spilled from your glass when Hoseok’s jokes had you laughing too hard; the long, slim scratch on the kitchen door, courtesy of Eunbi, who thought learning how to balance glasses on her forehead would get one of her coworkers to finally fall for her; the wobbly vase on the coffee table that was knocked over during one of Jimin’s overly enthusiastic attempts to kick a water bottle open.

Watching Jeongguk deal with the chaos you all force into his space might be another big reason why you love being here. It seems to squeeze out his most genuine reactions and quirks, and you can’t help biting your lips at those, almost pornographically so.

For someone who works so hard to appear composed, and who’s also extremely shy and reserved, Jeongguk is hilariously transparent when things don’t go his way. Brows furrowed, as if that’s where he keeps all his control. Although, no matter how flustered he gets, Jeongguk almost never gets choleric. His instinct is never to lash out but to scramble, a picture of barely contained stress insisting that everything is fine.

And the more he insists, the more you find yourself wishing it wasn’t fine. Sometimes, you want to see him lose it— especially at you.

You’ve tried, too. You’ve pushed boundaries, done little things to test the limits of his patience, all for the slim possibility of seeing him crack, just for you. But it never works. The best you get is an awkward smile, maybe a quiet laugh. It’s not nothing, but it’s not what you want, either.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this crazy about someone before. Not in the way where everything he does sends your brain spinning with possibilities. It’s maddening. His obliviousness is maddening.

Chiefly tonight, when you’re trying extra hard to keep it under control, the whole group gathering in a circle around the bowl that holds all your names, each one carefully folded into a little square, waiting to be drawn.

But when your slim fingers brush against one of the many crumpled pieces of paper and decide your fate, you send a small prayer to whoever might be listening. Please, don’t let it be Jeongguk.

It doesn’t really come off as a coherent request, especially considering how much your body has betrayed you tonight. Your thighs have been pressing together most of the evening, a subconscious reaction every time your gaze wandered — lingered — on Jeongguk’s lower half. Those low, slouchy grey sweatpants, hanging effortlessly off his narrow hips, have been the source of many inappropriate thoughts that you wish would make you grow some shame within yourself. Instead, they only make you grow hotter in your seat.

No, you would love to be Jeongguk’s Secret Santa with the blatant, embarrassingly huge crush you have on him. You think you’d be happy about it in any other universe, except this one.

Jeongguk is difficult. And not because he’s ever been argumentative, looking to start quarrels, never willing to agree or see past his nose. He’s far from those. He’s one of the easiest people to be around, rarely judgmental, even when you were drunk off your mind and you jokingly grinded on very-gay Jimin to make up for your lack of sexual activity. On those occasions, you didn't exactly see judgement in his eyes. Just reticence. Maybe. It wasn’t clear.

What is clear is that Jeongguk is incredibly particular. He’s picky about what he likes and even more so about what he doesn’t, though dislike might be too soft a word. When he hates something, it’s impossible not to know. He doesn’t even try to mask his disappointment.

It’s not malicious, of course. He’s not the type to be spiteful. It’s just how he is, an open book, his expressions giving him away without fail.

It’s one of the many reasons you love watching him, other than hoping your eyes would telepathically convey your undying desire to fuck him and cuddle him close to your chest afterwards. But most of the time, studying the shifts in his features is a way for you to decipher what he’s thinking.

And that’s why this moment feels so high-stakes. The last thing you want is to be on the receiving end of one of Jeongguk’s polite smiles or barely-there nods of acknowledgment, the kind he gives when he’s unimpressed. It would crush you, the ultimate failure in your short-lived career as a gift-giver.

It’s not just that he’s hard to please. Jeongguk is also the last person who seems to need anything. He’s loaded, his success as a game developer has afforded him a life where anything he wants is within reach. And yet, despite his wealth, there’s no arrogance about him. If you didn’t know him so well, you might think he was just another college student scraping by.

Who else but Jeon Jeongguk could walk around in a hoodie and square glasses, looking like he just rolled out of bed, while being the CEO of his own company?

But, of course, none of this is important. Because as you unfold the piece of paper in your hand, it’s there. Jeongguk.

You don’t think you enjoy Secret Santa as much anymore.

With the bowl continuing its journey around the circle, you spend the rest of the game staring holes into the back of Jeongguk’s head, desperately trying to figure out what in the world you could possibly get him. Your monthly budget feels laughable in comparison to his lifestyle, but you’re already prepared to go way over it if that’s what it takes to impress him.

You wonder if he’s as insecure as you are when he quietly unfolds the small, paper square he picked up and scans the name. His bug eyed expression doesn’t hide an evident surprise, the twitch of his eyebrows managing to conceal a possible disappointment.

For someone who’s usually so easy to read, Jeongguk seems uncharacteristically guarded in this moment, and it drives you crazy. You squint at him, frowning as you try to decipher any small detail on his face. Is he annoyed? Or worse, completely indifferent?

Either way, it doesn’t look like a positive reaction. If it ends up being you, you’ll rethink back to this moment and cry yourself to sleep.

With the first step out of the way, the night goes on following its usual rhythm. Only by the end of it, Jeongguk’s space starting to empty, you quietly help him put some order to the mess left behind by a too drunk Hoseok paired with his too drunk best friend Taehyung.

You keep yourself busy with storing some leftover food, managing to keep your tone unbothered when you ask, “Hey, Gguk. Wanna help me with the party planning this year?”

Always obliging to your every request, he only stutters slightly in his movements, the glasses he was cleaning clinking together. He clears his throat, “S—sure. I’ll help you, goldie.” The stammer doesn’t seem to be caused by any kind of hesitation, just an usual consequence to his nature. Reserved, quiet.

You nod, gulping way too loudly at the special nickname he has for you, and both of you keep your focus on your doings instead of witnessing the faint blush dusting your cheeks, “Cool. I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

Details texted, your efforts to divert the conversation into something remotely playful failed miserably. Jeongguk is painfully formal, methodical as ever, hyper-focused on the party. When you sent him a TikTok you deemed adorable enough to nudge him toward a different matter, maybe hint at the dog being the cutest thing he’s ever seen and that you two should definitely adopt three of them and move in together, he still doesn’t get it.

gguk🤍: Oh… I asked my brother to keep Bam for Christmas Eve. I thought he would be too much of a hassle, especially with Iseul not being fond of dogs.

You had stared at the ceiling for a long moment after reading that text. Jeongguk is endearingly dense, and you don’t mind it most of the time. But it’s starting to cause quiet bursts of frustration when it comes to whatever undefined thing you two have, and what is clearly simmering for the eyes of everybody to see, except his.

You’d thought giving him his first handjob when he quietly confessed he’s never been touched, his voice a tremble in the calm aftermath of a chaotic group sleepover, would be enough to make him see. His quiet whimpers were hypnotizing calls that only you were meant to hear, and your fist pumping his girthy length with intent was speaking all you were afraid to voice.

Jeongguk came hard and unannounced all over your hand, pleasured sounds muffled in the side of your neck, and you’d assured him it was okay; he did good; that you would get something to clean him up. You didn’t sleep that night, and he didn’t either, spending the rest of it next to each other on his couch talking pointless conversation.

If that hadn’t opened his eyes, you were beginning to wonder what would.

“So… Do you have any idea what to gift your person?”

Jeongguk stirs his latte for the fourth time. You’d decided to meet at a café halfway between your cramped flat and his mansion, because it was the easiest way you managed to make your busy schedules merge.

“No, Gguk,” you acknowledge his question without meeting his eyes, focusing on the grocery list on your laptop instead.

What would? You’re starting to think subtlety isn’t cutting it. Maybe it never has. Perhaps the only way to break through that frustratingly thick skull of his is to go full throttle, strip naked right here in the middle of this café and spell it out for him.

Your eye involuntary twitches at the thought in relation to his question. Crazy Christmas gift, you reason as you stare maniacally at your bright screen. Yeah. Totally crazy.

Shaking your head, you can’t resist glancing up at him. The idea doesn’t seem so irrational anymore, not when your insides twist at the sight of his absorbed expression, his brows furrowed as he scribbles out unheard-of maths on a piece of paper to figure out group expenses.

With your chin resting in the palm of your hand, you abandon your pretense of being productive and let yourself watch him work. A teasing lilt slips into your voice as you prod him in your usual way, “Why should I believe you already don’t know who it is?”

He blinks up at you, promptly, like he always does when you speak to him, and he stumbles, “Huh— I don’t—”

“You so do. You probably already guessed it all with your nerdy brain.”

Despite looking mildly offended, his ears turn red anyway, “Nerdy brain—”

“Glasses look cute on you,” that shuts him up; his mouth, his brain. Completely unable to cater to any of their functions.

You smirk at the way he diverts his gaze, pointer finger unconsciously fixing the specs on the bridge of his nose, and you wonder how much longer it’ll take for him to notice that you don’t just go around calling everyone’s glasses cute.

Sighing, you continue, “Anyways. It’s not you.”

“W—what? Is it really not?” When he looks up at you with even wider eyes, you feel bad for lying to him but you still shake your head. He mutters, “Shoot. I was so sure I had it.”

A playful scoff escapes you, “See! You did sit in your nerdy room and tried to guess!”

“Stop calling me a nerd,” it’s a request grumbled in the most adorable way you’ve heard, and there’s no real heat behind it. Especially when he goes back to be exactly what he doesn’t want you to refer to him as, “Well, if it’s not me, it must be Taehyung.”

You pretend to busy yourself with your touchpad as you ponder on his eagerness. Then, you voice the result, “What’s the fun in knowing right now?”

Jeongguk hesitates for a moment too long before admitting, “I don’t know. I guess it makes me less anxious.”

It’s a raw kind of honesty, much like what he was painted all over with when he came from your touch, and it has you shifting your gaze back on him, now absorbed in doodling stylized portraits of Bam right next to numbers and additions.

You don’t know if it’s the hot chocolate still simmering in your tummy, the warmth from the coat laying on your legs, the café’s natural heat or Jeongguk’s proximity, but you buzz with something homely.

Ariana Grande’s version of Last Christmas replays for the third time in a row, and at this point you’re starting to believe it’s a conscious choice, but you don’t mind it.

Jeongguk belongs to the world the soft melody is building, hugged by a woolen white sweater, the wide glass window behind him giving the perfect view to a classic winter scenery, snow softly resting on any surface it finds and unconsciously bringing magic to dullness. Or maybe it’s just him adding that last bit.

You smile at his small confession, reassuring with your tone, almost drowning in the lively chatter of the place surrounding you, “You don’t have to be.”

Jeongguk only nods, tapping the pencil on his temple as he studies what he has so far with sudden doubt. He looks at your laptop, scanning the long forgotten visual board on your Pinterest, then back to his calculations.

Giving one more glance at the screen, he concludes, “By the way, I really don’t think that color would look good in my living room.”

Ugh.

You think you want to strangle him when he deflects so easily from these moments. And mostly, the burgundy he’s so easily refusing happens to be one of your favorite shades. Do your tastes ever match?

God, as much as you want him, you hope he’s not your Secret Santa.

────⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆────

Jeongguk is your Secret Santa.

And on Christmas Eve, he’s pacing the length of his living room back and forth, his socks brushing against the polished wooden floor with each step. You’re supposed to arrive any minute now to help him with the final touches before the others come for dinner, and the idea of having you here alone is enough to make his hands clammy and his thoughts stumble.

The neatly wrapped gift with its shiny red paper sits tucked under the towering Christmas tree, the one adorned in messy decor that his friends jumbled up together. The item hidden inside the bag doesn’t share his anxieties, though he suspects his downstairs neighbour might have caught on to it with the incessant pacing.

When you ring the doorbell he’s jolted out of it and, practically tripping over his own feet, he rushes to the door and yanks it open. He would have let you in just as rapidly if his brain didn’t stop short at seeing you standing there.

You’re cladded in a soft sweater that looks two sizes larger, its beige tones complimenting the warm brown of his own jumper, and your short skirt peeks out beneath its hem, edged with lace ruffles. At your feet, a pair of chestnut Uggs that he can only hope are enough to make up for the cold shivers on your bare legs. Not that he’s staring, so intently he has to gulp down an impulsive thought. No, he’s just a naturally observing guy.

And that brings him to notice that your hands are empty, save for a small purse and a bottle of wine. No bag, no box, no sign of a gift.

When his gaze flickers back to your face, your eyes are wide and darting nervously between his own, narrowed by the frown that he can’t quite hide but bug sized the moment he catches a trace of insecurity in your shaky voice, “Hi.”

It could be the cold causing the brief greeting to tremble, small snowflakes laying on your neatly styled hair, shimmering for a brief moment before melting away. It pulls him out from his unabashed study of you, and he steps aside to let you into his much warmer space.

Your vanilla scent inebriating his senses has him forgetting all about your seemingly non existent gift, and how he suddenly finds himself wishing he truly did get something messed up in his calculations, that you’re not his Secret Santa.

But you are.

Many drinks later, filling up everyone’s stomachs along with shared food and belly laughter, it’s time to exchange gifts and the expression on your face is unlikely anything he’s caught on so far.

A huge contrast to the mellow Christmas tunes indistinctly playing in the background, your eyes are impassive as you word your excuses, “I’m sorry, Gguk. I forgot your gift at home.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” he says quickly, the words spilling out with genuine ease. And it really is okay. He’s not upset— far from it. The thought of you giving him anything at all, even belatedly, is enough to make him feel content.

But now, as the group’s attention turns toward him, his heart races for an entirely different reason. His gift for you, a lavish, over-the-top gesture that far exceeds the modest budget they all agreed on, sits waiting on his lap.

When it finds a new home atop your own crossed legs, you’re eager as you rip the paper, but your eyes don’t follow your movements. Instead, you focus on the nervous boy sitting across from you, your very own Secret Santa who’s monitoring your hands for you while subtly rocking from one side to the other.

His anxiety is endearingly soft, but you can see something more to it, almost an irrational fear of tripping on the wrong step, messing up something that’s supposed to be simple.

You hear it before you see it. The whole room inhales sharply in a collective surprise, with some gasps muffled behind hands pressed to mouths. You scramble for an explanation in their expressions, jumping from one face to the other, stopping on Jeongguk’s own, gaze glued to his fidgeting fingers, head bowed down to his lap.

When you slowly look down at what’s resting on yours, you almost wheeze. If they could, your eyes would leap out of their sockets.

Your palm instinctively presses on your lips as you look between the gift and the gifter in a frantic attempt to catch any sign that this is not what it is. With the music being the only sound eerily filling the sudden silence, you add to it, even if barely, with your voice a whisper, “What is this?”

Jeongguk gulps and finally meets you, “It’s m—my gift for you.”

It’s not like you even opened it yet. But the simple sight of the box had you grasping for support. On the pale, textured surface of the square box, the unmistakable gold lettering is what’s making your orbs shake in confusion: Dior.

You trace the sign with your pointed finger, tilting your head up to look at Jeongguk through your lashes, and you don’t know how else to put it, “Ggukkie… Were you there when we set the budget?”

Jimin butts in with a scoff, “Yeah, that’s like fifteen thousand won multiplied by another fifty thousand.”

Jeongguk doesn’t know what he should say. He’s scared of the deafening silence that follows, the way Jimin’s comment seems to linger in the air, the way you seem to struggle with finding something to say in response.

He begins, tries to, “I—”

“Fuck, Gguk,” the simple sound of your words has his mind spiralling, palms clammy with doubts that question his every choice leading up to this moment, feeling foolish for even thinking this could be right, a shot worth trying. What if you think he’s showing off? Or worse, overcompensating?

But what he fails to notice is the toothy grin that follows your shameless surprise, your fingers gingerly lifting the lid of the box, and really, if only he had the courage to look up at you he’d have avoided the worries.

He misses your reaction at the reveal: the prettiest earrings sit on a soft cushion, gleaming gold with delicate CD initials and cream pearls dangling gracefully beneath them.

“These are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I love them. You didn’t have to.”

Jeongguk’s head snaps up. He meets your face painted with the most beautiful grin he’s ever seen you wear, your cheeks burning with red and your nose scrunching as you carefully slip the earrings to take a better look at them. With you, everybody else around him seems in awe, too. Their soft, endeared whispers begin to fill the earlier suffocating silence, melting into a sweetness reserved entirely for Jeongguk.

He exhales quietly, the welcomed warmth in his chest replacing the cold. He admits, no stutter, no fear, just a sheepish smile, “I wanted to.”

Jeongguk really did want to. It felt like his one shot. A desperate, last-ditch attempt at making you see him the way he’s always seen you; a declaration wrapped in gold and pearls.

He wants you to see him as more than the shy, awkward boy who stumbles over his words and blushes too easily. More than the nerd who spends too much time working on equations and codes half the world doesn’t know about. More, just to have you look at him a bit closer.

He wants to be a man, one who badly wants you, in your eyes.

They’re gleaming with adorable excitement as they flicker back to his, sheepishly accompanying your quiet request, “Can you… put them on for me?”

Jeongguk is at your side in no time, handling the earrings with care while trying to keep his usual clumsiness at bay as he fastens the dainty jewels in place. He begins to understand why it’s hard to see him as anything else but gawky when he feels his heartbeat speed up from the simple way his skin is brushing against yours.

Namjoon’s voice cuts through the spell, playful, “Oh, what a pretty princess. Jeongguk truly has an eye for this stuff.”

With the group following with chuckles and mindless banter, Jeongguk feels uncharacteristically bold, gaze fixated entirely on you as he lets himself spill something meant for you only to hear, “I think it’s just you. You’re beautiful.”

You’re clearly caught off guard, and it stings a little when he realizes the only reason he doesn’t get to see you this flustered often is because he’s usually busy being the flustered one. Blinking up at him through your lashes, your laugh comes out a little breathless, and the sweet way you let your cheek rest on your shoulder has him daring to hope.

“Nerd.”

But no. There it is again.

That’s all he’ll ever be in your eyes.

He forces a smile that barely reaches his eyes, but you’re too engrossed with having your pearls admired by the rest of the group to notice. Those weren’t a waste; he would do it all the same. You deserve everything that makes your eyes shine, that brings the corners of your lips into that grin that shakes him, that can ever bring you joy. He just wishes it could bring you more than that; bring you to a bigger sentiment, a bigger realization.

Perhaps that’s why he can’t shake off the awful mood that pervades his senses throughout the rest of the night, the earrings hanging from your ears catching the twinkly, warm lights and mocking him with delighted amusement. There’s nothing else you can do, you nerdy boy.

Perhaps that’s also why, when the house starts to empty and you’re in his kitchen making yourself helpful with dishes, he slips on composure when you accidentally let a glass slide from your dainty hands.

It breaks the moment it meets the ground, and the sound penetrates his ears, both of you jumping at the impact. He hisses, “What— what the heck, ___!”

You’re startled, blinking up at him. It’s not the chaos from the glass, not its tiny pieces covering the floor and reaching your feet. It’s the deliberate frustration of his tone, one he’s never let free, especially with you.

You pant for apologies, but they can’t seem to be let out. Wide eyes jumping between his own bug ones, your brows draw up in shame. It has never been this easy to get him bothered. Hell, you’ve even struggled to.

Jeongguk only sighs, dragging a hand across his nape, and he regrets the quiet sharpness in his voice the second he lets it out, “God. Be more careful next time.”

He’s still quicker than you on his feet, moving to sweep the mess you’ve created before you can even react. You seem to move in slow, infinite motions, kneeling down to pick up the bigger pieces, all while keeping an unusual silence.

He steals a glance up at you, biting his lower pierced lip in sudden guilt, “Are you okay?”

Your hands pause, clutching a fragment of glass as your eyes flicker up to meet his. You nod, distant, and it does nothing to convince him.

He doesn’t even seem to be paying attention to your hesitant confirmation, rather he’s hyper-focused on your fingers, and before you realize the shift in his expression, he alarmedly blurts out, “Goldie. You’re bleeding.”

The sting barely registers for you until his words bring it to your attention. Looking down, you see a sharp, red line running across your finger, small but enough to make Jeongguk spring into action.

You’re lifted off the floor and ushered to the bathroom in fractions of seconds, letting yourself be handled like you don’t own your body. The only thing you want to be aware of is the switch in his behaviour. He’s back to normal once he’s in his quiet bubble of concentration, movements precise as he cleans the barely visible wound and carefully places a band aid over it.

All while he can’t stop apologizing, “I’m sorry for yelling at you. That was not your fault. But, this. This is my fa—”

“Jeongguk, it’s just a scratch.”

The way he meets your eyes with his face drawn tight and brows furrowed makes you rethink your statement. Maybe it’s more than a scratch. Maybe it’s the only thing that snapped him out of his frustrated daze.

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t deserve that.”

Your first instinct is to giggle; it’s a resonance of the butterflies childishly swarming in your belly from the proximity and his careful words. Both your gazes soften as you accept each other, even the faulted versions of tonight, and a timid smile stretches over his lips.

You hesitate before speaking again, your mouth opening only to close, reconsidering your words; but then you finally let out what you had foolishly planned as your next desperate attempt to cling to him.

“Can you… My car is… Can you take me home?”

What you’re now sure you like the most about Jeongguk is how he caters to your needs before you even have to voice them. The soft kindness in his eyes, the way his body instinctively shifts to act before his mind even fully processes the request. He’s already nodding, ready to make it happen for you.

“Yeah. Of course.”

The heat in his car fans over your cheeks, dusting them with a soft red that has his Adam’s apple bobbing every time he turns to steal glances at you at stoplights. You keep talking, filling the air with contentment about the night’s events, and it’s like that subtle slip of his never happened.

It’s almost too easy to surrender and pretend that everything is fine, that he doesn’t feel the ache of wanting more. If staying a nerd in your eyes means getting to be this close, to hear your laughter, to see the slight curve of your lips as you speak, then maybe it’s enough.

His subtle gestures — adjusting the temperature so you’re comfortable, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter when your giggles spill into the cabin — don’t go unnoticed. They settle into you and have your heart beating anticipatedly.

God, you won’t regret what you’re about to do.

By the time he pulls up in front of your place, you promptly turn to him before he can offer anything else, voice a bit too eager, “Would you like to come inside?”

“Huh—”

“I’ll show you my gift.”

Jeongguk sits on your couch, because you tell him to wait there. And of course, he’s a great listener. Very obedient, willing to follow your every order.

His fingertips drum restlessly on his thighs and he can only busy himself with his surroundings, every detail speaking for you. What’s definitely more prominent is the intoxicating scent of vanilla that clings in the air, of which he hopes his lungs inhale the entirety of, never getting enough of everything that is you.

When you come into his vision again, walking down the stairs in quiet steps, you’re tightly hugged in a trench coat, the textured belt cinched snugly around you and accentuating the small of your waist. Under it, your legs are bare. It has his mouth drying and his legs spreading stiffly on the couch.

He thought he got better at hiding his concerning infatuation. He hopes he did.

That’s why he initially manages to chuckle and attempt a joke, “Are you going somew—”

“Ta-da.”

Jeongguk doesn’t think he’s breathing. He doesn’t think he can even breathe anymore. His blinking fastens, brain stumbling over itself as it tries to make sense of what he’s sitting in front of.

You’ve loosened the coat just enough for the fabric to fall and reveal what you’ve carefully wrapped for him. You’re a gift coming in a red lingerie set clinging to your perfect curves, your boobs deliciously spilling out from the sides of your lace top and the line of your panties thin enough to leave little to the imagination.

He pants, scanning over your body once, twice, three times, questioning if the wine was perhaps laced with stronger substances, “What— What is this—”

“It’s my gift for you. Merry Christmas, Gguk.”

Meeting your face again, he nearly groans. You’re almost bare before him, yet you still sport a crimson blush and your teeth graze your bottom lip in a sheepish smile, in a way that is so achingly you. He can feel himself throbbing painfully in his pants. Thinks he could cum just from this view, tip over the edge without a single touch, no matter how bad he needs it.

“Fuck.”

You’ve barely ever heard Jeongguk curse throughout the time you’ve known him for. He only sometimes reserves that for his monitor, Overwatch games causing his composure to slip in adorable loud whispers.

But it’s like you’ve broken his dam, and he only lets more slip as you walk slowly but certainly closer to him, coat discarded on the floor, “Oh my, fuck. Holy shit. Thank you. Thank you. I— I don’t know what to do.”

It’s a quiet plea, the one that’s hidden in his strained words but clear in his full eyes glazed over with anticipation, his hands hovering uncertainly over his thighs, chest still heaving and struggling with manual breathing. He’s begging to feel deserving of this, to have you prove to him that it’s what you truly want for the both of you, to have you touching him and to be touching you.

He can’t help the moan that escapes him when you position yourself in between his spread legs, bodies close yet not touching, but he’s dying to feel you.

Now your turn to bend at his every request, your head tilts and your smile widens the more he’s forced to crane his neck up to keep your gazes connected, pending off your every syllable, “You don’t have to do anything. Will you let me take care of you?

“Yes, please,” the confirmation is immediate and empty of hesitance. Under you, Jeongguk nods promptly with his lips agape, watering with want when you straddle his lap to sit yourself on him.

He wails, throwing his head back and searching for all the strength it takes from holding back his instinct to snap up against your core, snuggled atop his raging hardness. At his shameless desperation, your giggles fill his ears, and when they’re followed by your cold hand on his cheek redirecting his gaze on yours, he feels feverish.

Delirious, eyes barely keeping from rolling back, his brain reduced to senseless blabbering, “My God. Thank you for this.”

With his brows adorably drawn up, he focuses on your dilated pupils now that your faces are mere centimetres apart, and you close the distance with small pecks that trace his jaw, up to his ear lobe, whispering against the skin, “Are you seriously thanking God while I’m about to take your virginity?

Jeongguk hisses in a frenzied surge, his hands still unsurely keeping from touching you, and your sarcastic pun has him full on rambling, “Shit, sorry. I don’t even believe in God. This just feels too good to be true. You look like a fucking angel.”

“Ggukkie, language!” Your seductive tone along with your chuckle reverberates right against his chest, your hands moving to lead your own palms up and down his broad front, and when you subtly roll your hips against his clothed length, he breaks into a cry.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ll come so soon,” you don’t know if it’s the adrenaline of the moment, but you’ve never witnessed such a bold Jeongguk. It only spurs you further, your hand traveling down, and down, until it sneaks under his sweater.

When you find his nipple, you playfully roll it between your pointer and thumb, his trembling body bucking up in an unstoppable urge, quiet whimpers working to keep his tone down. But you want to hear him scream under you, just as loud as you can feel his heart beating.

You bite your lip as your eyes drift downward, watching where your bodies meet in slow, teasing drags. His wide palms press into the cushions on either side of you, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip, and when you lift your gaze to meet his face again the delicious buzz pooling low in your stomach intensifies, your lips parting instinctively. A pretty blush creeps up his neck, painting his sharp jaw and cheekbones in shades of red, and his eyes, clouded, desperate, and burning with unfiltered need, lock onto you with a gaze that makes your knees weak even as you straddle him.

The simple grinding through the layers of clothing you still have on has you releasing whiny gasps in the air, his cock sliding torturously between your folds, and if you’re so affected by every shift you can hardly fathom what he must be feeling under you.

So you wonder out loud, voice rough the more you feel his stiff nipple under your fingertips, “How long since you’ve been touched properly, hm?”

His body hiccups, shaking with the barely contained lust, “Since— Since you last did, goldie.”

You coo, slowing down your movements and bringing your fingers to the hem of his jumper only to lift it and toss it behind you carelessly, “You’re so sensitive, aren't you?” At the view of his exposed chest, you can’t help roaming the expanse of it and feeling the tensing muscles under your skin, and by now you’re sure your panties must be ruined.

“Puh— please,” the plea is barely coherent, whispered out messily through high-pitched moans, but he begs again, “I wanna touch you too.”

“Then…” You let your hands speak for you, moving them to lead his own big ones to rest at your thighs, letting them drag up the curve of your ass. You’re impossibly close to his lips now, fanning against them, “Feel me, Gguk.”

Unable to resist, you fall forward and catch his mouth with yours in a kiss that struggles to find a rhythm, that has your tongues tangled in an uncoordinated dance, but that inevitably has you both humming loudly in an effort to almost devour each other, and his hands digging in your bare skin only force a gasp out of you.

In an impatient rush, you urge him to unclasp your bra, his unpractised and shaky fingers being joined by your experienced ones to finally free you from the tight confines, and as much as he wants to make kissing you a sport just to win every gold medal and break record after record, he can’t help separating from your lips with a wet sound to look down at your exposed breasts.

Jeongguk groans, and this time he doesn’t need you guiding him. It’s his own palms moving to cup you, and the innocent, light feather touch causes you to throw your head back and resume your slow grinding on top of him.

Both of you are panting messes, his moans significantly louder the more he gets to knead at your softness only to slice his thumb over your hardened nipples, the contrast making his brows furrow in hazed need, and when you arch your back into him he squeezes your tit to his mouth, eliciting a surprised wail from you.

Even when he gets closer, your sensitive nub engulfed by his swollen lips, he keeps looking up at you for approval with wide, teary eyes that beg for you to praise him. And with a hand gripping his wavy locks, you nod repeatedly for him to keep going, “Fuck, baby. Just like that, oh my God.”

He hums lowly with his mouth stuffed, his fingers digging in your flesh the more you drag your cunt mercilessly over the outline of his thickness, and he has to release you with a pop and rest his head on the couch behind him, palms keeping you somewhat still by the waist, panting out a desperate request when he feels himself throb dangerously close to his high, “G—Goldie, I can’t. Don’t— Don’t wanna cum like this.”

You lift your hips just enough for the both of you to whimper at the loss of friction, and you murmur through a string of kisses along his exposed neck, “How do you want to cum then, huh?”

He only whines, cheeks flushed with want and eyes glossy, forehead creasing with the way his brows are stressing, “Please.”

You show no mercy, flashing him with a wicked smirk and a teasing tilt of your head, “Ah-ah. Say it.”

Gulping with effort, his waist twitches up unconsciously to seek for your touch once again, and with his face turned to the side he admits in the smallest voice, “‘Nside of you.”

“Good boy. Gonna give you exactly what you want.”

He voices a loud cry just from the sound of your promise, only echoing more intensely when you hastily work at his zipper. It’s messy, uncertain, and it elicits breathy giggles from the two of you, drunk on adoration and high on desire.

Eventually, he’s stripped free from his confines, and his cock stands proud and hard, veins pumping the blood that has it throbbing against his toned stomach.

Jeongguk can feel your hooded eyes on him, can sense his tip wettening with the simple way you seem starved and eager to taste him, your hand coming too close to where he needs you the most before he gently grabs your wrist to stop it.

Automatically, your head snaps up, and the look on his face is one of nervous desperation, “Wan’ you to kiss me, please.”

You’re ready to comply to his every demand, and this one is as easy as it gets. You want to give him everything— whatever he wants, however he wants it.

Your lips mold with his in worldless acceptance, absorbing all you were afraid to voice to each other, making up for all the time you wasted, devoting to a sealed promise, the one that dances between your connected tongues, saliva making it wet and breathless.

Even more when your slim fingers trail down his torso before wrapping around his length, your wrist expertly flicking in a teasing touch, and his moan is unrestrained as it tears through the kiss. You swallow the sound greedily, steadying you against his chest rising and falling in frantic pants.

Before he can protest, his own hips bucking up in a silent beg for more, you steal the air from his lungs when you move your panties to the side and align your entrance with his tip, just to sink down on it.

The drag is slow and it has both of your eyes rolling back, pleased groans filling the air and straining against your throat when you fully sit yourself wrapped around his dick. You search for him, “You okay?”

“Shit,” Jeongguk seems hypnotised by the view of his thickness wrecking you in half, and his palms come to rest at your waist where his fingers dig into the skin. Your own playing with the hair on his nape only seem to make him more vulnerable, “This is perfect. You feel so good and warm, fuck.”

You’re not used to hearing him curse so openly and so often, and it naturally makes you giggle, the sound tickling his ears and leading his dilated pupils to look up at you through his lashes. Your sweet laughter fades into a lasting smile, one he can’t help but kiss, even if it’s all teeth, the contagious sight of your happiness getting to him too.

The moment is sickeningly sweet, bodies connected in more ways than one. With your kiss only deepening and your chest melting against his, you pull him impossibly closer by the back of his neck and start attempting slow motions on top of him.

You hear him through his thundering heartbeat, “Goldie… I— I don’t think I can last any longer, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Oh, shit, baby,” one particular shift has his length, deeply stuffed in your tight walls, finding your spot and teasing it with an electric buzz that travels through your body, “It’s okay. I’m so close too.”

The moment you try a firmier bounce and feel him find you again, you can’t help the way your movements fasten, your moans thick and low against your throat, his own louder and ricocheting through the walls.

You steady yourself with one of you palms on his thigh, leaning your weight back and finding a new angle to fuck yourself on him. He watches in awe as you work your fingers on your clit, rapid circling movements causing his mouth to hang open at the squelching sounds.

He pants, his wide hands guiding your riding, pushing you up and down, “Can— Can I touch you?”

You hum, but it sounds more like a whine, “Hm, of course, pretty boy,” the hand that was stimulating your sensitive nub now comes behind you to help support yourself on both of his muscular thighs, flexing under every shift.

Jeongguk is unpracticed as he leads his thumb to rest at your clit, applying a soft pressure and mimicking the same pattern he observed from you. He only seems to be focusing on his doing for the first few moments before he searches up for the reaction on your face, and he whimpers when he finds your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, your brows drawn up in pleasure.

You smile at the unconscious twitch of his chin, and give him just what you know he wants, “Always seeking my approval. You’re so good.”

The simple praise only has him working on you with more confidence, collecting some of your wetness and sliding it up along your lips. He learns fast, listening to your every sound and centering on your pleasure, as best as he can with his own knot getting closer to bursting.

You’re clearly affected by the simulations, your hips stuttering and riding around him, but you still make sure to concentrate on him first, “I’ll tell you when to cum, hm? You’ll listen to me, right?”

Jeongguk nods before he even knows what he’s agreeing to, “Y—yes. Yes, yes, fuck. I’ll be good. Wanna be so, so good for you. Wanna c—cum for you.”

“You’re so filthy, baby. Naughty boy. Fuck me.”

His hips meet you up with harsh thrusts that have you lose your balance on him, and you can only throw yourself with your arms around his broad shoulders, face hidden in the crook of his neck as he lets his desire take over, fucking up into you with a desperate need for release.

You think you see stars with the way he relentlessly pounds your hole, wet folds sliding along his length and causing a mess between you, his own slickness mixed with yours trailing down and pooling at the base. The sounds are inglorious, and they merge perfectly with your wails.

Breathing in his scent, you know he’s close from the way his thrusts are stammering sloppily, and his moans are closer to strained whines. You concede, “F—Fucking cum, Gguk. Cum inside me, fuck.”

He nods, slamming you down to meet his movements, desperate to feel you before he can stop himself, “Cum with me, pleas— Oh.”

When your walls spasm around him with your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave, causing you to shake in his embrace around you, he feels himself cum unannounced, hard and thick, sprouts of white liquid relentlessly pumping inside your warmth.

You milk him dry, both your wails drained with the effort and fading into breathless gasps, his arms around you falling limply at his sides. You’re sprawled on his chest, emptied from any energy, and he is just as spent with his head lolling against the back of the couch.

But you feel it in your heartbeats syncing, the realization of what happened, what finally happened. You feel it in his face moving down to find your lips and catch them in a sweet peck, his fingers trailing up again to trace lazy patterns on your back before tangling in your hair, grounding himself in you.

It’s your own smiles breaking through the kiss, lashes tickling, and both of you laugh senselessly as you come down from the moment.

“Fuck,” Jeongguk breathes out, voice raspy, “This was the best Christmas gift ever.”

You snicker, biting your lip to hold back your amusement, “Oh, baby. It was just an excuse to fuck you. I actually did forget your gift at home.”

“W—What?” His brows shoot up, his post-orgasm haze momentarily replaced with incredulity as his cheeks redden even more.

When Jeongguk straightens on the couch, so do you, steadying your weak frame with your hands splayed against his chest. Sheepishly, you confess, “Yeah. Bought you that Mario game yo—“

“Princess Peach: Showtime?”

“Yea—”

Jeongguk gasps dramatically, his excitement so pure it’s almost jarring considering what just transpired, and that he’s no longer a virgin, “God, I fucking love— that game. That is the best Christmas gift ever.”

You can’t hold back your laughter this time, shaking your head at how easily he slips back into his usual self, the one that had you buying a Victoria’s Secret set in that shade of burgundy he said he didn’t like just to attempt a crazy chance at having him.

Leaning forward, you press a lingering kiss to his lips that brings you back to the realization that you finally did get to have him, before murmuring against them, “Well, that and a second round. What do you say?”

“Please.”

[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | masterlist

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, angst, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs, other chapter specific tags

current word count: 20.5k

status: ONGOING

→ cross posted to wattpad

masterlist | playlist | moodboard | visualiser | taglist — open

chapters ᝰ.ᐟ

⤷ 00 — teaser (1k)

⤷ 01 — the way things go (4.9k)

⤷ 02 — broken cd (4.9k)

⤷ 03 — ivy (5.5k)

⤷ 04 — halley’s comet (5.2k)

more chapters coming soon…

[alexiajjk]

jungkook fic recs list (part 2) ౨ৎ

hi! i’m back with another list <3 please give so much love to all of these authors! these fics are all +18 so minors dni!!! part 3 coming in a month :)

⭑ part 1

a- angst f- fluff s- smut

series (completed)

with a sense of innocence by @borathae

f2l!au, idiots in love, mutual pining, college!au, neighbours!au (f, s)

A collection of stories about two oblivious idiots trying to do love together

puzzle by @kimvvantae

friends with benefits au; college au (a, s)

you and jungkook are best friends of a lifetime, even though your personalities are like unmatching pieces of a puzzle. the line between friendship and something more has never been crossed between you two - but that changes after a break up and a drunken night, when you not-so-accidentally cross this line to something much more. what happens when after this accident your non-matching puzzle pieces seem to match in a way you’ve never imagined? 

i want you to stay by @ahundredtimesover

boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels (What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim-inspired) (a, f, s)

Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You've dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder

love to hate by @kpopfanfictrash

enemies to lovers, fuck buddies!au (a, f, s)

Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you've done your best to rid yourself of the taste since you were old enough to walk. Occasionally though, your mother manages to rope you into an obligatory function – or a blind date with playboy billionaire, Jeon Jungkook. Jungkook stands for everything you loathe about the world you left behind, but you can’t deny the spark of attraction between you. Intrigued by the promise of mutual satisfaction, you agree to one night in bed… and quickly realize you’re in far, far deeper than you ever intended.

practice by @chryblossomjjk

fuckboy!jk x inexperienced reader, college au, fwb (a, f, s)

you usually spend friday nights on your own. tonight, however, your friend and campus fuckboy, jungkook, decides to pay you a visit

only for you by @jikookiekosmos

best friend!jungkook/reader (a, f, s)

It’s the night before your wedding and you should be happy…but a fight with your fiancé leaves you second guessing everything. A visit from the blue-haired boy of your dreams is just what you need to make it right

clash by @matchagator

slice of life; neighbors au; e2l (a, f, s)

You're a new resident in your very first apartment excited to enjoy the simple life of adulthood. Unfortunately for you, you continue to run into unruly neighbors no matter how much you try to keep to yourself

series (ongoing)

neighbor blunder by @awrkive

neighbors!au, coworkers!au, software engineer!jk, cto!jk, chaebol!jk vibes, accountant!oc (a, f, s)

in hindsight, you should have seen it coming. had always known your luck – or lack of it, thereof – and the universe's meticulous plan of your downfall made it easy for you to get tangled up in a series of unfortunate events, which presents itself as the neighbor that lives across from you, jeon jungkook

dextrocardia by @jeonstudios

cop!jk x f detective!reader, undercover cops, fake marriage, e2l au (a, f, s?)

“She's been moved to another operation to help out. This pairing is necessary because you'll be undercover as spouses. I know you two can be professional about this.”

"What?!" It's Jeongguk's upset voice that sounds, and for once, you share his displeased opinion.

Spouses.

the alpha omega series by @borathae

alpha!jungkook x f. omega!reader, werewolves!au, childhood best friends to enemies to lovers!AU (a, f, s)

Jungkook is the son of the pack Alpha and therefore heir of the titel. You are an omega and utterly out of his league. This is the story of how, against all odds, you and he became true mates

oneshots

elemental by @kpopfanfictrash

second chance romance; modern fantasy (a, f, s)

Fear has never been a foreign concept to you. Your entire life has been shaped by the knowledge that you’re different, and fear of the stigma which might follow discovery. Although fire, earth, air and water Elementals have been public for decades, the fear-mongering around your kind hasn’t changed; something you have intimate knowledge of, having experienced it firsthand. Since then, you’ve done your best to hide your water powers. This is for your own safety, as your mom likes to say.Safety flies out the window though, when you fall in love. Jeon Jungkook isn’t just any love, either, he’s the love. The person who makes you feel as though your darkest corners deserve to be seen. Unable to control your magic around him, you find yourself faced with a horrible fact: you need to break up.A plan which proves difficult when Jungkook simply refuses to go. And maybe, just maybe, you find the constraints placed on yourself don’t make sense anymore

meraki by @taegularities

e2l, grumpy!jk (+ photographer!jk) x sunshine!reader (f, s)

Jungkook finds you irritating; far too energetic and insistent. But his perception of you changes bit by bit, minute by minute, when he's persuaded into spending an entire night with you at places he doesn't know

cold nights and blurred lines by @awrkive

fwb!au, college!au, basketball player!jk, kinda secret relationship(?)!au (a, f, s)

jungkook and you have been in a sexual relationship with each other for four months now, and it’s casual for the most part. but as time passes, you can’t help but feel that some of the lines suddenly got blurred in the process. is it a cliché to blur the lines with your fuck buddy? it definitely is. will you do something about it? both of your emotional constipation have a hard time saying yes

it was always you by @hueseok

brother’s best friend au, childhood friends to lovers au; ft. naval aviator!jk, professor!reader (a, f, s)

for as long as you remember, you’ve always had the fattest crush on your childhood friend, jeon jungkook. it never blossomed into something more though, because that’s what happens when life naturally takes it course—you grow up, you move on, and you pretend that those feelings never existed in order to maintain the good friendship that remained between the two of you over the years. so when he visits you after work one day, asking you to marry him, you do everything you can to refuse, because the reason he’s asking you isn’t due to the fact that he finally realized that he loved you after all this time, but because he thinks he’s doing you a big favor. or at least, that’s what you think

on mute by @yoon-kooks

fuckboy!gamer!jjk x reader, friends to lovers, office!au, coworker!au (f, s)

You always assumed your handsome coworker was down to fuck anyone in the office except for you. He always assumed you weren’t interested in a guy like him. And both of you were content with never admitting your feelings… until he unknowingly confides in you in the realms of a certain tactical FPS game

[lex1i0]

bts fic recs

✿ - my favorites

✧ty for the resources :))

— Seokjin

ᰔᩚ Mold a Pretty Lie by @blog-name-idk {college!au, unhealthy & toxic relationships, virgin reader, eventual yandere, eventual smut}

ᰔᩚ Scale by @shina913 {richboy!au, strangers to lovers, fluff, angst, smut}

ᰔᩚ Internal Conflicts by @yoongiofmine {non idol!au, fluff, angst, smut, step brother}

✿ Off Limits by @floralseokjin {brothers bsf!au, smut, angst, fluff}

ᰔᩚ Cupids on Holiday by @persphonesorchid {angel!au, fluff, angst, smut, slight enemies to lovers, humor}

ᰔᩚ Paraluman by @muniimyg {love triangle, fwb to lovers, bsf to lovers, smut, angst}

ᰔᩚ Lets Get Married as a Joke by @burningupp {angst, fluff}

— Namjoon

✿ A word from our sponsors by @100vern {podcast, friends to lovers!au, crack, smut, fluff}

ᰔᩚ The Holiday Pretense by @mortallydeepestobservation {fake dating!au, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers, crack, smut, fluff}

ᰔᩚ Perfect Plan by @mortallydeepestobservation {friends to lovers, fwb?, angst, fluff, happy ending}

ᰔᩚ Beauty & The Bookworm by @jungshookz {uni!au, librian!namjoon, fluff, angst, smut}

— Yoongi

ᰔᩚ Sugar Rush Ride by @lo1k-diamonds {fluff, smut}

ᰔᩚ Dillema by @trivia-yandere {drug dealer!yoongi, smut}

ᰔᩚ The Road not Taken by @prodagustd {brothers bsf, one sided pining?, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut}

ᰔᩚ Oh, Darling! by @yoongiofmine {non idol!au, uni!au, fluff, angst, smut}

✿ Between the Titles by @highvern {fluff, smut}

✿Three Tangerines by @kithtaehyung {brothers bsf!au, implied age gap, angst, fluff, smut}

ᰔᩚ Minted by @kithtaehyung {angst, action, smut, haegeum!au, gang!au}

ᰔᩚ Take a bite by @glossdebut {smut, fluff, angst, slowburn}

✿ bbydaddy!yoongi by @muniimyg {smut, fluff, angst}

ᰔᩚ So it goes by @prodagustd {fwb to lovers, fluff, smut, angst}

✿ Terms & Conditions by @ktownshizzle {fluff, eventual smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au}

ᰔᩚ The Deal by @untaemedqueen {drug lord!yoongi, fluff, smut, angst}

ᰔᩚ Whispered Vows by @lostbookmark {angst, fluff, smut}

✿ Dating Advice by @taleasnewastime {strangers to lovers, fluff, angst, smut}

ᰔᩚ Love and Lullabies by @ktownshizzle {fluff, angst, smut, idol!au, acquaintances to lovers, dad!yoongi}

✿ Hook, Line & Stinker by @yoonmetogether (smut, fluff, angst}

— Hoseok

ᰔᩚ Heartbeat by @joonbird {gang!au, fluff, smut}

ᰔᩚ Guarded by @xjoonchildx {mafia!au, e2l, slowburn, eventual smut}

ᰔᩚ Connotations of Sin by @persphonesorchid {fallen angel!au, angst, fluff, smut, horror}

— Jimin

ᰔᩚ Serendipity by @mikrokosmoslove {ceo jimin!au, lovers to enemies to colleagues to lovers, angst, smut, drama}

✿ Silk Sheets by CallMeByYourName97 {sugardaddy!au, smut, fluff, toxic relationship}

ᰔᩚ Growing Pains by @taleasnewastime {unrequited love, brothers bsf, mafia!au, fluff, angst}

ᰔᩚ In the wake of your leave by @taleasnewastime {unrequited love, brothers bsf, slowburn, mafia!au, angst}

— Taehyung

ᰔᩚ A really great (love?) story by @whatifyoulivelikethat {non idol!au, fluff, smut, friends to lovers}

ᰔᩚ Stuck with you by @jungshookz {roommate!taehyung, uni!au, enemies to lovers, fluff, smut}

— Jungkook

ᰔᩚ Strictly Platonic by @jeonqkookskooks {college!au, bsfs to lovers, fake dating!au, fluff, angst, smut}

ᰔᩚ Game on @sparklingchim {footballer!jungjook, fake dating, f2l}

ᰔᩚ I Want You to Stay by @ahundredtimesover {boss!jk x assistant reader, strangers to lovers, slowburn, angst, smut, fluff, drama}

ᰔᩚ Bbydaddy!jk by @muniimyg {exs to lovers, fluff, smut, angst}

✿ Home by @bonny-kookoo {est relationship, foreigner!reader, fluff, smut}

✿ Hotter than Hell by @chateautae {supernatural/fantasy!au, romance, e2l, road trip, angst, fluff, eventual smut}

ᰔᩚ Paraluman by @muniimyg {love triangle, fwb to lovers, bsf to lovers, smut, angst}

✿ Sauvage by tjunglebook {ceo!jungkook, fluff, smut}

— Ot7

ᰔᩚ Change my mind by @winterzsurprise {soulmates!au, f2l, eventual smut, slowburrn, polyamory}

✿ Little do You Know by @yoongiofmine {fluff, angst, smut, playmate!au, idol!au}

ᰔᩚ Back Home by @alexlwrites {college!au, romance, humor, fluff, angst}

✿ Everything Falls (Into Place) by @blog-name-idk {college!au, roommate!au, fluff, humor, smut}

ᰔᩚ Sh. by @wwilloww {non idol!au, wilderness!au, f2l, smut, fluff, angst}

[mi55delulu]

toss up

synopsis: friday night football games, all day marching band competitions on saturday, and sunday schoolwork catch up — the schedule you’ve religiously maintained throughout high school and now college. that is, until you found respite in jungkook’s company.

☼ pairing: tenor drummer!jungkook x colorguard captain!fem reader

☼ wc: 26.5k

☼ genre: marching band/college au, fluff, angst, smut, romcom

☼ cw: jk as loser stuck in a hot body, uptight oc (not too much on my girl ok? i love her) past misunderstandings, miscommunication (i know i hate it too), negative family dynamics, yearning, pining, jealousy, lots of nickname usage, marching band terminology, physical injuries, 18+ ONLY - MINORS DNI 🔞, mature language, sexual tension, dirty talk, switch jk & oc, masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), handjob, fingering, brief nipple play, spitting, praising, cum eating, semi-overstimulation, oc gets teary from the good o, riding, missionary, multiple orgasms, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie.

☼ a/n: little miss liar here 😌 got ahead of my editing schedule, so might as well release early. anyway! happy bts month!! we are so back, bangtan babes 💜 here’s a very niche fic inspired by real life events. it’s been over 10 years since i’ve marched so pls be easy on me.

banner by the lovely @lovieku *･☆ i also wanna dedicate this fic to her bc she rly gets me so excited to write! nicest person ever like you don’t even know 🥹💖 (pls come back n also open commissions)

”FIVE, SIX—FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT!” 

No matter the number sequence, your body always knew when to move. 

Having done colorguard since you were 15 years old, you took pride in being section leader for the third year in a row at your university. The band director typically picked their section leaders based on seniority, but skill sets may outrank that on very rare occasions. Everyone was shocked when Director Lee selected you, a first-year at the time, over another fourth-year colorguard member. You would be too had you been in their position.

Except, you weren’t.

You put in the extra hours when no one else did and arrived on time to every practice. To you, that was the bare minimum. 

Being a good leader, now, that was the hard part. 

You took what you’ve experienced from your past captains: stern in how they led practices, soft in how they uplifted the team during difficult times. Director Lee immediately recognized those qualities in you. Older members rebelled against the decision, but eventually followed suit or left the university marching band due to graduating. 

Colorguard was a sport — you’d argue that it rivaled football. Because who could toss a flag, run 20 yards on the field, and catch between your legs? Yeah. An athlete. Above that, colorguard was a form of visual arts — the storytellers of the marching band. You had a love-hate relationship with colorguard, but the final results were always worth it … be it through winning competitions or feeling a sense of accomplishment. It’s the start of the field season and you’re currently at the ‘hate’ part.

“Shit!”

The music and band members come to a halt after Hoseok signals the band to stop. Everyone’s visibly upset, sunburnt, and probably dehydrated. This was the sixth time in the last hour of practice the band was forced to stop and reset for a mistake, which meant another five push-ups got added onto the post-practice punishment. 

You squint your eyes down the field and realize the commotion involved one of your colorguard members and someone from the drumline. 

Fuck. 

“JUICEBOX!” Director Lee yells from his megaphone in the stands. “Fix it before I do!”

You’d assume he was yelling for a beverage, but no. It was common to have nicknames in marching band. One could acquire a nickname for the following reasons: long name, director hated you, director loved you, or memorable moment. Unfortunately, you got yours when Director Lee witnessed you chugging down five apple juiceboxes after your first tryout. Memorable moment … at least he didn’t hate you, so you think. 

You spot Yuri, your colorguard member, arguing with Jaehyun, a tenor drummer. 

“Dude, you fucking hit me with your flag and you want to complain that I was in your spot?” Jaehyun seethes.

“Well, like I said, it wouldn’t have hit you if you weren’t in my spot!” Yuri huffs and drops her flag in frustration.

“Yuri, what’s wrong?” You jog over.

“Mr. Irrational over here is pissed off because he walked into my toss. But look, my drill told me I’m on the 40. Not my fault I need to cut through them to get to my spot.” 

Sometimes the drills didn’t mesh well with the choreography. It wasn’t the end of the world, just annoying to fix. From behind, you hear instruments shuffle — specifically another set of tenor drums.

“Juice.” 

You sigh. Not from the nickname, but from the person saying it. 

“Set #10 shows Yuri with the baritones on the left. She’s not at the wrong spot, but she shouldn’t be cutting through the tenors, instead going around us. There’s 16 counts in this set, so she’ll have plenty of travel time.”

Jeon Jungkook, third-year, lead tenor drum player. You haven’t gotten the chance to know him … how could you when there’s over 200 members, 18 of which belonged in your section. Based on what you’ve heard and witnessed, he’s an average drummer. Nothing noteworthy. And because of that, you don’t understand why everyone fawned over him. Sure, he’s tall and conventionally good looking. Had a nice head of hair and a distinct laugh that’d grab anyone’s attention. Maybe that’s why? Jungkook was like any other boy in college … the only difference was that he knew how to play the tenor drums. 

To be clear, no, Jungkook wasn’t a section leader. That was Yoongi’s role as center snare. Which makes you wonder why he’s trying to resolve this with you when you should be hashing it out with Yoongi. Ignoring him, you walk over to Yoongi to confirm the coordinates.

“Yeah, Kook is right.” He nods after reviewing the drills. From the side, you see Jungkook beam from the acknowledgment. 

“Ha! See, you were wrong,” the other tenor player says to Yuri as he sets his drums down.

“Jaehyun.” Jungkook’s stern voice catches you off guard. 

“What? It’s true!”

“You were two counts early to the spot. Wouldn’t have gotten hit if you were on time.”

Jaehyun scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Noobie ego. If you didn’t nip it early on, it was going to cause issues in the future. You had a few of those in your years of being a captain; consequently, you left some unchecked and those became the biggest lessons for you. 

You look at Yoongi with your brows raised, silently asking him, ‘You gonna take care of that?’

He merely stares back with a look that said, ‘Too tired … it’s my last season. Give me a break.’ 

Yoongi wasn’t lazy. He’s one of the many section leaders you respected and enjoyed working with. He remained factual and cleaned up things before they became a problem. Most importantly, Yoongi was fair and reliable. You’ve got a lot to learn from him before he graduates this semester.

“Alright,” Jungkook stuffs his sticks back into the side pockets. “Tenors, give me ten.”

The other two tenors groan and take off their drums and harness. Jaehyun, along with the tenors, drop to the ground and begin their push-ups. What surprised you was Jungkook also going down to do the push-ups too. You've always been a firm believer of the saying ‘when a ship sinks, the captain will go down with it.’

They’re back up within seconds. Jungkook looked like he barely broke a sweat outside the sweat lines on his shirt caused by his harness.

“All good?” Hoseok, the drum major, calls out from his stand. You and Yoongi throw a thumbs up.

“Reset! Take it from the top.” Hoseok calls out to the other band members. 

Director Lee waits till everyone gets back into position before turning on his megaphone. “You all wasted seven minutes of practice, so add another five push-ups.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Practice ended two hours later with 75 push-ups. Not bad, but also not good. At least it didn’t hit the triple digits. Jungkook always saw push-ups as a way to condition his body.

Long hours of practice with his section, ensemble, and individually filled up his day. A wonder how he manages to juggle marching band and school at the same time, but he gets it done. Jungkook knows he isn’t the best, but he’s a hard worker. He loves a good challenge and what better way to challenge himself by playing tenor? Sure, he could’ve stuck with a single bass drum, but tenors had four drums. How cool was that?

You certainly didn’t think so.

Never once batted a single eyelash in his direction in the last three years he’s marched with you. Jungkook exhales deeply after finishing his Gatorade. “She hates me.”

“Who?” Jimin asks while rolling up his flag silks. 

“Your captain.” Jungkook pouts. 

“Juicebox? Nah.”

“Then why does she always look like she smells something bad when she’s around me?”

“Rude, what if that’s just her face?” It wasn’t. In all his years of spinning with this school, Jimin has a good idea of who you are. You’re strict, but a sweet person underneath that tough exterior. 

“She’s just …” Jimin follows Jungkook’s line of vision where you’re laughing with the woodwinds section lead, Kim Namjoon. “Anyway, maybe it’s because you do smell.”

Jungkook scoffs. He knows for a fact he doesn’t smell. Everyone gets a little musty after practice, but Jungkook prides himself on good hygiene. Literally the bare minimum to shower after every practice and reapply deodorant throughout the day. Unfortunately, not the case for certain band kids. 

“Just kidding. You know the smelliest title goes to Ryo,” Jimin teases, “need to start gifting him some body wash this Christmas.” 

“Don’t bother,” Yoongi chimes in. “This is his last field season. Let the man live a little. Saves you a couple bucks too.” He finishes locking up the instruments and bends down to tie his laces.

“Cap,” Jungkook deadpans, “don’t you think she hates me?”

Yoongi stands up and squints at Jungkook, “I think you need to worry about cleaning up your solo in the opener. JB is the least of your concerns.”

“But—”

Yoongi sticks up a finger to Jungkook’s face. “More drumming, less JB fixation. Gotta bounce to a section leader meeting. Catch y’all later.” With that, Yoongi joins the small group of people at the front of the band room, you included. You look back to where Jungkook and Jimin stood. Jimin waves at you and you wave back. Jungkook does the same and receives a tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah, she hates you.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

“So as you all know, this year’s show is a spy theme, specifically Mr. & Mrs. Smith.” 

Hoseok stands at the front of the lecture hall, the projector displaying the mood board Director Lee had him make. He wasn’t at the meeting, but he trusted Hoseok enough to get his message across. It’s not that he didn’t want to be here, but he preferred a more hands off approach — thinks it’s building your communication and teamwork skills. Though, Namjoon theorizes that budget cuts to the performing arts department was the driving factor and Lee hasn’t been able to hire any instructors or technicians to help out. Nonetheless, this brought you all closer together. 

“I swear, Lee sees one movie with his wife and gets inspired.” Minji, one of the assistant drum majors, says. 

“Agree. Last year he had us do Pirates of the Caribbean because he went on a cruise with his wife.” Namjoon cackles and the rest of the group joins in.

“Alright, alright. Reel it back in,” Hoseok claps.

“He wants to tell a story … said there has to be an opposite attracts meets forbidden love kind of thing. So I’m going to really need to lean on visuals for this.” Hoseok looks in your direction and you are unphased. The visual part of the show was just as important as the music. Where band members held a stoic expression during the show, colorguard told a story using their body, face, and equipment.

“I’m thinking Juicebox can be one of the spies, but we need one from the band. Any volunteers?” Hoseok looks around the room. 

Namjoon raises his hand. For a moment, you thought he was going to volunteer. “Think me and my section will have to pass on this one. Almost got taken out by Jimin’s sabre last season.”

“That’s cause you were supposed to catch with your hands and not with your head,” you retort. 

“I blame the wind,” Namjoon grins. “Anyway, since sax did something last season, woodwind folks should have immunity.”

“Eh, let’s check in with our sections and see if there are any takers.” Yoongi suggests.

The hour goes by quickly with some distractions here and there. What do you expect from a bunch of college students? Still, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

To your luck, no one volunteered. As a result, Namjoon begrudgingly offered himself to the task. This was his final season, so he thought he’d go out with a bang.

And indeed, he did. During practice, you demonstrated a toss you planned to do in the show. Upon turning your back to get some water, Namjoon thought it was a good idea to mimic what you did … unsupervised, which landed him in urgent care with two fractured fingers.

“Shit … I’m sorry, Joon,” you say after the doctor left the room with the aftercare summary. A minimum of three to four weeks to heal. You know it was no fault of yours. He’s technically not out for the season, but missing a bulk of practices will be too much to catch up on. A duet with you is out of the question. 

“Ha … this was on me. What I get for undermining what you guys do on the field.” He jokes. It was true to some extent, people think all you guys do is twirl around a flag. It was always so much more than that. “I’m the one that should be sorry, Juicebox. Now we have to find someone else for the duet.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just focus on healing. Our first halftime show is in about three months. So you’ll be back on the field at least.” A small part of you worries about not finding a replacement in time. There’s about another 180 band members to ask — one was bound to volunteer, right?

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

snare lord [10:28 p.m.]: Duet position with JB is open. Lmk if you still want it. DON’T be weird. 

Jungkook drops his sticks on his drumming pad and sits up from his bed, eyes widening at Yoongi’s message. He waits about 30 seconds before typing up a response so that he doesn't come off desperate. He threw a mini tantrum when Yoongi (deliberately?) failed to mention that the spy duet was with you, but Namjoon had already volunteered by then. This will be a good chance to get to know you and figure out if you truly disliked him. Plus, he’s always been interested in colorguard — interested in you. 

Jungkook [10:28 p.m.]: waaaat? wat happened to joon?

Jungkook panics when 10 minutes pass and Yoongi doesn’t respond. Fears that he missed his window and someone else said yes to the part. Perhaps playing nonchalant wasn’t for him. 

snare lord [10:41 p.m.]: Injured :/ Do you want to do it or not? Jungkook [10:41 p.m.]: yes snare lord [10:42 p.m.]: 👍👍 I’ll give her your contact and you guys can chat more. 

This entire ordeal felt surreal, like a fan finally meeting their idol. Simply put, Jungkook admired you. Your work ethics, facial expressions … oh, and flexibility. Yeah. Sure, Jimin can do the splits too. Well, 90% of the folks in your section can, but there’s something so captivating about how you’d slowly drop down into the splits like it’s second nature.

Unknown [11:01 p.m.]: Hey. Is this Jungkook?

He nearly falls out of bed. It’s you. Has to be.

Jungkook [11:01 p.m.]: yours truly. juice??? Unknown [11:01 p.m.]: Yep. Yoongi told me you’re interested in the duet. When’s your first class tomorrow? Jungkook [11:02 p.m.]: 8 😬 why? 🧃 [11:02 p.m.]: Cool, meet in the band room at 5:30am tomorrow. Wear comfortable clothes you can move in. Thanks for volunteering btw. 

He reacts to the message with a thumbs up, smiling as he locks and sets his phone down on his nightstand. Jungkook has never been this excited to wake up early.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Early morning practices were not ideal. Having Jungkook as a partner? Not your first pick either, but it’s too late into the season to complain. Beggars can’t be choosers. You’ve got a limited time to train and teach him a routine. You arrive at the band room by 5 to stretch and Jungkook comes through the door by 5:16, eyes and cheeks still swollen from sleep but he greets you with a warm smile. He’s in an all black attire: gym shorts and a fitted long sleeve. His physique doesn't quite match up to Namjoon’s, but you know he’s strong. Got to be when he’s carrying those 35lb drums the entire show.

“Morning,” he sets his backpack to the side and sits in front of you to stretch.

“Hi,” you greet, while going down lower in your butterfly stretch, “thanks again for volunteering.”

He smiles softly with a nod. “So what’s on the lesson plan for today, Cap?”

Today’s practice only involved the basics: ballet positions, floor work, and equipment overview. Nothing crazy. And yet, Jungkook finds himself drenched in sweat an hour into practice. Who knew jazz runs would require him to use all the muscle groups in his ass? 

“Remember to turn out. Do it again.” You say with your hands on your hips. 

This was the 10th time you made him start over. Jungkook was frustrated. Didn’t realize how stiff his body was from drumming all these years. Also didn’t realize how nervous he’d get under your watch. Jimin warned that your serious mode competed with Hoseok’s. He never doubted this. Jungkook wants to crawl into a hole every time your face fights a scowl when he forgets what to do next. He thought you’d be a little more lenient during the first practice. Was Namjoon subjected to this too? 

Practice ends a little before 8 to allow him to cool down and get ready for class. Jungkook watches you put on your hoodie and fix your hair. He didn't think there was a single hair out of place before, but what did he know about perfection when he’s been a total mess the entire practice?

“Good work today,” you say. 

“Don’t lie, that was rough,” he jokes before grabbing his stuff. 

“Yeah, it was.” You agree and Jungkook’s stomach churns from your bluntness.

He goes on with his day in classes, half thinking about the show’s new drill, half thinking about ways to impress you. Would he earn your approval if he came into practice remembering all the 27 points on the flag? Was this desperation? Possibly. He returns to his dorm room later that evening. Sits on his desk chair and mindlessly drums his hands on his thigh. Wonders if he should ask you if practice was going to be that early every time because he physically doesn’t think he can do that again. Jungkook fishes for his phone in his pocket and sees a couple of notifications, but the only ones that mattered were yours. 

🧃 [7:23 p.m.]: No one’s good the first time. Just keep practicing. 🧃 [7:23 p.m.]: Also don’t forget to stretch. You’ll be sore tomorrow.  🧃 [7:25 p.m.]: I know drumline has practice on Monday and Wednesday afternoons. Let me know if Wednesday evenings work for you.

Jungkook didn’t care much for the days of the week, but Wednesdays became his favorite. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Weeks go by and Jungkook has made significant improvements. He’s still somewhat stiff, but his passion makes up for what he lacks. The show is about a third written. Homestretch, as Director Lee would say.

“CUT!” Director Lee yells from the stand, “Juicebox, Jungkook, the work looks fine but I’m not feeling the energy. Don’t know what it is, but fix it. Let’s do a 10 minute water break and we start from the ballad.”

“So … how’s working with Jungkook?” Jimin asks. He’s shirtless and unfortunately sunburnt — almost all the band members are. Hard to avoid when it’s blazing outside. Field season essentials were sunscreen and aloe vera. 

You knew Jungkook needed some whenever he’d flinched from your touch during a specific part of the show. Maybe you’ll give some to him after practice today.

“It’s fine.”

You look over at Jungkook. He’s with the rest of the drumline, gulping down his water and letting some drip down his neck. Yeah. Definitely hotter today. The weather, that is. 

Yuri sighs. “Is it too late to swap, Cap? I don’t mind being Mrs. Smith …” she twirls the ends of her hair and watches Jungkook put on his harness. 

“You wanna toss a six on sabre while spinning under it?” Jimin snorts. 

Yuri immediately shakes her head and you laugh. You had no doubt that Yuri could do it. She’s an exceptional dancer, but lacked the stamina and confidence when it came to weapons. She knows this too and rather have a special part of the show be done by someone more consistent with their catches. 

Jimin turns to you again. “Only asking because Lee has been on you guys for looking … odd.” 

There’s a small period of adjustment when it comes to dancing with someone new. Jungkook was … different. Makes you feel weird how he looks up at you in his kneeled position. Makes you feel weirder every time he tenses when you need to sit on one of his thighs for part of the choreo. Bad enough to where you forgot two counts and you never forget. 

“Choreo is still fresh for the both of us. It’ll take some time.” You reason. “Anyway, can everyone come over here?” Your section huddles closer. “First show is next week. It’s crunch time, so I need you all to stay an extra hour after the ensemble to clean our work.”

There were some complaints, but no major protest. Everyone knows how important the first show of the season is. It wasn’t like homecoming or anything, but everyone will be there — football parents, band parents, and students. 

Director Lee sounds the buzzer on his megaphone and everyone jogs back into position. Jungkook smiles at you in passing and you nod in acknowledgment. His smile drops a little and you feel a small rush of guilt. Maybe you’ve also been difficult too. You think back on Jimin’s question … you know what he’s hinting. You and Jungkook were an important piece of the show. The routine was good. What lacked was chemistry and you knew it was your fault.

How do you go about being more natural with Jungkook when you’ve been holding a grudge? An age old grudge that anyone should’ve forgotten by now, yet you’re reminded of it every time you see him. 

You’re on autopilot as you dance around Jungkook during this run through for the evening. This was the part where Jungkook moved his hands at the last minute so that you could pierce the ground with the sabre. Not realizing you were a count ahead, you pierced his hand instead. 

He hisses in pain. Minji spots the accident and immediately signals Hoseok to stop.

“I’m so sorry, Jungkook,” you apologize frantically. Hands were a big part of a musician’s career and you’d be damned if you were responsible for hurting Jungkook. 

“It’s fine, think I just need some ice,” he winces and holds his hand close to his chest. 

“Jungkook, Juicebox, take care of things off the field,” Director Lee calls out, “everyone else, from the top.”

You and Jungkook walk to the bleachers where Director Lee stood.

“Let’s see the damage, kid.” Director Lee holds his hand out. Lee was multifaceted. Truly jack of all trades. The university got really lucky with him … band director, golf coach, and physical therapist. He’s no longer in practice, of course, but he brings a wealth of knowledge and experience to the university. Plus, he’s able to treat folks with minor injuries. You hope this was a minor one. 

“That’s a big one,” he turns Jungkook’s hand to one side, pressing down on the top of his palm to inspect the bones. Jungkook grimaces and pulls his hand back.

“Flex and clench your hands,” he hums, “okay, there’s still mobility. Will bruise and hurt for a few days, but I recommend checking with the school nurse tomorrow if you can’t close your fist. Ice up for the rest of practice.”

You jog to Minji’s special cooler for situations like this. Injuries happened to band kids more than you’d imagined. It is, of course, still a sport. You return to Jungkook with a tied bag of ice. He massages his hand and winces in pain when he gets to the center of the injury. As you near, he masks his pain with a smile and you feel even more guilty. 

“Thanks,” he says when you hand him the bag. He exhales at the icy touch. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, “I was a count early and I didn’t realize your hand was there,” It’s one thing to be in the wrong, it’s another to admit it. You’re only as good as your pride. 

He shakes his head, “I knew you hated me but I didn’t think you were trying to take me out the season too.” He tries to joke to lighten the mood, but regrets it when you frown. 

“Uh, my bad,” Jungkook apologizes. “That wasn’t—”

“I don’t hate you …” you admit softly. 

He pauses, leans against the bleachers, and exhales through his nose, “I know.”

You and Jungkook watch the show from the bleachers. It’s interesting seeing gaps in your respective sections. The show will still go on, but your absence does not go unnoticed.

“Ah, Jimin dropped his flag. That’s another five push-ups.” Jungkook whispers to you.

You snort and chuckle. Jungkook looks shocked for a moment then softens. You’ve always been closed off around him, strictly choosing to discuss the show as his duet partner. This was different.

He likes this side of you. Hates to be those guys who say a woman looks better when they’re smiling. True and false in your case. Cause objectively, you’re an attractive woman. Finds you super cool when you’re expressionless and in the zone. 

Jungkook always hated the sun — spent his early years in life constantly running away from it whether it be staying indoors or under a tree. He had the choice to pick between taekwondo or marching band. As much as Jungkook hated the sun, he picked the sport with the most time spent in it. Thinks he can make amends with the sun now. 

Because as you smile, Jungkook never thought he’d be so easily swayed at the sight of sunlight hitting your cheekbones.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Practice ends with 30 push-ups. You get down from the bleachers to complete yours — not without scolding Jungkook to remain seated since his hand wasn’t in the right condition to do anything strenuous at the moment. He pouts, but adheres to your orders. 

Yoongi checks up on Jungkook after he sets his drums down. He whistles at the gnarly bruise and shakes his head at you, mimicking something close to disappointment. “First Namjoon, now Jungkook? You’re actually an undercover agent trying to sabotage us huh, JB?”

“You would’ve been my first target if that were the case.” You shrug. Yoongi chuckles and turns back to Jungkook, who looks at you both peculiarly like the cogs in his brain are slowly piecing something together he doesn’t quite favor. 

“Don’t worry about cleaning up. I’ll have one of the guys put away your drum. Just head home.” Yoongi pats Jungkook’s shoulder as he leaves the field.

Before running to get your equipment, you turn to Jungkook again. “Hey, I’m sorry—”

“If you’re gonna apologize again, I’m gonna make Yoongi have you put away my drums instead.”

You sigh. “Fine. I can reschedule our practices if your hand still hurts. Just let me know.” You part ways from Jungkook to wrap up practice with your section. From afar, you spot a hoard of band members gathering around Jungkook to either check on him or admire the injury. He’s cared for by many. If he was anything like the version you’ve conjured in your mind, you don’t think people would be so concerned for his well being. 

People change and maybe your perception of Jungkook should too.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

“Juice? Uh, what are you …” Jungkook looks shocked to see you at the doorway of his room. Didn’t even think you’d know where he stayed, but here you are in all of your glory looking up at him like you shouldn’t be here too. It’s Wednesday, the day after you accidentally stabbed Jungkook's hand, but also the day you’re both supposed to be practicing. Jungkook texted you this morning asking you to reschedule practice because something came up. You had a feeling he was lying about his injury to spare you from guilt. 

“How’s your hand doing?” You try to look down, but he has it hidden behind the door.

“It’s alright,” he answers quickly. “Wait, how do you know where I live?”

“Yoongi.” You rock on your heels and look awkwardly around.

“Oh.” He’s unsure why he feels uneasy about this answer. You could’ve just asked him.

“Is there something you need?”

“Not particularly?” God. This was uncomfortable and a part of you wants to apologize for bothering him and leave. 

“Would you like to come in?” He looked back at his room to make sure it was presentable. Other than some laundry on his bed he’s been procrastinating on folding and some music sheets on the floor, it’s not half bad.

“Yeah, just for a bit, if you don’t mind. I won’t be long.”

He opens the door wider for you to walk through. No turning back now. His room was utterly plain. Navy blue fitted sheets, spotless desk, and no posters or wall decorations in sight. It’s as if his only use for the place was to sleep. Jungkook gestures over at his desk chair for you to sit. You set your backpack down, not before grabbing a small jar of ointment out. He sits on the edge of his bed and peers over with curious eyes. 

“Let me see your hand.” You nod your head at his injured hand. He reluctantly pulls his hand to the front and your eyes widen. 

“It’s not as awful as it looks …”

“Jungkook.” 

“Okay, yeah, it’s pretty bad.” He chuckles.

You roll the chair closer to him to examine the bruise. Bruises were common in colorguard — in fact, you’ve got plenty on your forearms and legs. The one on Jungkook’s hand tops them all. You unscrew the cap of the ointment jar and scoop a dime sized amount on your finger. Your other hand holds his from the bottom while you carefully dab the medication on the injury. With years of tending to your own wounds, you’ve learned that you should never rub a fresh bruise, but it always speeds up the healing process when you warm the area. Soft in your ministrations, the ointment quickly melts from the warmth of your touch. Jungkook never expected to receive this sort of treatment from a classmate let alone you of all people. This was expected from someone like his mother — someone that cared for him.

Do you?

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Doesn’t know where he should stare at. Doesn't know if he should feel the way he does. 

“Tell me if it hurts.” You don’t look up, strictly focusing on the task at hand.

His hands were much larger than yours. He kept his nails cut short and clean, palms calloused from all the years of drumming. Yours were no different. Manicures weren’t a necessity as you preferred to keep them short. Despite the roughness of your hands, there’s an unexplainable softness in your touch. 

A couple of minutes go by and you’re quite impressed Jungkook has gone this long without talking to you. The silence makes you wonder if you should say something. After all, you did barge into his space to apply ointment out of guilt. 

“Are you and Yoongi close?”

“Who’d you march with in 2010?”

You and Jungkook look up at one another after asking a question at the same time. 

“Yoongi?” Your brows furrow.

“Yeah,” he relaxes at your touch. Your fingers pull at his to release any tension and Jungkook has to fight the urge to moan.

You think for a bit. Were you close to Yoongi? He was one of the few that didn’t give you shit or questioned your capabilities when Lee initially selected you as captain. The bond you shared was built on mutual respect. You suppose that’s one of the important foundations of a friendship. But you wouldn’t say you were too close to him on a personal level. He’s a friend nonetheless. 

“Sort of? Why?”

“Nothing. Just wondering.” His shoulders drop. “And 2010? Was still marching in high school.”

Obviously. You internally roll your eyes. Perhaps you need to be more specific.

“Summer 2010. Have you done drum corps?”

Drum corps were independent marching band groups. Similar to intramural sports, people from all over the country tried out for these groups and only the best got selected. Certain groups had an age cap. After that, you “aged out” and joined other groups that accepted all ages, typically less rigorous and accommodating to a wider age range. The circuit you’ve marched with was more competitive … maybe because there was a time constraint to be young and good. 

“Summer 2010 …” he repeats back to himself. “Ah! I tried out for Red Angels.”

That was all the confirmation you needed. “I see.”

“Why?”

“Nothing. Just wondering.” You mimic his answer and refocus on your ministrations. 

He's lost. One moment you seem fine, but now it feels like you're shutting him out. “Did you do drum corps?” He tries.

“Yup.”

Jungkook lights up. He’s always been a fan of drum corps. Didn’t know you’ve done them too. Though, it shouldn’t come as a surprise. You’re very good at what you do. Hell, half, if not all, of the band could be marching in drum corps, but it was rigorous and costly. After getting cut from auditions back in high school, he hasn’t tried for drum corps again.

“What? I didn’t know that. Who have you marched with?”

“Phantoms and Red Angels.” You recount. 

“No way! Wait, Red Angels? When?”

“2010, 2012.”

Jungkook pauses. He doesn’t recall seeing you, but then again, he didn’t make the cut after two weeks of tryouts to remember any faces. 

“Alright, I think this is enough,” you say, unsure if you meant the ointment or the conversation. 

He’s learned so much more about you in these couple of minutes than he has in the weeks of practice with you. Feels a bit disappointed as you release his hand to grab your stuff. 

You place the jar of ointment on his desk. “Make sure to rub some on every night, but be gentle with it. Should speed up the healing process.”

Jungkook is in a daze as he thanks you and walks you out. He’d like to think the tingles on his hand were from the ointment worked into his skin and not from you.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

You designated Sundays for schoolwork. Because you were rarely home, you preferred working from your apartment, but on rare occasions you’d be forced to go on campus. Today was one of those days. Your internet was down and you had a virtual call scheduled with all the section leaders later. Coffee shops were not ideal due to all the coffee grinding and foot traffic. When in doubt, you head to the campus library to grab a private study room or table. You should’ve known that it would be obsolete, especially on a Sunday. That’s when everyone’s trying to study or get their assignments done. You opt to sit outside instead. Except … the connection was awful and it was warm out. This might be the driving point for you to upgrade your home internet package. 

“Come on ...” You try to move closer to the facilities for a better connection. But you keep getting that circle of death on your screen. Maybe you also need a new laptop? 

“Juice?”

“Oh, Jungkook. Hi.” You wipe away some of the sweat from your hairline. 

Jungkook looked casual in his slides, t-shirt, and sweats. You personally wouldn’t have picked to wear sweats in this weather, but you assume he was just here to pick up his food from the dining corner judging from the greasy brown bag in his hand.

“Whatcha doing?” He asks. 

“Homework. Er, trying to at least. Think I’ll go somewhere else … Internet connection is pretty bad out here.” You place your bag on the bench and begin packing.

“Would you like to study at my dorm? Got air conditioning and the connection there isn’t too shabby.”

You want to say no. That night where you helped him with his hand was to absolve your own guilt for physically hurting him. A one off. But you’ve already driven all the way here and you’re not sure where you would go if not just back home. Plus, gas was expensive. ‘Just this once,’ you tell yourself. 

He looks at you with eager eyes, smiling wider when you nod. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Jungkook was on strike two at the 30 minute mark of studying in his room. The first time was when he started practicing on his drumming pad. The second was when he started humming all his parts in the show. He didn’t lie though — the wifi speed was great here and the air conditioning was nice. Since you occupied his desk, he took his spot on his bed. The times you bent down to get something from your backpack, you’d sneak a peek at what he was up to. He had his earphones in and drummed on his stomach with his hands. The color of his bruised hand looks infinitely better. You’d like to think it was thanks to your ointment, but you know a big part of it was because he was diligent with your instructions. Him and his cooperative nature. He was a good listener — valued what you had to say. 

Jungkook turns and catches you staring. You immediately turn back to your laptop. He sighs, “can we talk?” 

“I know you said you don’t hate me,” Jungkook starts, “but I can’t help but feel like I did something wrong. Did I?”

“You didn’t.” Half truth.

He doesn’t buy it. “Come on. We’ve been working together and it feels like there’s always this wall—”

“Jungkook,” you run your hand down your face, “has it ever crossed your mind that not everyone’s compatible as friends?”

His face falls. Jungkook was kind enough to offer his space for you to study and here you are being an asshole. Hell, he’s been nice all season from offering to take on the duet after Namjoon’s injury to showing up to all the practices on time. You’re not being fair at all. You don’t understand why you’re like this. Well, no, you do. Maybe if you talked about it, it would give you some closure too. 

“You tried out for Red Angels that one summer.” You mumble.

He furrows his brows in confusion. “Yes.” It comes out as a question.

“I remember you.”

“Okay?” He sounds a little frustrated and rightfully so since you’ve been dancing around the topic of you and Jungkook in circles. You also feel a bit stupid now that you’re finally expressing what’s been bothering you.

“I overheard you talking to the other drummers that time. You said something about how colorguard are the cheerleaders of marching band.”

“I did? Juice … I promise I’m not trying to be dismissive, but I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

You know he’s not. This shit was over five years ago. It’s dumb and the more you talk about it, you realize how stupid of a grudge it was to hold over Jungkook for something that happened to you in high school.

“During my freshman year of high school, I dated a senior,” you reveal. 

“Yikes. I’m sorry.”

“I know, big mistake.”

Jungkook internally tries to correlate the two pieces of information, but comes short. He’s confused. So you tell him. Told him how your ex was the drum major of your high school marching band. Told him how you thought he liked you a lot. Told him that you lost your virginity to him one month into dating and how he broke up with you the following week.

“Asshole.” Jungkook mutters. 

You smile, “right?”

You clear your throat before continuing, “he said some shit about how colorguard are the cheerleaders of marching band. Was a dig at colorguard and cheerleaders. Like that we’re ‘easy?’” 

“I guess … I was upset when I heard it again at the Red Angels tryouts. Fuck, is that stupid?” You palm your forehead. You weren’t expecting to drop your past lore to someone, let alone Jungkook.

“What? No! First off, fuck him. I’m sorry he treated you like that.”

You soften at his words. You don’t really talk much about the things that happened in high school because … honestly, the only good thing that happened in high school was colorguard despite the situation with that senior. Outside of being a pubescent teen, you never cared to reminisce about the past. Found it odd knowing people who called their high school years “the glory days.” You initially decided to go to this university because of their marching band program, but also, you wanted a fresh start. Seeing Jungkook was a reminder of the past. 

“It was the past. I associated that situation with what you said at tryouts. We obviously didn’t know each other and I didn’t know I’d be seeing you again in school.” You shake your head.

“Juice,” he says softly. 

“In hindsight, it’s stupid. I know. You’re probably a nice dude and you’re free to feel what you feel about people in colorguard—”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts. “Fuck that dude. You didn’t deserve that. And no, I don’t think of you or anyone in colorguard that way.”

“But you said …”

Jungkook exhales, “this is going to sound dumb, but back then I thought the saying meant that colorguard were the highlight of the marching band performance … kind of like the fact that cheerleaders are the highlight of football games. I honestly didn’t know there was another meaning.” He mumbles. 

“Oh.”

You and Jungkook stare at each other with pursed lips now that everything has aired out.

“I’m glad you told me about your past. That explains some things …” he looks to the side, “I hope you know I’m not that kind of person. And I understand what you mean about people just not being compatible. Friendships can’t be forced and I won’t force that on you either.” 

You nod, “thank you.” You’ve been difficult all this time and now that Jungkook was respecting your boundaries, you feel out of place. 

“Don’t you have a section leader meeting soon?” He nods at his digital clock. 

“How did you know?”

He smiles sheepishly, “Yoongi complains about it in the group chat. Says it’s overkill.”

You snort. “It is, but Lee thinks it’s good for us.”

“Yeah, well … I’ll just be here,” he puts his earphones back in his ears and lays back on his bed. Your stare lingers before you turn back to your laptop. You’re a little embarrassed about how this transpired in the last couple of minutes, but there’s relief in knowing you were wrong about Jungkook. More than that, you realize why people appreciated him. 

Your virtual meeting starts and you assume it’ll be a quick one, that is until Hoseok gets to your updates. “Sooo, Juicebox. Lee has this crazy idea …”

You tilt your head. Whatever Lee wants, Lee gets. Just the matter if he’ll give you enough time to execute it. 

Hoseok smiles sheepishly, “last time, we had Namjoon catch a sabre tossed to him. What if we had a band member toss AND catch something? Jungkook, specifically. Lee was thinking … a five. Is that unreasonable?”

Unreasonable was an understatement. Namjoon’s catch was different … for one, it was just a triple, three rotations in the air. Second, Jimin was the one that tossed it to him. A five? There were people that have spun for years and never reach a five on a weapon. Not that they were bad, but people had different strengths and skill sets. Jungkook was just your partner in this show. You’ve only taught him the basics in the event Lee wanted something extra. You weren’t expecting this.

“I don’t know if it’s possible. I can try to train him, but no promises.” 

“Don’t think it’s a good idea,” Yoongi interjects, “Jungkook is lead tenor. I need him in top condition … if he gets hurt again …”

“Not saying it’s a must or anything. Let’s explore that idea and if it’s a no go, we won’t move forward with it.” Hoseok says. 

Everyone on the call reacts with a thumbs up. The call shifts over to the topic of a fundraiser. “Rehearsathon,” as Namjoon calls it, involved each band member reaching out to sponsors for donations to pledge they’ll rehearse for 12 hours straight. It sounds ridiculous, but Namjoon swears it works. Raises money for the band and everyone gets in extra practice time — hits two birds with one stone. He thinks it’ll be a great opportunity to chat up with some folks at the upcoming football game to get some sponsors. 

Having ended the call an hour later, you think you’ve overstayed your welcome. You pack up and mentally prepare to tell Jungkook you’re leaving. 

“What’s not possible?” Jungkook straightens himself up on his bed. 

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“Guilty,” he confesses, “can’t blame me … I’m literally two feet away and these earphones aren’t exactly noise cancelling. So, what’s not possible?”

“Lee wants to add another wow factor into the show.” You get up and Jungkook stands up as well, “wants you to do a five on weapon.”

“I don’t see why not. It’s worth a try.”

You put on your backpack and look at Jungkook incredulously. “Namjoon got taken out for a couple weeks by accident.”

“Okay, but you’ll be teaching and watching me, right?” He looks at you with those big, hopeful eyes again and you wonder to yourself if you both aren’t as compatible as you deem. 

“Fine. We’ll try it next practice. Thanks again for letting me work here … you didn’t have to.” You mumble. 

“Yeah, cause this space is only reserved for friends.” He jokes. “Kidding, Juice. It’s really no big deal.”

Ever so the gentleman, Jungkook walks you to your car even after you reassured that it’s not needed. He made up some excuse that he just wanted some fresh air. 

You both arrive at your car and you turn to him. “Well, thanks again.” You unlock your car and toss your backpack into the backseat. He waves and tells you to drive safely. The distance between you and Jungkook grows as he walks back to his dorm. 

You don’t know what compelled you to call out his name, but he turns quickly as if he’s also been waiting for this moment. “I never said I didn’t want to be friends with you. And yeah, you’re right. Colorguard is the highlight of the show.”

He smiles, and it’s devastating. How your body warms from just his smile. How it dismantles the walls you’ve built up around Jungkook. The foundation was weak to start, waiting for the right moment to crumble and start anew. You’re sure you can. 

“I know. See you at practice, Juice.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Men in colorguard dominated the weapon line. They had the strength and stamina to toss a rifle with little to no struggle. Pain tolerance though? You question that. Jungkook had the energy, but his control was off. It’s not his fault. This was his first time touching a rifle. The average person isn’t tossing and catching random objects. Anything that goes up, will have to come down. And having a rifle barreling down your head isn’t anyone’s idea of fun. 

“You have to squeeze.” You say after another lofty toss that has you both dodging the drop. 

“What does that mean?” He complains, “I am squeezing, see?” Jungkook shows his hands gripping the rifle harder. 

“No, your core.”

“What even is that?”

You place your hand on his stomach and another one on his lower back. Skinship in colorguard was normal, especially in dance. You’re used to it. You’d think Jungkook would be too. After all, there’s never a point in the show where you’re not touching each other. Yet, he tenses up under your touch.  

“Think of it as sucking in air and a string is pulling from your back.” You look up at him, “try it.”

Jungkook tries to follow your instructions but ends up with his back hunched over like a turtle. You laugh, now moving in front of him as you grab one of his hands from the rifle. Instinctively, you place it on your own stomach. His hand spays over your abdomen — big, warm, secure. You freeze. You shake off the feelings and take a step closer to Jungkook, not quite able to look up from your position.

“Like this,” you demonstrate the technique, “feel the difference?” You press his hand harder against you. You certainly feel it … the lightest change of pressure in his fingertips, the small movement from his thumb. No one would have noticed, but you do. 

You hear him swallow and exhale a shaky breath, “uh huh.” 

“Good,” you step back and let his hand fall back to his side, “reset and do it again.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Jungkook’s #1 remedy to a sore body was a hot shower. 

He’d run up the water bill back at home with the amount of hot showers he’d take after practice. At school? No difference. Even better now that he didn’t have his family breathing down his neck for taking up all the water. These days, he finds himself doubling down on his showers. He definitely underestimated the level of difficulty to perform as a musician and colorguard.

It hurts. His feet, shoulders, hands … literally everything.

All worth it though, especially on those rare occasions where your eyes light up after he’d reach another milestone in those private sessions.

He’s greedy for more. A smile. A compliment. A high five. Anything. Jungkook collects them in his invisible stamp book of accomplishments. Didn’t think he’d unlock something new today — something foreign within himself. 

The hot water beats down on his skin. It’s scalding, borderline painful. Even so, it doesn’t compare to how punishing his hand is wrapped around his hard, leaky length. Jungkook supports himself upright with one hand on the shower wall. He shakes. Grunts lowly. He shouldn’t feel this way for you. Shouldn’t think this way of a teammate. A section leader, at that. You’re in his head whether he likes it or not. 

Damn you and the innocent stunt you pulled during practice.

Damn you and those short shorts. 

Damn you and your pretty eyes. 

Because he’s here thinking about how you’d feel pressed against him, shorts pulled down, eyes watery from how good he’d make you feel. Would you praise him? Lose yourself on him? Encourage him to keep going? His hand speeds up.

Then, the unthinkable happens: your name slips out.

Shame needs no welcome. 

“Fucking hell,” Jungkook groans, orgasm slipping away as he abruptly lets go of his cock at the last second. He cranks the shower knob to the coldest setting. This was so wrong. You deserved better — shouldn’t be reduced to some weird fantasy.  

He pushes his wet bangs away from his forehead. Shakes his head as he scolds himself, “get a grip, man.”

Hot showers were his #1 remedy for a sore body.

Cold showers became his #1 remedy for you. 

Jungkook quickly finishes his shower to rid himself of those sinful thoughts. Tucked in bed by 10pm, he scrolls through his social media, praying he’ll find something worthwhile of a distraction. Just as he was going to call it quits and step out for a walk, his phone rings. 

Incoming call: Chaewon. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

You never really understood football. Didn’t really bother to pay attention to it when you were in high school since your team was notorious for losing. You were only there to perform for the halftime shows. College football was different. More lively. You still didn’t get the rules of the sport, but you appreciated the school spirit. Also was nice that your band played music whenever your school scored. 

Hair and makeup was done thirty minutes before the show since nobody wanted to sweat off their work during the practice run throughs. You give a quick pep talk to your section. There’s always first show jitters, but you all worked so hard. Mistakes were inevitable and will motivate you all to improve for the next performance. So will push-ups, if Director Lee catches any in the stands.

“Hey.”

You turn at the familiar voice. Jungkook has on his uniform, harness hidden underneath it so it looked like the drums were floating in front of his body. Hat with the signature school feather tucked at his side, he looks polished. 

“Ready to crush our duet?”

“Of course,” you grin, “if you make a mistake, you’re doing my push-ups.” Banters come a lot easier after the confrontation you had with Jungkook awhile ago. You feel more at ease with him these days.

“Cruel. Aren’t captains supposed to sink with their ship?”

“You’re on your own ship.”

“Ouch.” He chuckles. “Hey, can you zip me up? Forgot to ask one of the guys for help before coming over here.” He turns and bends lower for you to reach.

“All done.”

“Thanks, you’re a gem.” He turns slowly just to make sure he doesn’t hit anyone with his drums. Jungkook studies your face for a brief moment, clears his throat, and smiles. 

“I like your eye makeup by the way. Blue suits you.”

“Yeah? Thanks,” you flush at his words. 

Most show makeup was done heavier so that the audience could see. Realistically, no one can see your face from the stands. Perhaps that’s why your parents never came to your shows. Too many band members, too hard to spot. No parent wants to waste time playing Where’s Waldo with their kid.

“Jungkook!”

Jungkook looks around for the source of voice and he waves excitedly, “Ma!”

You watch a short middle aged woman weave through the crowds. Her bangs were pinned away from her face. There’s an uncanny resemblance between her and Jungkook. It’s all in the eyes. She side steps his drums and gives him a hug with lots of pats on his back.

“I told you I was going to meet you all later after the show, Ma,” Jungkook says with a sweet smile, “how’d you even find me?”

“I always know where my son is!” She chuckles. In a sea of band kids and a filled stadium, it would be hard to locate your kid. Though how hard would it be to spot a boy with tenor drums? There were only four of them in the band. “Look at how tan you’ve gotten. Don’t forget to wear sunscreen. I know you burn easily.”

“Ma …” he grumbles. He knows it comes from a place of endearment. After all, his parents supported him all throughout high school and college by coming to his shows, even volunteering to carpool and host meals for the marching band. It’s a type of community and support he won’t take for granted. 

Jungkook looks out to the crowd, “where’s dad and Junghyun?”

“You know them. They’re in line for some nachos.”

You slowly back away to let him chat with his mom. It’s not that you disliked social interactions … you just really didn’t know what to do or say.

“Oh, Ma, this is Ju-,” he recovers quickly by saying your actual name, “she’s the colorguard captain.”

“Oh! Is she my favorite one to watch, Kookie?”

“Wha-? I thought I was your favorite to watch …”

“We got cameras for a reason.”

You giggle and shake her hand. You can tell where Jungkook gets his energy from.

“Your parents must be very proud of you. Such a lovely performer.” She praises.

Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes at the mention of your parents, but you nod your head in agreement, “thank you.” 

Sensing your discomfort, Jungkook jumps in, “Ma, we gotta go warm up now. Make sure you watch me. I’ve got a special part in the show.”

She pinches his cheeks, “wouldn’t miss it for the world, hon. Good luck, you two.” His mom quickly makes it through the crowd and up the stands. 

“Sorry, my mom can be a bit eccentric.”

You shake your head. “She’s cute. I can see where you get your personality from.” Wait. Pause. That came out wrong and you hope Jungkook didn’t catch that either.

“You think I’m cute?” Nothing flies over his head. 

“I think you need to worry more about pointing your toes during our routine.”

“Ugh, you sound just like Yoongi.”

“Wrong. I haven’t made you do push-ups. Though I probably should with the amount of times you dropped the rifle.” For that reason, you let the director know that the toss won’t be in the show … at least for this performance. It’s still too fresh and you would rather have a clean show with an easy routine.

“Cruel.”

You smile, “I’ll see you on the field.”

“Hey, Juice?”

“Hm?”

“Full out?” He says with a playful grin.

It’s a term he’s picked up from you over practice when you want him to perform at his best. This was your life motto. If you had to do something, you were going to do it full out. Do it so well that when the moment is finished, you could look back fondly and proudly at your accomplishments. 

“Full out.” You mirror his smile. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

The halftime show went well. Some mistakes were made, but what’s done is done. 

“Gah! I can’t believe I dropped when I was on the diva spot.” Jimin complains. The diva spot, a.k.a. the 50 yard line, was every colorguard member’s dream. For a moment, you were the center of the show. It’s one thing to be on it, it’s another if you had to do something big. And Jimin had a major toss that he missed. Nerves probably. Happens to the best, but it’s still not a good feeling for opener night. 

“I hate this uniform. I’m soaked in my sweat.” Yuri says as she carefully wipes her face, avoiding her eyes.

“My feet hurt.” Another girl whines.

Your mind races, still trying to catch your breath from the show. Performing in front of an audience was different. The cheers, the lighting, the adrenaline. You do your best to soak in the moment, but all you want is a bottle of Gatorade and to get out of this uniform. 

“Pain is just weakness leaving the body,” Director Lee comes from the corner. Ah, another one of his sayings he got from Pinterest. 

“Nice work, guard. I saw that drop, Jimin. Tighten things up.” Director Lee comments while noting down something on his clipboard. 

“Yes sir …”

“Director Lee, is there any way we can order new uniforms? It’s like a body sauna in this one.” Yuri inquires.

“Huh? Aren’t you kiddos into that bodysuit look?”

“Not when we look extra sweaty.”

“It’s not sweat, it’s glow.” Everyone groans at another one of his Pinterest quotes. Compared to the rest of the band, he’s a lot nicer with colorguard. He doesn’t know much about colorguard, but knows how hard you all work. As tough as Director Lee was in general, he’s a softie with guard … even with all the cringy dad jokes he makes. 

“Juicebox, I thought the duet with Jungkook was nice. I’m expecting Jungkook to be ready for the five next show. Still think something is not clicking. Don’t know what though,” he writes down another note in his clipboard, “but I trust you’ll get it fixed.”

“Yes sir.” You don’t know what to fix if he doesn’t tell you. One of those moments where you feel like you’re trying to hit a moving target. Perhaps talking to Jungkook about it may help. He hit all his marks in the show. You’re proud of his growth. Think it’s only right you expressed that, just as you do with your members whenever they hit a milestone. 

The band sets up their equipment in the stands again after the show. You look for Jungkook. He isn’t hard to spot. Not because he was tall or anything, but because of the swarm of people around him. Specifically cheerleaders. You liked your cheer team. Their work ethics mirrored closely to colorguard. What you don’t understand is the weird gnawing feeling in your stomach the moment you catch Jungkook and the rest of the girls laughing at something he said.

What’s that about?

He spots you. Smiles wider. Says something quick to the girls before he tries to walk away. Seemingly in your direction at least, but the girls don’t let him leave for whatever reason. 

Like the other band members, you gather around the cooler for some refreshments.

“Damn it. Jungkook is a genius for rounding up sponsors from the cheerleaders,” Jaehyun takes a bite of his granola bar. 

“You say it like they’d give you a single penny if you asked,” another member says. “He’s always been popular with the cheer team. Probably the dude with the most charisma unlike the majority of us band geeks.”

“I’ll have you know that my flirting skills—”

“Anyone who needs to talk about how great their flirting skills are, has none,” Yuri interrupts.

“You’re just a hater,” Jaehyun rolls his eyes. 

“And you look like…” more insults get fired back and forth between the two. 

You take the stairs up to where the guard sat during the games. There’s not much for you to do until call time. If you really wanted to, you could choreograph something, but being at the game was already enough. That’s what the cheer and dance teams were for anyway. 

Yoongi groans in his descent to the seat next to yours. Says he has old man knees. Ridiculous claim for a 22 year old, but you’re sure every band member has some sort of long term injury at this rate. Yoongi juts his chin to the bottom of the stands. “Think they’re gonna date?” 

“Who?” Your eyes zero on Jungkook and the cheer captain. He still hasn’t departed from the group. 

“The noobs.” Yoongi puts his feet on the empty bleacher. 

“Jaehyun and Yuri?” You laugh. “No way. They hate each other.”

“So did Romeo and Juliet.”

“Okay, but they died too.”

“Ugh, JB, you’re such a pessimist.” He snorts. 

“No, just a realist.”

You look down to where Jungkook stands. He’s no longer focused on the surrounding conversation. Has this antsy body language like he’s in search of something … or someone? Keeps looking back and forth between whoever was talking to him and the bleachers. Specifically, in your direction.

“He likes you.”

“Jaehyun?” You avert from the obvious answer. “Not interested in noobs.” 

Yoongi squints his eyes and smirks. “You’re no dummy, JB.”

“Don’t know who and what you’re talking about, Yoongs.”

“He’s not a bad kid,” Yoongi continues, “a little rough around the edges, but he tries hard. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Since when have you started playing wingman for Jungkook?”

“See, I knew you were no dummy.” 

You stick your tongue out. Yoongi takes the hint and drops the topic, choosing to stare at the open football field. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he says after a beat. “Should I fail one of my classes to be a super senior?”

“I wouldn’t hate graduating with you. We’d get our captain plaques together on senior night.”

“Dad would kill me if he had to pay for another semester.”

You chuckle and lean back. Hoseok calls the band to prepare as the game starts up again. Yoongi goes back down with his section and you’re with yours. Being at the top of the stands, you’re also closer to the stadium lights where all the gnats and moths gather. Can’t help being tempted by the light. You have a lot in common with them. Feel for them, actually. Because much like them, you’re also helplessly drawn to Jungkook’s light.

You don’t understand football, but it’s a nice distraction to put out the little spark of curiosity for a certain tenor drummer. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

You’re off. 

Maybe it’s cause of what Yoongi planted in your head. Maybe. Because you find yourself looking for Jungkook on the field whenever Hoseok signals the band to stop. With only four tenors in the band, he’s not hard to spot. Jungkook was always the last one to fall out of attention after Yoongi taps on his snare. You also find yourself fixated on his bare back and how it flexes when he leans to tilt his drums up. You tell yourself you’re only looking because of what his mother said at the recent football game. He burns easily — shoulders look a little raw and the harness rubbing against it doesn’t make it any better.

Jungkook is just as equally to blame for these weird times. He texts you every day and sends you corny marching band memes. Honestly? They weren’t that funny, but you chuckle nonetheless when you see Jungkook follow up with a ‘LOLOLOLOL us.’ Serves to only confirm he’s also thinking about you. 

You spend most of your days in practice with him — you’re bound to think of him outside of it. Especially when you’re at the local drugstore to get some tampons and you come across a bottle of aloe vera. All you have to do is hand it to him. And yet, the bottle remains with you for the next two weeks, burning a hole at the bottom of your backpack. 

Granted, you had plenty of chances to give it to him since you’re over at his dorm every Sunday to study. Don’t know when this routine started, but you’d have to thank your spotty wifi for that. It doesn’t take much to convince you either. Good air conditioning, decent wifi, clean space … and Jungkook. Speaking of which, he’s on the floor drumming on his pad. Your brain tricks you to think of it as white noise at this point — loud and comforting. Not sure if you could fall asleep to it, but probably for the better during these study sessions.  

His drumming comes to an abrupt stop, “Juice?”

“Hm?” You don’t turn around, too fixated on annotating your lecture notes. 

“Do you always bruise around your legs?”

It’s not uncommon for colorguard members to bruise, given that accidents occurred on a daily basis. Whether you miscalculate a toss or there’s overuse of certain body parts, injuries were inevitable. The bruises on your knees are an unfortunate byproduct of all the floor routines you’ve endured. They’re your battle scars. Pretty like the galaxy. That’s one way to view them outside of the pain.

You turn around. Big mistake. 

Jungkook looks up at you with starry eyes. It doesn’t help that his five-inch inseam shorts have lifted in his seated position. You’ve always had a weird obsession with tanlines and the ones on Jungkook’s thighs blend perfectly together. 

His eyes move from your face and down to your exposed legs. He points at one of the bruises on your shin, “that’s a new one.”

“Very observant of you.” You reply.

He goes red. As if he got caught red-handed doing something forbidden. You quickly follow up with a lighthearted chuckle to diffuse the awkwardness. “But yes, I do bruise easily. Takes a while for it to heal too,” you cross your legs.

“That sucks … guess we all have a weakness, yeah? You with bruising and me with burning.” He chuckles, “B&B.”

“The harness doesn’t help with the sunburn, huh?”

Jungkook smiles, “very observant of you.”

You roll your eyes, think this would be a good time to give him the aloe vera, so you dig through your bag and toss him the bottle. Jungkook catches it with ease and fumbles around his nightstand and tosses you an unopened box. “Trade you.” 

It’s the same ointment you brought him a while ago for his hand. You already have some at home, but it felt nice knowing he also thought of you too. 

He sits on his bed, grabs his shirt from the back of his collar, and tugs it off his body. Most people shy away from nudity, but band kids are a different breed. You’ve seen people practice in nothing but their undergarments in the past. You should be used to this — to Jungkook’s body. Keyword: should.

You swallow at the sight of his broad back, lean waist, and defined biceps. You should avert your eyes. Again, keyword: should.

Your eyes follow his hands as they reach around his shoulders to smear the liquid on his skin.

“You missed a spot.”

“Huh,” he turns to his floor-length mirror to see and attempts to reach back around. Fails again.

“Want me to help?” The wheels on Jungkook’s desk chair squeak as you roll closer.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.” He hands you the bottle and turns around. You squeeze the bottle and watch the dime sized liquid dribble on his back. He shudders and exhales softly. 

You wonder if the deep shade of red on the tip of his ears was just another place he burned easily. Jungkook’s skin feels hot at the touch. Find the freckles and moles on his back endearing. Find it more endearing that he could never see them like you do. Much like his starry eyes, his back mirrors the constellations in the sky, begging to be traced and mapped by your fingers. By you. 

“There, all done.” You close the cap and set the bottle on the nightstand.

He clears his throat, “want me to help?” Jungkook points at the ointment in your lap.

Now it’s your turn to feel shy. “I can do it myself.”

He tilts his head, “I know you can.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

You’re surprised at yourself — surprised you agreed for his help, surprised you’re seated on Jungkook’s bed with your foot perched on one of his thighs. You position your hands behind to support you upright.

“This okay?” Jungkook asks as he starts on the smaller bruises around your ankle. You’re not sure if he means this entire ordeal or the pressure he’s kneading into your skin. Regardless, you nod and bite the inside of your cheeks. You never realized how sensitive you were — never realized how much the bruises ached outside of your own touches. It’s been a long time since anyone has tended to your wounds, so this was different. A good different.

“You can go a little harder. Those are old.”

He does as he’s told. Always good, ever so obedient.

Jungkook eventually makes it up to your knees. You’ve let out a few shaky breaths in the time he’s worked the ointment into your skin, all while noticing the way his mouth parts at your reactions.

He eyes the last bruise between your thighs, and back up to your eyes, “there, all done.”

Something shifts in you.

“But you missed one.” You tilt your head, feigning ignorance just to see what he would do. He always does as he’s told, but you sense some hesitancy. Not because he’s uncomfortable, but because he’s unsure what will happen next if he touches you beyond what’s appropriate.

“Juice …”

“What?” You stare at him through hooded eyes, “I thought you wanted to help me.”

“And if I don’t?” He leans in, watches if you’d move away. You don’t, so he takes the chance to rest your leg down on his lap. 

“Push-ups.” You say without another thought, also leaning in. 

He laughs through his nose, “might do something that’ll warrant that anyways.”

“Like what?” You ask, “show me.” You have an idea of what will happen next. At least, you hope. There’s no doubt something changed between you two since that talk. Sure, you feel more comfortable around him, but lately? You’ve also been feeling other things. As much as you’d like to blame Yoongi, you know it’s your own attraction for Jungkook.

“Yeah?” His face is centimeters from yours. 

“Yeah,” you nod, nose grazing his.

He kisses you. 

Nothing more than a small peck to test the waters, but he waits a millisecond, which earns himself a soft whine from you as confirmation to continue. Your hand cups his jaw and pulls him in. 

“Again,” you breathe, “do it again.”

It’s the same order you’d give to anyone making a mistake in colorguard, but this was no mistake. Call it a Pavlov response or whatever; Jungkook always does as he’s told. Tries his best to make it good for you — doesn’t take much. He angles his head a little, does this pouty thing with his lips that has you feeling warm all over. You lick at his lips. It’s tentative, careful, and slow — gets him breathing heavier. 

“Fuck,” he muffles a small groan. 

Jungkook parts his mouth and the rest is history. Every lick, every nibble, every breathy moan felt experimental and deliberate all at once. Thumb tracing your cheek, the pressure of his fingertips on your hips has you keening. Time is an illusion because you’d spend the entire afternoon kissing Jungkook if you could. He pulls away first, lips pink and swollen with a sheen of saliva you’re unsure who it belonged to.

He swallows, “well?”

“Well, what?” You say, slightly out of breath. 

“Do I still need to do push-ups?”

You snort. He beams. You do spend the rest of the afternoon kissing Jeon Jungkook. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

“I’ve got to say, Juicebox,” Namjoon pauses to chug the rest of his water, “I don’t think I could’ve pulled off what Jungkook is doing with you.”

You almost spit out your water. “H-huh?” 

Did Namjoon know something happened between you and Jungkook? 

“The duet. You guys are killing it.”

“Oh. Yeah,” you relax, “extra practice helps.”

Practice does help. And so do the kisses in between breaks that Jungkook swears by makes him improve. You don’t require much persuading to fall into his requests. Enjoy it too much to be restrictive of his affections. As a result, things get a little … difficult during ensemble practices because all Jungkook wants to do is pull you away to kiss you silly. Deprivation of each other works out in your favor because Director Lee no longer mentions how you both need ‘more chemistry.’

“Nice. Hoping for a solid show for all of us by the end of the month. My high school is going to be there.” The marching band was scheduled to perform at the end of a high school circuit competition. Director Lee says it’s a good way to get the school’s name out for prospects thinking about which university to attend.

“Also, is Jungkook okay? He keeps looking over here.” Namjoon nods his head from the side. 

You don’t even have to look. Jungkook’s been doing this every practice. Like a touch starved puppy waiting for their owner to come home. As endearing it is, you’re worried. If Namjoon noticed, eventually the other band members would too. 

“Think he’s just zoning out.” You lie.

“True. Eyes are giving pug.” Namjoon stands up and pulls the neck strap over his head, “alright, last run through for the day.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

“You need to stop staring so much during practice,” you say in between kisses. Jungkook was over at your place under the guise to troubleshoot your shitty Internet connection. Quite confident it wasn’t your internet tier, but that it was just an old router. Ten minutes into inspecting your router, you end up pinned underneath Jungkook on your couch. 

“Why? You don’t like it?”

“Namjoon said you looked like a pug.”

“Pugs are cute.” 

“They are,” you concede. 

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Just-oh!” You look down at the source pressed at your heat. Jungkook is almost always hard during and after kissing, that much you know. Whether it’s from a simple peck or minutes of making out, he’s sporting a boner. Doesn’t take much to rile him up. Though, he’s never done anything further. Just tells you:

“Ignore that,” he trails kisses down your jaw and neck, “so what’s the problem?”

“Don’t want people assuming.”

“Oh.” Jungkook pauses and sits up on his heels, “right, sorry.”

You don’t mean to hurt his feelings. It doesn’t help that you’re a private person and things feel extremely preliminary with Jungkook at the moment. You like him, but for all you know, he could just be in it for a fun time. If this was going to die out, you rather have the least people know about it. It’s not like you’re actively wishing for an inevitable end. 

Realistically, it doesn’t hurt to prepare for hurt.

Mood completely shifted, Jungkook sits upright and looks around your apartment. It’s neat, feels homey with how you decorated it. Most of your furniture was secondhand or thrifted, but you took good care of it. He eyes the shelf containing your awards, dried flowers, and pictures with all the different groups and friends you’ve marched with. You’re more sentimental than you appear to be. Marching with these groups was no simple feat, but you looked back fondly at all the memories created. You know you’ll do the same for your university years too.

“Wish I could’ve done drum corps,” Jungkook sighs. If he was phased by whatever transpired moments ago, he doesn’t show it.

“Did you try out other groups?” You sit up, knees brought close to your chest. 

“Nah, I don’t think I’m good enough.”

Now, you initially thought there wasn’t anything remarkable about Jungkook’s drumming skills. But let’s be real … you didn’t read music nor play an instrument, so what did you know about drumming? What you do know is that Jungkook tried hard. He was more than capable of passing auditions and marching in drum corps. You’re sure of it. 

“You won’t know until you try.”

“Maybe,” he dismisses the thought with a nod. “Would’ve been nice to join two years ago and claim I was in the season where they had tenors drum upside down.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” you smile, “was pretty cool.”

“You’re the cool one for doing drum corps,” he praises, “did you do a lot of fundraising to pay for membership dues?”

You shake your head, “no, my parents did.”

“Nice of them to support you.” 

“Yeah, I guess?” You shrug, not sure how to reply, “they … never really came to my shows.”

Jungkook frowns, “why not?”

“Work? I don’t know … they just never made the time. I stopped asking them to come after a while, so I guess it’s my fault they don’t know my schedule.”

His eyes soften. You never realized how natural Jungkook was with affection and comfort. So natural in how he tugs at your wrist, lays you down with him on the couch, and cradles your cheek. 

“The way you perform … it’s an absolute privilege to watch you. They’re missing out.” He tells you with so much conviction, “Ma would argue you’re the only one worth watching.” He jokes.

“She’s cute.”

“A menace,” he corrects with a grin, “cause she should pay more attention to her son. But I get it, I’d watch you too.” Jungkook has a way of making you feel special. Like you mattered. Supported. Something you hoped you’d see from your parents in the past, but come to terms you’ll never receive. Now, it’s all coming in the form of Jungkook. And you don’t know what to do with all these emotions except feel guilty and apologetic for what took place moments ago.  

“I’m sorry about what I said about not wanting others to assume. It’s just …” 

“You don’t have to apologize, Juice. I understand where you’re coming from.”

Does he? It’s like him to be nice about it. You wouldn’t put it past Jungkook, but his words feel … withdrawn? Rehearsed? You’re unsure if you want to open this can of worms with him, let alone if he wanted to talk about it. Instead, you press a soft kiss on his lips, “thank you.”

He groans and pulls you into a hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Are you tryna make me hard?”

“You’re so easy,” you laugh. 

“You’re telling me you don’t get turned on when we kiss?” He looks at you incredulously. 

You shake your head — a lie. “Nope, all you.” You say as one of your legs hook over his hip.

“I call bluff.” He kisses you, slow, tongue licking the seam of your lips. You lightly suck on his tongue and bite the bottom of his lips, giggling as he moans.

“Wanna check?” Feeling bold, your hand wraps around his wrist and leads it to your midsection, stopping just slightly above your shorts.

“Want me to?” He looks at you through hooded lids. 

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, “prove me wrong.” You let out a tiny gasp as his hand slips past your shorts. 

“Jungkook,” you whimper as his middle finger slips between your folds. The feeling of someone else’s hand other than your own has you feeling hot all over. Jungkook lets out a little wrecked noise before diving back to your lips for a messy kiss. His hand moves slowly, circling your clit, working out some of the prettiest moans.

“Liar,” he chuckles against your lips. His hand goes lower, fingers collecting your slick at your entrance before smearing it all over your clit. 

Your jaw goes slack when his fingers move faster. “N-no, I’m not.”

You feel the vibrations on your lips as he hums. “Think I need to see. Will you let me?”

Such a stupid bit you guys have going on, but you both play it so well. Your shorts and panties are tossed somewhere in your living room, bare ass hanging halfway off the couch. Jungkook kneels on the carpet floor, in an absolute trance. Whatever he’s fantasized in the last month will never compare. Simply spreads and pushes your legs further apart.

“Pretty,” he murmurs to himself. Not sure if he’s talking about you or your pussy; regardless, you smile at the compliment. 

“Done checking?” Your eyes move from his down to your wet pussy.

“Yeah. I guess I was wrong.” One of his hands moves to cup the side of your ass, parts your folds more. His thumb strokes up and down your slit, arousal apparent from your wetness.

“Told you.” You shut your eyes when you feel his thumb apply more pressure to your clit.

“So dry,” Jungkook watches you clench around nothing. “Think I gotta help you.” He lowers his head, cheeks hollow a little before he dribbles a glob of spit onto your bare cunt. You arch your back at the sensation of it trailing down your pussy. Jungkook’s face is centimeters away from your pussy, warm breath fanning over. He waits for your permission, places a delicate kiss on the side of your thigh, eyes never leaving yours. Your hand comes underneath your thigh to hold his hand during this intimate act. 

“Yeah, think so too. Need you to help me.”

Jungkook eats pussy like how he makes out. Hot. Pouty. Whimpery. It does something to your heart when he interlocks his hand with yours, thumb caressing your hand. Soft and soothing. So different from how he has his lips wrapped around your clit, licking and sucking ruthlessly. You let out a broken sob when he suddenly pries your legs further apart before fucking his tongue in you. He pauses in between to spit, uncaring of where it lands because he knows it’ll eventually mix with the rest of your slick. 

“Oh my god!” You shut your eyes, too overcome from the pleasure. 

“Is that good, baby?” Baby. You like that. You like it more knowing he asked that question to check in on you as if your reactions weren't a giveaway. Couldn’t possibly formulate a response in the time he goes back to your clit, head moving side to side. 

The pleasure builds and builds until you gasp. Body curling in and thighs locking Jungkook’s head in place, you cum. 

White splotches fill the back of your lids. Jungkook was absolutely entranced by your orgasm. He groans, eats you out sloppily just cause. You can only lay there and take everything he’s giving you, hand clutching his tighter when it gets too much. Jungkook finally lifts himself off you when your whimpers die down, marveling at your glistening sex. He was a sight to see: disheveled hair, red nose, and wet chin. 

“Wanna watch you cum again. Please?” His fingers circle your entrance.

You sigh prettily. “Come here.”

He obliges. Leans over your body with one of his hands still between your legs. You waste no time in pulling him down to a heated kiss, loving the taste of you on his tongue. The squelching noises intensify as you buck your hips into his hand. Drives you crazy that Jungkook hasn’t put his fingers in yet.

You pull away, “hear that?” You circle your hips. “You did that. Made me so wet — made me feel so good.”

“God, you’re so hot,” he moans, two fingers finally entering your pussy. He’s slow at first, mindful of your previous orgasm. Builds some speed once you pant into his mouth for more, fingers curling and letting the rise and drop of your hips do the work. 

“You’re creaming.” Like a new discovery only he could lay claim on. Like he didn’t know he could get you like this. Because truthfully, only he has ever gotten you like this. He stares at the mess between your legs, white coating his digits and seeping down your ass the more he thrusts. 

You can only whine and arch your back against the couch. That familiar feeling blooms in the pits of your stomach again. 

“I’m gonna—”

He nods, keeps the same speed and watches you with blown out pupils. Doesn’t know where to focus. Decides at the last moment that it should be your face and feels no regret when you cum a second time on his fingers.

“You’re so pretty.” He kisses you through your orgasm, shaking his head when you trail your hand down to his crotch. 

“Oh, you don’t want …?”

“Trust me, I’m more than good.” He pulls you up and giggles at your jello-state legs. 

You’re a little confused why he didn’t want you to return the favor, but decided it was best to brush it off. He helps locate your clothing and guides you into your bathroom to clean up. You back against the locked door, hands coming up to touch your face. Hot. Look over to the mirror and exhale at the sight. The afterglow looks good on you. There’s a drop to your shoulders and light in your irises. You look enamored. It’s all too soon to say, especially after multiple kisses and this one intimate moment … though, your chest swells with hope. Hope for more with Jungkook. 

In the time you spent freshening up, Jungkook pulled out a new router from his backpack he bought in secret earlier that day. Thirty minutes later, your connection and speed was infinitely better. 

“Let me pay you back for the router,” you say as Jungkook puts on his shoes at the doorway. Jungkook stands up and tugs on the strap of his backpack.

“Nah. Just write off the push-ups for the rest of the season whenever I drop the toss,” he smiles cheekily. 

“You wouldn’t have to do push-ups if you caught.” You scowl, “thank you again for the router. Saves me the trips to campus.” But it also meant you won’t have an excuse to study at Jungkook’s anymore. 

Jungkook surprises you with a quick kiss on your cheek.“You’re always welcomed over whenever you want. G’night, Cap.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Envy has a weird way of working. 

You remember it best with your parents choosing to go to your sibling’s sports games or when everyone in colorguard got to their splits way before you did. Just like how you’re feeling now, seeing Jungkook smile and joke with one of the cheerleaders after practice. It’s uncharacteristic of you to feel this way. You’ve never cared this much when you’ve witnessed past partners conversing with other people. 

You encouraged it. Felt secure. 

This was different.

“Yo, that’s the girl that Jungkook’s been talking to? Chaewon?” Jaehyun says in passing to another tenor player.

“I think so. Why?”

You don’t listen to the rest of the conversation. Rushing out the band room, your mind jumps back to all the times he’s stopped moving forward beyond making you feel good. Was it because he was already seeing someone else? It could only make sense if he wanted to be safe about it. Good that he’s thoughtful for all parties involved. Bad because you thought he liked you enough to have it only be you. 

You were right. It doesn’t hurt to prepare for hurt.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Jungkook [5:04 p.m.]: hey! u left super early today. did u get home safe? Jungkook [8:31 p.m.]: ?? juice, u ok? You [10:15 p.m.]: Yes, I’m home.

1 Missed call from Jungkook

You [10:16 p.m.]: Sorry, studying atm. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.

This back and forth goes on for the rest of the week. Jungkook tries to talk to you after practice, but you always seem to slip away at the last moment. The one-on-one practices have stopped because the show was as clean as it could get and all Jungkook needed to work on was catching. He could do that on his own. You gave him all the tools he needed to succeed.

You’d like to think that whatever you shared with Jungkook was just a moment of indulgence. Helped you nurse your pride and feelings. If you kept telling yourself that things were okay and how it should be, you’ll eventually believe it. Much like how you’ve accepted that you’ll never see your parents at one of your shows, you'll realize these feelings for Jungkook were also fleeting. Because it starts to look that way once Jungkook starts to back off trying to talk to you.

You had other things to focus on. Cleaning up your section, schoolwork, and raising enough donations for the Rehearsathon. Of course you fall short of the goal. It’s not a big deal, but you hate to be the person who didn’t look like they tried at all, especially coming from a leadership role.

Regardless, you come into Rehearsathon ready for the brutal twelve hours. Practice lasted three hours at max, twelve was overkill. By the end of it all, you were exhausted. Sore and ready to go home for a much needed hot shower.

“Nice work, band. With the money raised, I think it’s safe to say we’ll be getting new uniforms by the end of the month. Just in time for the exhibition show.” Director Lee continues his recap, “also, shout out to our top fundraisers: Toad, Jungkook, and Juicebox.”

Huh? You barely raised a little over 50 bucks … 20 of which came from yourself cause you felt awful showing up with just 30. Did everyone else just do poorly? 

Hoseok comes to you after everyone gets dismissed to pat you on the back.  “Very impressive to get the cheer team to donate that much.” Cheer team? You’re lost. You didn’t know anyone on that team, let alone solicited them to donate. The only person you knew that had connections with the cheer team was none other than Jungkook. But … why would their sponsorship be under you? 

It didn’t make sense.

“Jungkook.” You jog up to him. 

“Sup?” He’s never greeted you like this before, but it’s probably deserved since you’ve been avoiding him. Doesn’t sting any less. 

“My sponsors. You did that, didn’t you?”

He nods. “Yeah, I did.”

You shake your head, “you didn’t have to.”

“I know. I wanted to,” he shrugs.

You try to find the right words to say, but come short. You settle for a small ‘thank you.’ It’s all you can say before you turn the opposite direction. 

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t question why you haven’t been returning his calls or text messages. Your silence was an answer in itself. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Jungkook’s tosses and catches were inconsistent. On his good days, he’s able to stick his catch. Mostly during rehearsal. But come the halftime shows? He’s dropping. You can tell he’s frustrated. No one likes feeling like they dragged down the quality of a show. Some liked to be left alone to process their mistakes; you assumed Jungkook was the type to need extra comfort. You work up the courage to go to him, but see that Jimin has beaten you. Probably for the better. 

Jimin was great when it came to comforting others. In Jungkook’s case, it looked like Jimin was putting in the works. Has him miming a toss and doing a silly dance to show Jungkook how he tries to recover under a bad toss. Jungkook cracks a smile. Jimin transitions to his final move: back hug. You’ve also received those from Jimin before. It’s nice — not your preference after a rough show, but you appreciate the sentiment. Looks like Jungkook does too. Appears infinitely lighter.

The same cheerleader you saw a couple weeks ago, Chaewon, comes up to Jungkook too. Gives him a high five and a hug. And that was your cue to leave. You feel a little pathetic. All this because you don’t know what to do with your feelings for a boy.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Exhibition day. 

Instruments loaded in the trailer, everyone was ready to hit the road. Whenever there was a far off site performance, Lee strung up his contacts to reserve fancy buses for the band. Yoongi theorizes it’s all for show to the prospective graduating high school seniors. He’s not complaining though. Far better to ride on some fancy buses than to coordinate carpool for over 200 band kids. 

“Is your high school going to be there, Juicebox?” Yuri stuffs her equipment underneath the bus compartment.

“No,” you shake your head, “they’re in another circuit.”

“Lucky, my school is going to be there. So I need to impress my underclassmen.” She holds her hands into a fist. You chuckle, pull the straps of your backpack higher on your shoulder as you step onto the bus.  

Colorguard preferred taking the back of the bus only cause it feels like you can do your hair and makeup in peace. Funnily enough, drumline also preferred the back too. Gives them space from the rest of the band when they drum together on the bus. Lucky for you, one of your girls secured the backseats. You volunteer to sit alone since there was an odd number of members in your section. If the drumline came to the back, you had a feeling Yoongi might swoop in to sit with you. He preferred a quieter seat partner despite having to lead some of the drumming sessions on the bus. 

“Is it okay if I sit here?”

There’s no need to look up. Even if you haven’t spoken to him in a couple weeks, you’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Go ahead.” Who were you to stop him? 

Jungkook takes his seat, stuffs his bag underneath the seat in front of him, and places his drumsticks on his lap. He smells like coconut and shea butter — the same scent as the sunscreen you gifted him a while back. It’s sweet and warm — such a huge contrast to how you and Jungkook act towards each other now. Bitter and cold. 

“Alright,” Director Lee announces from the bus intercom. “About a 45 minute drive to the location. No bathroom breaks. If you gotta go, hold it or piss in a cup.” A bunch of band kids grimace and fake a retch from the comment. 

All you could think about is how you’ll be next to Jungkook for the next 45 minutes. The drummers get their rounds of drumming in, choosing to drum on the seats in front of them. You stare out the window, wishing for time to pass by quicker. His elbow brushes yours and time ceases to continue. Something lodges in your chest from the brief contact. You chastise your heart — so weak, so dumb, so fragile. Just because of a boy. 

As Director Lee says, you’ve got to tighten up.  

The drumming continues for another 20 minutes. Your section chatters behind you and Jungkook is turned to his own. Sometimes in a room full of people, or in this case … a bus, you still manage to find yourself feeling left out. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. 

Eventually, the bus arrives at a lot filled with other school buses.

“You guys have 15 minutes to unload and meet at the practice field for warm up.” Director Lee announces. 

Row after row, people file out of the bus. When it was Jungkook’s turn to get up, he stays seated. He motions the folks behind him to go first, bending down to his backpack to get something. Everyone was now outside the bus … minus you and Jungkook.

He sighs. “How long are we going to keep doing this?” Jungkook leans back on his seat, 

“Doing what?”

“Pretend like what we had didn’t happen.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stand up, one of your hands land on the seat in front to support yourself as you wait for Jungkook to move.

“Come on, Juice,” he pleads, “this is ridiculous.”

“I’m glad you agree,” your knee pushes at his leg to get to the aisle.

“Was it something I did?” Jungkook’s voice softens, “I would never do something you weren’t okay with …” 

“Jungkook.” You look at the front of the bus. Thankfully, no one was there, “I was okay with everything we did, well—no, I mean,” you shift uncomfortably as you try to find the right words. He cocks his head to the side with furrowed brows.

You feel your resolve waver. There hasn’t been a second in the day where you don’t think about him. Week after week, you jump between feeling sad, betrayed, and embarrassed. He’d even pop up in your dreams to remind you that even when you weren’t awake, he’s still very much present in your subconscious. Perhaps talking to the source of your problems could help. 

“We can talk about it after the show. There’s not enough time.” You were being honest. Know that everyone is on crunch time now that you’ve all reached the performance site. 

“Okay.” He’d have no other choice but to accept. He gets up and moves to the side. You push away that bitter feeling in your chest. It’s show day. Jungkook eventually emerges out the bus a couple minutes after you do. 

“You okay, JB?” Yoongi hauls his drum from the trailer and moves out of the way for the other members to get their instruments.

“Yeah,” you lie, “just pre-show nerves.” 

Yoongi doesn’t buy it. Realized you and Jungkook were the last ones to get off the bus. Felt the shift between the two of you these couple of weeks. He also notices how Jungkook looks over at you. Something must’ve happened, but he’s not going to push for answers right before a show. 

“Kids these days …” he murmurs to himself.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

High school marching band competitions were overstimulating. Overfilled bathroom stalls, different music playing, and the scent of kettle corn … makes you nostalgic. The rush of being on a field again. Other good, if not better, colorguard you’d meet from all over the country. The award ceremony. The comradery. Maybe you have one more season left in you to do drum corps in the summer. 

For now, you’re lined up at the front of the main field. Everyone is all warmed up and ready to perform. 

Showtime. Director Lee takes over the stadium microphone to introduce the marching band and Hoseok signals everyone to march down the field into position. The show goes smoothly. During the performance, the audience erupts with cheers at every musical feature and toss. Jungkook catches. The band was an absolute hit.

“Oh my god, we rocked out there!” Jimin drops the handful of equipment he picked up on the field. Everyone gives each other high fives and pats on the back. 

“I second that,” Director Lee comes around with his megaphone. “Nice work, band. We have an hour to reload. Do as you like till it’s call time.”

Equipment and instruments loaded up, you and another guard member walk to the concession stands for some kettle corn. While waiting in line, she gets pulled away by some old classmates from high school. Honestly, you didn’t even want kettle corn, but you weren’t ready to face Jungkook just yet. In the midst of your thoughts, someone calls your name. You freeze.

“I thought I recognized you from the stands. Long time no see.” 

A voice and face you long to forget: Wooyoung. Your high school ex.

You step back, unsure how to avoid this interaction. He smiles. To any other person, it’d come off as friendly. To you? Slimy. Icky. You feel more cornered when he opens his arms for a hug. When you don’t lean into it, he pulls you in for one.

“You were great out there. Improved a lot since your freshman year.” He places his hand on your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you reply. Your gaze locked on the object in front of you. A badge that read: YBHS Asst. Band Director.

He notices your stare. “Yeah, I never really left the marching band scene post college. Just kept calling my name.” You don’t like the way he scans your body. The corners of his lips fight to stay neutral. Part of you feels sad for your younger self — didn’t know better than to mistake his lust for interest and adoration.

“Say, if you’re free after the competition, we should get some drinks together and catch up. The school I’m teaching is looking for a dance tech—”

“No, I’m not looking to teach.” You immediately decline. Getting paid to do what you loved sounded tempting, but why subject yourself to torture being employed by the same man that fucked you over? “Thanks for the offer, but I need to go back with the band.” You step back. 

Ignoring your decline, Wooyoung tries again. “We should catch up though. I don’t mind taking you back if you’re worried about a ride home.”

“No thank y-”

“Juice.” You’ve never been more relieved to hear someone call you by that nickname.

Jungkook stands beside you. Saw you looking uncomfortable from afar and it was instinctive to come over despite whatever was going on between you two. By no means was he a confrontational or violent person, but he’s protective of those he cares about. And he cares deeply about you. No doubt about that.

“Lee said he needed us back at the bus.” There’s plenty of time left, but you’re thankful for an opening to leave. 

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”

“Aw, can’t spare a couple more minutes for an old friend?” Be it his ego or his inability to read the room, Wooyoung doesn’t back down. This doesn’t surprise you. What surprised you was Jungkook’s hand wrapped around yours. Possessive. Alert.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late,” Jungkook says.

“Oh? Boyfriend?” Wooyoung eyes your interlocked hands. 

“Uh-”

“Yep,” the lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly. You nearly believe it too, “and you are …?”

“Wooyoung. I teach at one of the high schools in this circuit,” he chuckles, “I’m assuming you both march at the same university?”

“We do.” Jungkook answers on your behalf again.

“Cute. Well, I won’t keep you two,” Wooyoung turns to you. “It was nice seeing you again. Hit me up on Facebook if you’re interested in the tech position or if you just want to catch up.”

Before you know it, you and Jungkook are headed back to the direction of the bus. He's still holding your hand, weaving both of you through the crowds. 

“Jungkook,” you say, nearly tripping over your steps to meet his long strides. He lets go of your hand and faces you.

“Was that your ex?”

Your silence confirms the answer.

“Why’d you let him walk all over you like that?”

“I was fine.”

“You were clearly uncomfortable. Had I not stepped in-”

“I didn’t ask for your help, Jungkook.”

“You didn’t,” he steps back, “and I know that. I just … I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I care about you ... we’re friends.”

But friends don’t look at each other like the way Jungkook does with you. A friend’s touch doesn’t make you yearn for more. It doesn’t hurt when they call you a friend.

“We’re not friends.” Guilt seeps through you the moment those words leave your lips. Jungkook runs his hand down his face and exhales a small humorless laugh. It comes out mocking with a hint of bitterness.

“But Wooyoung is?”

That hits a sore spot. He realizes his mistake when your face falls. “Juice,” his voice softens, “I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Just like how you’re friends with Chaewon?”

He pauses. Confusion plastered on his face. Your shoulder bumps into his arm as you walk past him and towards the bus. It takes less than a second for him to catch up to you. Calls your name. Gets ignored. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? What does Chaewon have to do with any of this?” With some band members lining up to board the buses, Jungkook’s voice was loud enough to catch their attention. The last thing you want is people speculating.

“Can we do this another time?” You say through gritted teeth. 

Another time? He’s been waiting to talk to you, but you keep blowing him off. He doesn’t know when he’ll be granted this opportunity again, let alone whether you’ll keep your words. But you look uncomfortable and as much as he’d like to air out his grievances, he holds himself back from making a bigger scene.

He sighs in resolve and lets you queue in line for the bus. In the bus, you expected Jungkook to sit right next to you. Gets surprised when Yoongi plops down next to you. You scan the area and realize Jungkook is a couple rows in front. He doesn’t look back at you. Doesn’t come back for his belongings underneath the seat. 

“Whatever is going on between you and Jungkook needs to be fixed. You’re better than this.” He sighs. 

Yoongi was never one to lecture you. Not because he doesn’t feel like he can’t, but because you’ve always had your shit together. Haven’t seen you act like this before. So … juvenile, immature, and unreasonable. Perhaps he was wrong to think that things would work between you and Jungkook. The bus ride back to the campus was quiet. Going home always felt like a shorter ride in comparison to going to the performance site. Wished it took longer. 

The bus comes to a full stop at the front of the school and everyone immediately gets out row by row. Yoongi gets up once it’s your row’s turn. “Wait, Yoongi,” you point at Jungkook’s bag at the bottom of the seat.

“You can give it to him, JB.” It’s not a demand, merely a matter of fact. You don’t argue back. Percussion is typically last to unload all their instruments back into the band room, so you’re stuck waiting for Jungkook till he’s done.

One by one, your colorguard members leave to go home, bidding you farewell. They don’t question why you’re staying behind, just assume that you have some business you have to see through with the director or other section leaders. It’s late and they just want to be in bed. So do you. But you wait, because it’s what you should do. You owe this to Jungkook at the very least.

Thirty minutes go by and Jungkook finally emerges from the band room. He smiles and waves goodbye to his section. When he sees you with his bag, his expression morphs into something close to disbelief. Walks up to you quickly and takes it out of your hand.

“Could’ve told Yoongi to give it to me,” he frowns. 

“Trust me, I tried,” you sigh, “but I promised we would talk.”

His lips presses into a thin line. It’s late, but if the talk doesn’t happen now, he doesn’t know when it will. 

“Did you want to talk at the dorms?” He asks. 

You internally debate whether it was a good idea to be in an enclosed area with Jungkook. Sure, it offered some privacy, but you felt more exposed. More vulnerable. Limits your likelihood of running away. Doesn’t take you long to make a decision, opting to talk at his dorm after a cold breeze passes through. It’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve been there. You wonder if anything has changed. Yet, you’re greeted by the same blue bedsheets, detergent, and all too clean of a desk space. Nothing’s changed, except for the two people in there.

Jungkook sits on the floor and you follow. You clear your throat, unable to make eye contact with Jungkook now that you’re in front of him. No more avoiding the inevitable. 

“What’s been going on?” He asks carefully. “Talk to me, please?”

You chew on your bottom lip, unsure of where to start.

“Was it something I did?” He asks again. 

Another moment of silence ensues. “Juice-”

“We shouldn’t have done what we did.” You’re sure this was the right thing to say, but it doesn’t hurt any less. 

“What do you mean?” His voice comes out small.

“I shouldn’t have entertained any of that. It wasn’t right.” That really drove it home. Nail on the coffin. Stings more when you look up and see the hurt plastered on Jungkook’s face.

Yoongi told you to fix things, but it seems impossible when you’re only capable of making things worse. Especially with how he closes his eyes and looks away. You’ve prepped your heart for this moment. Though, this is Jungkook. The boy who willingly volunteered to step into a position no one else would, the boy who’s been vying for your attention and got it, the boy with a smile so warm that you think you’d have trouble forgetting even across multiple universes. 

That’s what scares you. Whatever he says next will hurt. 

“Do you regret it?” Jungkook asks with downcast eyes. You rest your face into your palm. It’s a yes or no question deserving of a yes and no answer. For that, you couldn’t answer right away. 

“I didn’t. Not once.” He answers truthfully, “but if you regret it, I really am sorry.” Jungkook looks at you with those round, apologetic eyes. 

You almost cave. Almost. 

“I just … thought we had something special. I was wrong to assume.” He says. 

You did have something special with Jungkook. He wasn’t wrong. 

Jungkook continues, “I hope we can remain friends, but I get it if you don’t want to.”

Friends. This irked you. 

“Is that what you say to people you’ve slept with?”

“What?” He retracts his head back in confusion. “Where’s this coming from?”

There’s no going back now.

“Chaewon.” You straighten up from your seated position, “there’s also something special between you two, right?”

You sound bitter. You hate it. Hate how he looks … so exposed. So incriminating. 

Jungkook quickly shakes his head.

“You wouldn’t let me touch you. Was it because you were still sleeping with her?”

“No! I—”

“—It’s fine if you were. We weren’t anything,” wrong, he was something to you, still is, “but—”

“It’s not like that,” he interrupts, but you press on, fully on autopilot now. 

“—I’m not someone’s backup, I don’t do casual. The least you could’ve done was tell me. If you had any respe—”

The words die on your tongue when Jungkook says your name. Your actual name. You don’t realize how heavy you’re breathing. And Jungkook? Upset is an understatement. 

“I did have something with Chaewon,” he begins. 

You scoff. 

“In our first-year. Things ended because … well, I caught feelings,” he admits with a hint of shame, “I don’t do casual either. I just didn’t realize she did.”

Oh.

“But you’re still …?”

He shakes his head no. “We’re not like that anymore, I swear.”

“Doesn’t explain why you wouldn’t let me touch you,” you murmur, head turned away in embarrassment. 

Jungkook frowns. “It’s not that I don’t want you to. Intimacy just kinda fucks with my head and heart … after what happened with Chaewon, I just …” His voice trails, “I didn’t want to rush and mess things up with someone I care about. Seems like it still happened anyway.” Jungkook scoots closer, knees now touching yours. “Is that what this is about?”

Jungkook cocks his head to meet your eyes, but you keep your head turned away. “Hey, come on. Look at me.”

And when you finally do look at him, you’re met with light and warmth — something you don’t know if you deserve after all the mess your mind created. He hesitates, but trails his fingers against yours. Testing the waters. Jungkook takes it as a sign to hold your hand when you don’t retract. Even with his calloused hands from years of drumming, you feel the tenderness in his touch.

“I never intended to hurt you or make you feel bad,” his voice laced with sincerity, “I’m sorry.”

Jungkook was right. Intimacy does fuck with your head and heart. Made you think irrationally, abandoning all logic for the sake of protecting your heart and pride. Ridiculous that he’s the one apologizing. 

“No,” you shake your head. “I should’ve come to you about it. I’m sorry.” Your eyes water at the admittance.

“Aw, hey, don’t cry …” Jungkook cups your cheek with his other hand.

You sniffle, quickly blinking away the tears because you’re stubborn — not a fan of people witnessing you cry. Instead, you press your cheek into his palm. Missed his touch — missed him.

It’s a little uncoordinated how he pulls you onto his lap, but when you’re seated on him and your head is resting in the crook of his neck, it feels like coming home. There’s a specific scent that clings onto his skin after a long day of being under the sun — slight musk mixed with sunscreen and his cologne. Familiar and comforting. You wonder if he’s just as attached to your scent as you are with his.

“You still haven’t answered my question though …” he swallows, “do you regret it?”

“No,” you shake your head, voice coming out small, “never regretted anything we’ve done.” 

“Do you … regret us?” He asks. 

You shake your head again. You know you said some hurtful things a while ago. Wish you could take it all back. Can’t seem to muster the courage to tell Jungkook that he’s been the best thing that’s happened to you all season, but you try in your own way.  

Torso turned awkwardly and arms sewn around his neck, you hold him. It takes a second for Jungkook to react, body tense and unsure if he’s allowed to embrace you. You exhale, something akin to relief, and he feels it too. Jungkook holds you just as tightly. Tucks himself into your neck and kisses into your hair. Whispers how much he’s missed you and jokes about how foolish you both are — just two enamored fools.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

The day after that night, Jungkook unfollowed Chaewon on all his social media platforms, not before sending a quick message how he no longer wanted to stay friends. You hope it wasn’t because of you. Sure, you had your moments of insecurity about Jungkook and Chaewon and don’t know exactly what transpired between them, but you thought it was a bit excessive to cut someone off cold turkey. But Jungkook had his reasons … reasons for which he’s not ready to talk about just yet. You trusted him and you’ll wait. If he thought this was for the better, you’ll stand by his decision.

The season was nearly over. You’re also over at Jungkook’s a lot, vice versa — made his room a second home. He reserves a section of his nightstand just for your bobby pins and hair ties … no different from your desk chair with a pile of his sleep shirts.

It’s the evening after an ensemble practice and he’s laid between your legs, bare back against your torso. Nothing sexual, just appreciating your company while he drums a random beat on his chest. The warmth of his body feels good on yours, like a heated and weighted blanket all at once. You mindlessly run your fingers in his hair, occasionally earning a shudder from Jungkook if your nails made contact with his scalp. 

“Next week’s our last show,” he mutters.

From your position, you notice Jungkook’s pout. Your hand comes to a stop. “You sad?” 

“A little. Season’s been tough, wanna end it on a good note.”

Part of you wonders if he was talking about the show or his time with you. Both could be true.

“You will,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders and give him a reassuring squeeze, “is your family going to be there?”

Jungkook smiles fondly. “Yeah, they are.”

“Good. That’ll be enough incentive for you to catch this time,” you tease. 

“Yah,” he turns, chin propped at your sternum, “I don’t need incentives to do well.”

“Really?” You tilt your head. “That’s not what you said before practice today. ‘One kiss, please? I swear I’ll stick the catch.’” You do your best pleading eyes, but nothing can beat the real deal.

His eyes narrow, lips curving into a playful smile. “You got me.”

Jungkook lays his cheek down on your chest, hesitates with his next words. “How about you though? Is your family going to be there?” He knows family is an uncomfortable topic for you. Hell, talking about hard topics in general was difficult. These days, you’re doing better at communicating your feelings. Jungkook makes it easy — makes the uncomfortable feel comfortable. 

“Didn’t invite them, so probably not,” you shrug.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have them there?”

“Maybe …”

Jungkook thinks you’re so pretty when you’re in deep thought. Brows furrowed, lips pressed together in a thin line. There’s that dimple on the right side of your cheek that only appears when you do that. He’s sure you’re not even aware of its existence. Always been so captivated by you. Built this version of you in his head all these years and you’ve shattered every one of his assumptions in just one season. He's gotten to know different sides of you — like when you’re assertive, insecure, caring, angry, sweet … just, you.

“But I don’t need incentives, unlike someone I know.” You smirk.

He likes to entertain all your sides, but this was his favorite — the side that likes to tease. His body shifts, so does yours as you sink your head deeper into his pillow. 

“I think you’re getting it mixed up, Cap,” Jungkook hovers over your body, nose touching yours, “incentives make me work harder knowing there’s something to look forward to. As much as I love performing for a big audience,” his lips brushes the corner of your mouth, “it’s more special when there’s someone you know watching.”

“Right?” His breath fans over your lips.

You’re not arguing with a man whose eyes competed with stars. Instead, choosing to accept his words because he’s right … just on this occasion. Because all you want is for him to press his lips to yours.

And Jungkook does that.

Drives him crazy when you get all breathless and whiny against his lips. True to his words, he’s been good with taking it slow with you. Sticks to kissing for now because he fears that he won’t be able to get himself out of the deep end if he reaches to that point of intimacy. Took forever with Chaewon, so he doesn’t know how he’ll fare with you … someone he really likes.

But fuck, you make it hard — make him hard. You gasp and pull away slightly when he accidentally grinds himself against your core. Jungkook shudders and mumbles his apologies, lips finding yours again. 

You shake your head. “‘s okay,” you kiss his cheek, “you good?”

“Trying to be,” he swallows and chuckles.

“You don’t have to try to be,” you peer at him through your lashes, “you are good.” 

You make the uncomfortable feel comfortable too. Kisses you again tenderly and lets his body relax momentarily. 

“Can I be honest with you?”

You nod. “Always.”

“When we had that fall out … it was after we got intimate. I’m worried about that happening again.”

“Oh, Kook,” your stomach sinks at the confession. 

“I don’t wanna feel that way with you,” one of his hands cup your cheek, “I trust you.”

“I trust you too. We don’t have to rush into sex to prove anything.” You turn your head to kiss his palm.

He knows. But he wants this badly — wants you. His hard length pressed against you is enough proof. Sensing his turmoil, you push yourself up, making him sit back on his heels.

One of your hands holds his. “You trust me, yeah?”

Jungkook nods, eyes sincere and honest. You lay your back against his headboard, legs spread wide enough to accommodate another person in between. No brainer, a perfect spot for Jungkook.

“Turn around and lay down,” you pat your chest.

Jungkook does just that, no questions asked. He’s right back where he started this evening: between your legs. Except now, there’s a light wave of anticipation floating in the air.

“What do you have in mind?” His voice drops an octave lower.

“Shh,” you hand cups his chin so that your lips could meet his temple. “I got you.” Truthfully, you didn’t know what you were doing. You only wanted to make him feel good, just as he’s done for you.

“You’re always helping others. So attentive,” one of your hands trails down his abdomen, “so good.”

At your praise, Jungkook sinks his teeth down on his lips. 

“Think you deserve to be rewarded for that. Don’t you?” You ask. His hand wraps around your wrist, unsure whether to have you continue or stop.

“Wanna make you feel good,” your hand stops just shy of his belly button, thumb rubbing against his skin, “please?”

He releases a little moan, cock twitching in his shorts. You run your hand between his legs, gentle in the way you let yourself trace over his cloth length. Jungkook tips his head back for a second and immediately looks back down again, afraid he might miss out on what’s yet to come.

“God,” he keens, stomach tightening with every fleeting touch.

“Do you want me to stop?” You whisper into his ear. Simple question calls for a simple answer. Jungkook presents his answer in the form of a tilt to his head, whispering a silent plea for you to kiss and continue touching him.

The angle of the kiss is a bit off, gets Jungkook a little giggly, but he quiets down the moment your fingers fumble at the waistband of his shorts. His chest stutters, both hands coming down to help you pull the front of his shorts to expose his hard cock.

Jungkook’s size was always a dead giveaway. Thank god for his obsession with grey sweats. You didn’t think he was this big. Arousal pools between your legs. Wonder if it’d stroke his ego knowing your mind was filled with images of how he’d stretch you out, sink inside you, and fuck you to the hilt.

But nevermind that. This was about him and making him feel good.

Jungkook lets out a needy moan when your hand wraps around his cock. You give it a tiny squeeze and hum at the sight of his precum leaking from his slit. You let go all too soon, and just as he was about to accuse you of teasing him, he hears you spit into your hand. 

“Baby ...” His chest heaves when you run your wet hand down his shaft again. 

Jungkook was right. It is more special when there’s someone you know watching. Inspires you to perform. To make him feel good. To ignite a reaction, letting you know he enjoys what you’re doing. 

He lets you have your way with his body. Pants and shivers when your other hand plays with his nipple. Doesn’t know where to fucking focus because you’re everywhere all at once and he loves every moment of it.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum,” His eyes lock at the sight before him: your pretty hand wrapped around his hard length covered in both spit and precum.

“Yeah? Go on,” you coax, “you deserve it.” You understand what he means by incentives. Because it motivates you to work harder to draw out his moans, stroke faster then randomly slow down to tease him, and purr sweet nothings into his ears. Makes you fight the arm cramp just to see his eyes flutter shut. Makes you ignore the pleasure pangs hitting your own core just so you can witness his orgasm. Because you want to so badly make him feel good. 

“That’s it, so close,” you encourage.

“C-cumming,” Jungkook pants, he digs his head back into your shoulders, “I’m cumming.” You watch the thick ropes of cum paint his torso. Jungkook’s body shakes and withers from pleasure. You let go of his cock and you trail your fingers up his stomach to collect his cum. 

He watches with bated breath as you stick your tongue out for an experimental lick. A bit heady for your liking, but who eats cum for the sake of taste? This is all for Jungkook. His fucked out expression was enough reason for you to push your cum coated fingers into your mouth and suck them clean. 

“Oh my god,” he groans, turning around to pin you down on his mattress. “You’re so hot.” Doesn’t think twice when he slots his lips to yours, moans muffled at the taste of him on your tongue.

“Made me feel so good,” another peck to seal the deal. “Thank you.” Post nut clarity usually made people run for the hills. Jungkook? Basks in your company and affection. Trusts you with his body and so he naturally trusts you with his heart. 

He hopes it’s the same for you.

Words aren’t needed to express how you feel for Jungkook. It’s evident in how your expressions change the more you kiss. How your nose feels against his cheek when you nod for him to touch you. How it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart from his fingers.

Jeon Jungkook knows it’s the same for you.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Last game of the season also meant the last performance of the season. You’re warming up with your guard. Nothing too serious since you don’t like to be tired out before a performance.

“Hey, Cap?” Jimin says mid stretch. “There are a couple of folks behind that keep staring in our direction. You know them?”

It’s a sight you weren’t expecting. Your family. Your parents and brother. Not like you don’t see them often. You call home sometimes. Visits happened towards the end of the semester, so you’d never expect to see them on campus mid-semester… especially your own. 

You jog over to them.

“Hey, what are you guys doing here?” You ask breathlessly. 

“To see you perform, duh.” Your brother rolls his eyes.

“Uh … but this is-”

“One of your classmates messaged me on Facebook a day ago telling me it’s a very special performance. Honestly, I wished I got the invite from my daughter, but here we are,” your mother exasperates, foot tapping on the ground.

Sensing a bit of awkwardness, your father adds, “we just wanted to say hi and good luck, honey. We’ll be in the stands.” He points in the direction of the stadium. 

“Oh, okay, um, thank you. I’ll see you all later?” You walk back to your section, confused, but there was something else. Excitement? Disbelief? Maybe all of the above.

“You okay?” Jimin asks while gathering his equipment.

You look over to where Jungkook was warming up with drumline. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Director Lee is a man of traditions and rituals. Doesn’t like splitting poles because he thinks it’s bad luck. He also made it a tradition to announce every fourth year’s name to the stadium as the band file to their spot for the last performance of the season. Think of it as an informal send off. Gets the entire band a little emotional before the show.

You feel a lot. The nearly filled stands. Your family in those very stands. Jungkook. The fourth-years. All the practices, mistakes, and injuries led you up to this moment. 

Hoseok salutes to the audience and the stadium quiets down when he turns back to the band. Even from far away, you can feel his presence. It’s commanding, ready to lead.  

And that’s what Hoseok does. Everything blurs when the music starts. It’s all muscle memory. The cheers for the flag and music features fuels the entire band to perfection.

Despite your confusion about your family, they’re here, watching you. 

The stadium erupts in cheers at the end of the performance. You’re the first to break formation to hug your guard members. You remain smiling as you walk off the field, eyes catching a glimpse of Jungkook’s mother waving at him. Your eyes scan for your family. When you finally spot them, they’re all seated and clapping. Your mother’s approving nod doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s a stark difference to the support Jungkook receives from his family. 

As imperfect as your family’s affection and support may be, it fills your heart with a type of warmth you’ve yet to experience till now.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Director Lee’s traditions spanned to post-performance pizza following the senior plaques he’d hand out. New section leaders were also selected. Director Lee knew at a glance who had leadership potential, but he’s always watching throughout the season in preparation for his departing section leaders. 

Jungkook only ever cared about the pizza. Not that he never saw himself as a leader, but he knew there was always someone better fit for the job. This year? Screw the pizza. Screw the new leader. Okay, well, no, he hopes they’re a good pick. At the moment, that’s the least of his concerns.

“So like … are you gonna eat that?” Jimin eyes the untouched pizza on Jungkook’s plate. Jungkook wordlessly passes his plate over to Jimin, far too immersed in the conversation you were having with Yoongi a couple feet away. 

He knows he overstepped by sending that message to your mother. Should’ve respected your decisions … or lack thereof.

You walk toward the front door, look over in his direction, and give him a subtle nod. Doesn’t need to be told twice — Jungkook springs up on his feet and adjusts his bibber.

“Where ya goin’?” Jimin asks Jungkook with a mouthful.

“Bathroom,” Jungkook replies quickly. 

“Well, hurry up. Lee is doing awards and section leader announcements soon.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay,” he answers distractedly, too focused on the direction you’re headed in.

Jungkook was on a mission. He got his apology rehearsed in his head. Follows closely behind you as you head up the stairs to the storage room. Honestly? Wouldn’t have been his first choice to chat here. For one, creepy. Two, dusty as hell. But he’ll go where you go. 

When the door shuts behind him, you turn on your heel to face him. Even with the dim lighting, Jungkook still finds your glittery show makeup beautiful — you’re beautiful. Crushes his soul a little bit when you frown … he’s ready for a round of scolding, so he’ll try to beat you to it.

“I know what I did was out of line. I just th—mmph-” The apology he rehearsed for the past hour dies on his lips as you pull him down for a searing kiss. Your hands untangle from the straps of his bibber to wrap around his neck.

“You’re so annoying,” you say in between kisses. Your words don’t exactly match your actions. You bite down on his lower lip, enough pressure to draw out a tiny hiss turned moan. Jungkook backs you against the wall and knocks over a couple of boxes with flag silks. He’s quick to remedy it with promises to clean it up in favor of kissing you.

The storage room was a bit stuffy … probably loaded with a bunch of asbestos, but it just might be Jungkook’s favorite place at the moment. Just when he thinks all is well and forgiven, you pull away with a glare.

“Don't think you’re off the hook.”

“Wait, huh?”

“JB! You in here?” Yoongi calls from below. 

Yoongi makes his way up the stairs, steps slow and sluggish. You can’t tell if it’s due to his lack of energy or if he’s giving himself enough time to not walk into something he doesn’t want to see. Regardless, it buys you some time. You and Jungkook have never moved so fast. Him, hiding behind a rack of retired uniforms. You, inconspicuously folding the discarded flag silks on the ground. 

“Yep, in here!” You peek your head to the side to see Yoongi lean at the railing. 

“Lee wants everyone in the band room. Doing announcements soon.”

“Okay, I’ll be there soon.”

Yoongi stands in place for a moment, snorts before he makes his way downstairs again.

“Need you there too, Kook.” Yoongi says, loud enough for you both to hear. Your head snaps in Jungkook’s direction and you can’t bring yourself to stay angry at the view: his fluffy hair and beat up converse high tops on full display. 

“Whoops,” Jungkook emerges from the racks with a boxy smile.

“Come on, let’s go back.” You say, swiping away the red tint off his lips. Preen him a little. Not trying to hide anything, but you wanted to look presentable for announcements — it’ll be an important one. 

“Shouldn’t we address the elephant in the room?” He nervously chews on his lips. 

You shake your head and hold out your hand. “It can wait. I have dinner plans with my family later … meet me at my place afterwards?”

“Okay … but like, are we good?”

“Maybe.” You shrug and purse your lips. 

Maybe? No, that won’t fly by with Jungkook. Thought you guys were past this whole miscommunication stage of your guys’ relationship. He needs that extra reassurance. Figured he won’t get that till after your family dinner … doesn’t stop him from playing out the possible scenarios in his head as Director Lee goes through his announcements.

People are clapping on and off. Again, doesn’t matter to him.

“Jungkook? Hellooooo?” Yoongi waves his hand in front of him.

“Huh, wha … sorry, what’d I miss?” Jungkook shakes himself out of his trance. 

“Welcome back to earth, Space Cadet.” Director Lee huffs. A bunch of band members snickers from the comment, his section included. 

“You’re the new percussion section leader, Space Cadet.” Yoongi grins. 

He should be celebrating. It’s a feat and honor to become a section leader. He knows nothing about it, but he’s got great role models, so he’s got a good foundation and baseline for what a good leader should look like. Only issue? Jungkook thought he’d been lucky to evade the nickname curse. Now he’s stuck with one … and a not so great one at that.

He looks for you in the room. Spots you instantly and you throw a tiny thumbs up and a teasing smile in his direction. 

You mouth: Congrats, Spacey.

Maybe the new nickname isn’t so bad after all.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Dinner with your family was okay. There wasn’t much to chat about other than your father asking if you are continuing ‘this’ after graduating. 

“We’re just wondering. Eventually you’ll have to put work first,” your mother reasons. “Your body won’t be able to keep up as you age.”

You know it’s said with care and concern, but you can’t help but feel like you’re being lectured for doing something unconventional. God forbid you be happy with activities outside of a typical 9 to 5. The conversation moves over to your brother and what he’s been doing. You’re thankful the attention is off you for now. You’d much rather be home with a particular drummer anyway. 

You [8:39 p.m.]: I’ll be home in about 30 mins.  Jungkook 🥁 [8:39 p.m.]: ok, be safe. see u later ❤️

You smile down at your phone. Yes, you were still upset and made it a known fact to Jungkook. Hated seeing him confused, but that’s life. He'll have to sit with the consequences of his actions.

Kind of like how you have to sit through this dinner.

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

Jungkook arrives at your doorstep about four minutes after you get home. In his hands were a dozen of sunflowers he picked up after Director Lee dismissed the band. Thought it would help his case a little. It does. You accept them with a smile and step to the side to let him in.

“Pretty,” he compliments. You look down at the simple sundress you put on for dinner. Realize Jungkook has only seen you in t-shirts and athletic wear. Though, you could be in a potato sack and he’d still find you lovely. 

“Thank you.”

He follows you to your couch. Usually he likes to sit right next to you, but thinks space is what you’d prefer for this type of conversation. He had plenty of time to reevaluate his actions in the shower and even more time while he waited for your text to come over.  

“I truly am sorry. I shouldn’t have gone behind your back. Just thought they should come out and support you.”

You sigh and place the flowers on your coffee table. 

“How’d you even find my mother?” You ask.

“Um, it wasn’t that hard to sift through your friends list. Plus, there’s not a lot of middle aged women that you look like. Could’ve passed as your older sister, honestly.”

“Funny,” you smile, “she’d love to hear that.”

“Score.” Jungkook grins.

You mindlessly play with the fringes on your dress, unsure what to say next. 

Jungkook reads you perfectly as always. “What’s up? You okay?”

“Just have a lot on my mind.” You fold your hands in your lap. 

“I get it,” he nods. 

“I don’t think you do.” You pause, chewing on your lips before you continue. “The show, offering me a place to study, the sponsors, Wooyoung, and now my family …” you recount, “you keep doing these things for me.”

Jungkook frowns, “do you not want me to?” 

You shake your head. “It’s not that I don’t want you to. I’m just not used to it.” You’re not used to being taken care of nor understood. It’s always been like this. With your family, friends, even some of the folks you’ve marched with in the past. But in the time you’ve gotten to know Jungkook, that’s all he’s given you.

Feels like he knows what you need better than you do sometimes. Feels like he does things out of care and not obligation.

It’s not a feeling anymore when he pulls you onto his lap, resting his chin on top of your head.  

“I know you’re capable of doing everything and more, Juice. But unless you don’t want me to, I’ll always want to help you,” he says. 

You nod, fingers playing with the ends of his shirt. “I know, and I appreciate that. It’s just hard letting go,” you shrug.

“Of what?”

“Control?” 

He chuckles, “you don’t say, Cap.”

You roll your eyes, “you’re a section leader now too.”

“Ah, that, I am,” he agrees, “means we’ll be working together more. You gonna give me a hard time?”

“Ask Yoongi.”

Jungkook laughs and holds you closer. He clears his throat, “need to make sure, though … am I forgiven?”

“Wasn’t that upset, Kook.” If you were truly mad at Jungkook, you wouldn’t have kissed him back in the storage room. “But yes, you’re forgiven. No more messaging my mother on Facebook though. She thought you were a bot for some reason.”

“Huh? I don’t know why she’d think that …” Jungkook pulls out his phone to show you the message thread.

The first line read: To Whom It May Concern … 

“This screams scam, Kook.” You snicker, skimming through the well-thought out message. Punctuated perfectly and straight to the point. What a stark difference to the silly text messages you receive from him on the daily. Could barely tell it’s him. The only glaring similarity? Jungkook doesn’t sugarcoat his intentions — never when it comes to you.

Jungkook pouts, “they still came to the show …”

“Yeah, they did,” your eyes soften, handing his phone back to him, “made me really happy seeing my family there.” You tuck his hair behind his ear.

“You deserve to be.”

And you also find happiness in when you press your lips against his. Happiness in when he giggles, nose scrunched and all. Happiness in when he moans as you roll your hips over him. 

Jungkook pulls away to trail kisses down your cheek and neck. “You said you’re worried about letting go of control … we can work on that.” 

You whimper at a particularly harsher suck, “how?”

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

You’ve always preferred being in the mentor role. There’s no ambiguity in teaching someone what you already know. Never have to anticipate the unknown.

You find yourself sitting on the edge of your bed, watching Jungkook take off his shirt. So ready to welcome the unknown. It comes to you in the form of Jungkook’s sunkissed body and hooded eyes. He’s well-loved by his friends and family. Only natural to be well-loved by the sun as well. The sun will spend eternity chasing Jungkook and it’ll never come close to seeing all that you will in this lifetime.

“You trust me, yeah?” He walks up to you, legs bumping into your knees. Jungkook cups your cheek and tilts your head up to look at him. Needs to see you. 

“‘Course, I do.” You smile. 

“Good,” he steps back, “turn around for me.”

You wordlessly get on your hands and knees, chin turned at your shoulder to look at Jungkook, “like this?”

“Just like that,” he praises, gaze dropping at your ass where your dress falls perfectly around your hips.

One of his hands trails up your back and gently pushes you down. Your forearms cushion your drop, not that you needed it. You’re pliant for Jungkook. 

You hear him shuffle behind you, both his hands are at your hips as he leans into down to kiss your shoulder. One of his hands goes under the skirt of your dress, knuckles grazing your inner thigh as if he’s asking permission to do more. You turn your head to the side with a visible pout.

“Are you going to be edging me or something?”

Jungkook snickers. “What? You want me to?”

So it appears edging wasn’t his goal. 

His hand cups your sex, middle finger trailing up and down your clothed slit. “You’re soaked through, baby,” Jungkook murmurs, “‘s cause you were thinking about getting edged?”

You shake your head no. “Can’t help it,” your fingers grip your sheets as his fingers move a little quicker. “You got me like this.”

Jungkook groans at your confession. “I did, didn’t I?”

He reluctantly lifts himself up and away from you. Almost regrets it when he sees your brows furrow in disappointment. Makes a mental note to make it up to you one way or another. Season’s over, but Jungkook has all the time in the world with you. He pushes your dress up and over your ass. Feels his cock stiffen in his pants at the sight of your beige colored panties. He always had a thing for your ass. Shamelessly looked at it in the past whenever you were busy stretching. Proud to know that this view belonged to him and only him. He lets his gaze linger at the sight of the dark wet patch at the center of your panties. 

Yeah, he got you like this.

“You still with me, Spacey?” you tease when you notice him staring at you longer than anticipated.

He shakes himself out of stupor. “You’re lucky I like you.” His knuckle trails up and down your slit. Got you shuddering again.

“What do you want me to call you then?” You ask. 

Jungkook feigns deep thought, humming as he throws out random nicknames.

“Baby?” He pulls your panties down your thighs.

“Honey?” You giggle as he taps your knees to fully remove your underwear.

“Boyfriend?” He parts your ass, lets a dribble of spit trail down the center and to your cunt. Your hole clenches around nothing. 

“You liked that one?” Jungkook asks, spitting directly at your hole this time. “Hm?” Trails kisses down your folds, deliberately avoiding your clit till he gets an answer.

“Kook,” you mewl. 

“Tell me,” it comes out needy, “please?”

“I do, yeah.” You confess, “I like it a lot — like you so much.” 

That’s all he needed. You choke on a moan as Jungkook licks one long strip from your clit to your entrance. He rocks your hips to his face, pistoning his tongue into your tight pussy. Pushes your ass up a little higher so he could have better access to your clit. He licks, sucks, moans, and repeats as if he knows nothing more than to please you. 

Jungkook’s moans come out muffled, face stuffed so deeply between your legs, you’d think he’d suffocate to death. On the contrary, he’d argue that life’s worth living even more now. You catch a glimpse of him with his eyes closed and his arm moving fervently between his legs. So shameless and impatient — needs to wank himself for some relief.

“Pretty baby, so fucking wet for me,” he praises against your sex, hot and breathless. Your hand comes around to hold his. Your absolute favorite part of his body. Love it on your body and even more when woven between your fingers — keeps you grounded and secure as you reach your orgasm. And even before you’ve fully come down, Jungkook pulls away and stuffs your cunt with two fingers, curling and thrusting in you with a type of speed and precision that has you gasping. Doesn’t give you room to breathe, prefers having you like this anyway.  

“Baby, y-you’re gonna make me cum again.” You cry, eyes fighting to stay open. A certain numbness pools at your stomach, begging to snap at the curl of Jungkook’s fingers. 

“I know,” he encourages, “make a mess on my fingers, come on.”

You come again, eyes rolled to the back of your head and moans stifled by your sheets. Jungkook draws in a breath, absolutely hypnotized with your pussy clenching and suctioning his fingers. After a couple seconds pass, Jungkook slowly pulls his fingers out and rolls you down onto your back. He clambers his way on top of you. Wants nothing more than to kiss you and be in your arms. You, on the other hand, had different plans. 

“What are you …” Jungkook grunts softly into your mouth. You slide your hands down into his pants and wrap your fingers around his hard cock. Give him one, two, three good pumps before you break away from his lips.

“Honey is a little old-fashioned, no?” You breathlessly ask, your free hand tugs at his belt loops. Jungkook gets the hint and swiftly pulls down his pants and briefs all at once. 

“Honey is cute.” He argues, tugging your top down to expose your breasts. 

“For married couples, sure. Not suited for a boyfriend.” You correct. 

He nods, nicknames don’t really matter to him anyway. Just wanna be yours. Instead, he chooses to latch his lips to your nipple, hand groping the other breast. Bites down on your nipple and immediately soothes it over with his tongue. Jungkook goes back and forth between the two, loving your reactions. The pleasure builds again. He hisses when you roll your hips up at him.

“Tonight’s about you letting go, remember?” He reminds, “I'll take care of you, promise.” 

“Want you to feel good too.”

“I do,” he swoops his hand underneath your thigh and pushes it up, “so much, with you.” He guides his cock in between your folds. It’s wet and messy, just how he wants it. You wince at the over sensitivity, but ignore it because Jungkook is falling apart above you. He looks down between you both, mesmerized by your slick coating his length.

You watch him, watch as he slides his cock up and down your core, watch how the head of his cock knocks and moves against your clit. 

“You feel so good like this,” Jungkook holds your jaw, nose caressing yours, “wonder how you’d feel inside.”

You whine, hips pushing upwards, “please …”

He shushes you with a kiss, requesting you to be patient with promises of making you feel good. It’s dizzying, but you listen and let him take the reins. Jungkook shifts his hips and you gasp into his mouth at the feel of his hard cock at your entrance. Your pussy flutters around him, so wet and ready. The head of his cock nudges in, stretch so minimal with how well he’s prepped you. You moan and let your head sink onto your pillow. He doesn’t push into you any further, just the tip. 

“Mm, you are edging me,” you accuse, unable to move as Jungkook has your hips pinned down to the mattress.

“You wouldn’t like me if I edged you, Juice.” He smiles.

Impossible. Don’t think there’s a universe or lifetime you wouldn’t be drawn by him and him to you. “Need you inside me, Jungkook,” you say, “please?”

He savors the moment for a little longer, tempted to do as you request. God, he would. But Jungkook has a promise to uphold and a lesson to teach. He keeps his word as he slowly inserts himself inch by inch, watching your brows furrow and mouth drop open in frustration.

Jungkook’s just as fucked out. Involuntarily bucks his hips, drawing out a surprised, high-pitched moan from you. Big mistake. The need to hear that again fuels something primal in him. His arms swoop underneath your head. Has you in an embrace as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear — such a contrast to his ruthless hips. Jungkook’s whole life has been about music. Over the years, he saved music sheets from his favorite pieces and shows. His most favorite melody? Your broken moans and cries, spurring him on to continue fucking you.

He’s not sure how long this goes for until he finally lifts himself up, immediately misses the warmth of your body. The view below him makes up for it: your dress bundled up around your waist, breasts bouncing after every thrust, and your wanton gaze. His eyes drop lower at where you both connect — groans at the cream coating his cock and how it gathers at the base after every push. Your breath hitches when his reaches between your bodies and toys with your clit. “Yes, yes, yes, oh, Kook, right there.” 

“I—” you can’t even finish your sentence as you cum again for the third time. Jungkook’s eyes close, head tipped back at the feel of your walls squeezing around him.

“Shit,” he trembles and pulls out, trying his best to delay his orgasm. Doesn’t want any of this to end so soon. 

Jungkook lays down next to you, hard cock smearing your cum on your stomach. You smile, one of your legs tossed over his hips to keep him close. You’re so tired, but there’s this glint in his eyes — he wants more. Far from being done, he pulls you on top of him, dark locks falling prettily on your pillows. Claims how much he likes your dress as he helps you get out of it.

“Couldn’t have liked it that much if it’s off me now.” You tuck Jungkook’s hair behind his ears and his expression shifts. Fondness. Warmth. Devotion. Jungkook drinks in the view before him — cock twitches at the sight of your fully naked body. Thinks he needs to block out a day to just kiss all your moles, scars, and freckles — adore them one by one. He settles for a small kiss on your palm, and positions his cock for you, eyes pleading at you to sink down on him. Your hip lifts and lowers slowly, stuffing yourself full of him again, fighting the over sensitivity. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “take me so well.” 

You nod, hands pressing his abdomen to hold yourself up. You move first, slow and deliberate to take in his expressions. Jungkook lets you take control for a minute. Just a minute. Because eventually, his fingers dig into your hips, maneuvering you up and down how he likes. Your legs shake, too weak to keep you upright. 

“Come here,” he tugs you down so that your chest presses down on his. The new position makes it easier for him to bounce you down. You cry out into the crook of his neck. You trust Jungkook, trust that only he could take your pleasure to another level. Trust him with your body — your heart. 

“So good for me,” he grips harder, feeling that familiar heaviness pool at his balls when he’s close. “You can give me another one, right?”

You feel your slick drip down his length with every drop of your hips. You whimper, shake your head, “n-no, I don’t think I can.”

He kisses your temple, “‘s okay, can you hold on for me? I’m so close.”

Of course you can. Anything for him. Anything to see him cum. Because of you, for you. He hugs you close, plants his feet down on your mattress, and fucks himself up into you. 

You’re a liar. Body betrays you as he has you bracing his chest and digging your fingernails into his shoulders. Pretty crescent moons on your sunshine. So perfect. Even when you sob from the intensity of his thrusts, you want nothing more than for this feeling to last forever. Because Jungkook has you cumming again, pussy fluttering and milking his length for all he’s worth. It surprises the both of you — surprises Jungkook more when you press your face into his neck and he feels wetness on his skin. 

“Baby,” he huffs, “wh-where should I—” hips losing rhythm and stuttering from your clenches. 

“Inside, please cum inside me,” you use all your strength to lift your head to kiss him. That’s when Jungkook sees it: your watery lashes.

"Gonna cum," Jungkook gasps, eyes squeezed shut, both hands now pushing your ass to meet his hips, “oh fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He groans loudly into your mouth, shamelessly sucks on your tongue and pumps himself two more times into your cunt before finishing inside you.

Jungkook stills. Pants hard. Mentally snorts at all his past dumb fantasies because they’ll never compare to how he feels with you right now. Doesn’t think he’s ever cummed this much and this hard. But it’s you, the girl he’s fancied for so long. You and Jungkook stay like this for a while longer. His hand trails up and down your back, nearly lulling you to sleep. Jungkook knows you — would rather go barefoot on lego pieces than sleep dirty. You made it clear that showers are a must after practice and before bedtime. Sex was no exception.

Another thirty seconds pass and Jungkook slowly pulls out of you. You wince and close your fists against his chest.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes with kisses on your shoulder and gently rolls you onto your back. He looks a little silly rushing to the bathroom while hopping into his briefs. Comes back with a warm cloth to which you realize seconds later was your favorite face towel. 

“Jungkook,” you whine as he parts your legs to clean you up, too weak to put up a fight. 

“I know, baby, I’ll get you a new one. You okay, though?”

“Yeah, ‘m good.” You smile, eyes filled with adoration.

How could you not be? Jungkook kisses the old bruises on your knees just as he’s kissed the old wounds in your heart. 

───── ♪ ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ♪ ───── 

“Whatcha doing?” Jungkook hums into your ear.

“Signing us up for auditions.” You reply naturally, fingers typing away on your phone. 

“Uh, what?” He lifts his head up from the pillow, one eye shut from the brightness of your phone. 

“With the Tridents.”

“Drum corps? Wait, Juice, I don’t know if I’m ready. There are a lot of good drummers out there …”

“Why not? You’re literally a section leader. There’s nothing you can’t do.”

“But—”

“We’ll go together,” you turn. “Come on, we age out of this circuit soon.” 

He looks uncertain. Hesitation stirs in his irises. 

“If any of us don’t make the cut, we’re both out. Kay?” Half lie because you’ll encourage him to stay even if you were to get cut first.

Jungkook stares at you, bites his lips as he contemplates his decision. Caves in under three seconds at the sight of your pleading eyes, “Alright, let’s do this.” He’s jittery in your embrace. Can’t believe he’s doing this. Knows he has to go for it.

Because life’s too short not to go full out.

fin.

a/n: fun fact! my high school crush was in the drumline too. funnily enough, i recently saw him after years of radio silence. guess what i did 😎 anyway, lmk if you have any thoughts/feedback/questions ♡

[hoseoksluna]

LIFE | jhs

pairing: military!hobi x f. reader (ft. namjoon)

genre: slow burn ; tension ; converse high trope / smut, tiny fluff

word count: 8.6k

summary: hoseok has always had a secret thing for you and once he learns you're single, he doesn't waste time and knocks on your door. 

pinterest board: life / playlist: listen / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: mutual pining, hobi is a feet guy, mentions of a partner giving you a cold shoulder and silent treatment, strong tension, praise kink, petting, nipple play, oral sex (f. receiving), overstimulation, slight dd/lg, raw and rough sex, size kink.

note: SHE'S BACK. HOSEOKSLUNA IS BACCKKKKKKKK. HELLO, MY BABIES. I MISSED YOU ALLLLL SOOOO MUCH AND I MISSED WRITING SO MUCH THAT THIS IS SOMETHING I WROTE IN MY YEARNING TOWARDS THE END OF MY HIATUS. fuck, this is way too hot. and i, again, had to take breaks to do something :D actually, i was inspired to write this at 4 am when i landed in my country after my vacation in dubai and got the weverse notification from hobi. :) yep. he ruined me, destroyed me, and i had to start writing. ENJOY THIS FILTHHHHHH. i missed writing abt dd/lg, too.... hehe. let me know what you think. and if you mayhappsss want part two? I LOVE YOU, MY BABIES. MWAH.

Hoseok, at your doorstep bringing in the moonlight before the midnight hour, was not something you quite expected to see when you heard the bell ring. You were lounging around on your couch, clothed in your new silky pajamas that you bought to heal your wounded heart a little, along with a peachy Korean face mask, a banana vape and a vanilla candle that you lit up as soon as you exited the shower. The creamy white sheet is what you were still wearing on the planes on your face when you stood there, taken aback because the man, clad in his military uniform, was certainly not your friend that visited you often. 

Hoseok was a mutual friend. A friend of your best friend Karina… and a friend of your now ex-boyfriend Namjoon. A friend that hated your guts—a friend that could not stand you. 

A friend that would let his eyes linger a little while longer on you upon seeing you on regular night outs and then ignore you for the rest of the event. A friend that would lock his gaze on your intertwined hand with Namjoon’s before narrowing it and scoffing in a private way that you invariably saw through. 

You weren’t stupid. You knew what his deal was—it’s only that you couldn’t do anything about it. You were Namjoon’s for eight wonderful months that were splotchy with the depth of poetry. Words from his heart that would give your life meaning, keep your head up above the surface. You needed those words as you spent your whole girlhood drowning in the sea of FOMO, rowing your arms through the waves of life that never got you anywhere. Seeing the little beauty of day and night of Seoul with your friends paled in comparison with what Namjoon showed you. You always believed that your life would begin with a man by your side—you prayed for it, you waited for it and it became reality. 

But it was not the reality that your body sought in the long run. 

Yes, the sex was great. Significant to your mental development, especially to your female one as you truly did become a woman in his hands, letting the lush girlish version of you die in his palms. As well as the museums, the hikes, the dinner dates that let you in on the complexity of Namjoon’s intellect that you found so profound and full of beauty. 

But as you nearly reached a year with him, your body began to seek more. The flowers beyond the box of your relationship with him—and you knew that those petals carried the scent of Hoseok. 

He liked you. You saw it in the extremity of his purposeful ignorance towards you, in the forced hatefulness he put across, and in the distance he set as a boundary. You saw it, too, in the way he would entertain other women in the bars and glance at you every now and then to make sure you’re seeing what he wants you to see. And it excited you, his interest in you that he kept at bay. 

It was a forbidden fruit that you smelt and smelt, but could never bite into—and it drove you insane. And when he got enlisted in the military, it drove you off a cliff. 

Missing him made you search for him. Not in Namjoon, but in other men. Privately, in your soul. And it cost you your relationship. 

Namjoon was a jealous, possessive man. He would fight with you if you looked at a guy for a beat longer than is necessary and if a half of a smile crept up upon the corner of your lips, he would give you the cold shoulder. An action that cut through you deep enough to make you bleed and you had to put a stop to it. 

You thought talking to him about it like an adult would straighten the road you were walking upon, but like the intelligent man Namjoon is—he knew that what he was giving to you was no longer what you needed. He threw it back at you, using the poetry of his words, and all you could do was be honest with him. Nod your head, tell him he was right, that you were seeking something more. And what surprised you was that Namjoon wasn’t willing to go the extra mile. 

He didn’t consider it. Didn’t mention it. 

He nodded his head, too. And you parted your ways as friends who loved each other and lived an artistic life together. 

And at that moment, a door to your mind opened and Hoseok stepped in. Made a bed, fluffed the pillows, and rested. 

It seems now he has awoken. Rang your doorbell, bashed his fist against the wood and narrowed his eyes at you in his normal fashion. 

An action that weaves a rhythm into that flat, bruised heart of yours. 

His military jacket is slung over his arm. His two black dog tags, hung by a silver chain around his long neck, rattles as the breath of the fresh, autumn evening breezes past, scattering goosebumps along your chocolate-buttered skin. You notice, within the brief silence while you look at each other and exchange words long overdue, that his hair is way shorter. Not buzzed anymore like Namjoon showed you on Hoseok’s first day in the military six months ago, but tousled and sticking out in different directions as if he raked his fingers through the strands a million times over. Your own itch, wrapped around your vape, his beauty heightened by his evident newly-gained manliness washing over you like an icy stream of water. 

You shiver, blaming it internally on the wind, and not on the lightness of the attraction that you feel sinking beneath your skin, overpowering you. 

And that small movement of your body propels Hoseok to speak, at last. 

“I come home to find you single,” he scoffs, his voice deep and raspy, marked possibly by his job in the military. And you feel it marking you just the same, opening windows in the house of your body for that wind to blow in and exhilarate you, help you breathe. “He’s drunk out of his mind, crawling on Jungkook’s lap and you’re here. In your pajamas with a fucking face mask on.” 

Briefly, you furrow your brows, not understanding the meaning of his words. Is he bashing you for not crying your heart out? Or is he bashing his brother for doing whatever it was. Your heart turns halfway, painfully. Those days are gone—those you spent in bed while that broken muscle wept while your body used that time to repose from all the stress it went through, being in an environment it grew out of. 

You sigh, weary of the recollection of that peculiar pain, and show no sight of the turbulence happening within you. “Jungkook must be happy about that.” 

Hoseok chuckles, humorlessly. A chilling noise that erects your bare nipples beneath your pajama button down. Awkwardness slinks down your sternum and you shift your weight on your other foot as Hoseok deepens his gaze down on you. 

Tension settles between you and you use it. You use it, wholeheartedly, as you should have all those months ago. The only thing you ever took advantage of were the touches Namjoon graced your skin with. You’d grab his hand, while Hoseok watched, and bring it underneath the table. Part your mouth, pretending he was touching a sensitive, private place while he was merely drifting his fingers along your thigh. Hoseok would gulp, but he would keep his gaze locked on yours, very much like he’s doing now. It’s the only form of intimate interaction you ever had, save for the heated debates about different things you two did not have in common. 

All else remained hidden in the silence shared between you. 

And it no longer shall. 

If he came all the way here, unannounced, then you shall let fate, one that is enamored with your body, have her way in your life. 

“If you came here to talk about him, then I’m not interested,” you say, letting go of the door and slipping off your face mask, ignoring the hurtful pinpricks along the perimeters of your heart. “If you came here for me, then the door is open.” 

And with that bravery, you pivot on your heel and walk back into the living room, not expecting him to follow you and not expecting him to walk away. You let fate do her thing, and you begin to tap in the essence of the peachy face mask into your skin with quick, gentle slaps. 

You toss the sheet, along with the packaging, into the trash, your hair clipped away from your face whooshing around you with your movement. Kicking off your slides, you hear them bump into something stable, and when you turn around to seek that strange sound, you see Hoseok standing by your armchair near your couch. 

So he did come here for you. You tremble in a different manner, filled with sparks of excitement, and, turning around to sit on the couch, you flush, smiling happily to yourself. 

But all those feelings turn to dust when Hobi kneels by the edge of your couch and fixes your home slippers. Aligns them rightly in front of you so you can comfortably slide your feet into them once you get up. 

Your stomach drops and your fingertips tingle, all of your nerve endings set on blazing fire by that one act of service. 

The first kind thing he’s ever done for you. 

He throws his military jacket over the backrest of the armchair, where he nestles himself. Legs spread, elbows propped on his knees. His long dog tag chain swings back and forth in the sudden, atypical calmness of the atmosphere that you cannot adapt to fully. Not when your mind creates an image of that chain hanging over your face, your neck and your chest when you’re bare and ready for him, laying on your back, all for him to take. 

You bite your lip, tracing the band of your sleep sock with your fingers, and Hoseok’s eyes fall to it. You quickly lift them, sheepish. Distract your mind by opening a package of eye patches and placing them on your dark circles that just won’t leave. His gaze skims over each motion, studying it, wordlessly, and you can’t take it anymore. 

You can’t be the only one who’s brave this evening. 

You take a puff of your vape, inhaling its sweetness, and stare right back at him. A smile, a foolish girlish smile quivers upon your lips. One that you dislike because you did grow out of it, but it seems as though the more you swallow the intensity of his shadowed, violent sea-charged energy, the more you transform back into that little girl you were. 

And the process soaks your panties. 

So much is said in the silence, always has been, but you can’t stand it anymore. 

“You should start talking before I go to bed,” you bite, willing your smile to flatten, and Hoseok kneads his hands. His knuckles bear a faint memory of yellow bruises, veiny and strong as they are, and for a moment you wonder how far his ferocity reaches. 

He showed you little of it. You know he’s capable of doing things that would change you for all eternity, give you a new form that would not wither with age. 

And you yearn for it. Have yearned for it all those months without knowing that was the thing your body sought. The thing Namjoon could never give you. 

Violence. Roughness. The licks of an outraged sea. 

You’re a witness to it sloshing in the pools of his darkened eyes as he chews the provocation you uttered his way. And you can bet he likes the taste. 

“Did he break your heart?” he asks amidst the banana-flavored smoke, his knuckles whitening for a split second as he clenches his fist before relaxing—as if the thought of Namjoon breaking your heart angers him. 

It rouses you, and the way your chest lifts with each breath stimulates your stiffened nipples. The candlelight sways, casting shadows on his worn features, and you’d much rather sit on them than talk about your ex. 

“Did you not hear what I said?” you spit, throwing your vape on the cushion of your couch. Hoseok’s façade splits as he smirks, dropping his gaze for a moment before lifting it back to you. 

He leans back, slouching in the chair. “Answer the question.” 

The sedatedness of his tone stuns you. Your heart begins to thump as well as the bundle of nerves between your folded legs. It has been too long since you had your release. Months upon months. And you’re too weak to not get carried away by these new feelings you’ve shamefully forgotten about. 

The veins from his knuckles travel all the way back to his arms and your brain empties out. Too, too fucking long. You should’ve fooled around with every guy you found attractive, use them for orgasms, make the best of your womanly years, but instead you dwelled at home—in and out of your misery. And now, now it feels as though you’re a virgin, alone for the first time with an older man that enlivens your body. 

And you might as well give him what he asks of you. 

Sucking on your vape for a puff of bravery, you don’t blink as you stare at him through the smoke. You elongate your legs, placing them on the coffee table next to him, your toes facing his outstretched knee, and his eyes, once again, plummet to them. 

“He didn’t break my heart, I broke his,” you say, your words shrouded by that white mist curling out of your mouth, and you watch as his eyes widen en route to yours. 

He didn’t expect that. 

Something about that satisfies you. Selfishly. 

Hoseok runs the pad of his finger across his bottom lip, his head tilted to the side a little bit. “It was about time you did.” 

The searing heat that rushes forward in your cheeks forces your gaze away from him, begs you to look away, but you don’t. A bead of perspiration trickles down your cleavage, one that is visible to him as you couldn’t be bothered to do all the buttons after your shower. But Hoseok’s eyes don’t flick to it. No, he can’t miss this. He can’t miss the gravity of the moment, of the spoken confirmation of the fact that what went on between the two of you for so long is real. You squeeze your thighs together, the thumping in between unbearable, and the longer you bask in his brave words, in the masculinity of his initiative, the more your own poetry begins to rise in you.

If it drags, it’s not meant for you. If it’s fast, it couldn’t wait to meet you. 

And Hoseok notices. It is only when you let out a little, barely hearable sigh that his eyes do travel down to scrutinize your bodily reaction. To your nipples poking through, the shine of your sweat in between your bare breasts, to the friction you’re rubbing—the miniscule grinding movements that you make in order to alleviate yourself of the ache of desperation that you feel. And because you’re baring yourself out for him, he does the unthinkable. 

He lets you see his true face, his façade collapsing at his big, sock-clad feet. 

Hoseok lifts his hips, hides behind the pretense that he’s just making himself more comfortable, but in reality he did it to turn your attention to his lower region. His length, semi-hard yet still long, stands out, protruding from the camo of his pants and you’re hot, hot all over. 

The thumping worsens—and you need him, all of him, to make it better. 

Perceiving that he’s succeeded in his strategy by the way you just won’t stop ogling him, he blushes and hides it, in vain, with outstretched fingers spread across his face. As if he was doing his signature idol move. It’s a riveting sight to behold, a seemingly cold person growing warm from you gaping at that private part of him. 

And you want more. You want to see more places of his body that are flushed. And you want it now. 

“It was about time you and I talked alone, don’t you think?” you ask, following on from his previous statement. All that pining, those stolen glances, that distance—all that tension advances forward now, stronger than ever.

Hoseok can feel it, too. At your words, his manhood grows harder and his breathing quickens. He tries to stabilize it, but he fails. He fails even when he returns to his original position with his elbows propped on his knees. That chain of his swings with more momentum, teasing you, and you place your legs even closer towards him, and upon witnessing the light flash in his eyes, you realize that you teased him right back. 

The man likes feet.

You draw in a sharp breath when he fists both of your feet in one hand, brushing his thumb over the tips of your toes. The first touch in this lifetime, the first time upon your new virgin body, so intimate, private; he might as well have wrapped a blanket around them with how warm his hand is, secure and trustful. Goosebumps flood your skin, bringing in the iciness that you felt when you took in his beauty against the background of the trees and the moonlight. And its beams must be stitched around his fingers because daintiness clasps you close, the notion that you’re taken care of, in good hands, descending upon you like the most delicate feather tickling you, and you let it—you let it consume you. 

And you let his following question consume you just as much. 

“Were you in love with him?” 

It’s a question you never had the bravery to ask yourself in the two months you’ve been single, but it is here and you welcome it. You hear it whisper to you the hint of your answer and your body is smart enough, capable enough to figure it out. 

No need for long nights of overthinking. 

No need for long hours of listening to your heart crack.

“No, I was used to him—that’s different,” you hush out and the moon lowers herself, spilling through your windows, bathing you in a milky light that feels as welcoming, as right as your confession. And maybe, just maybe it’s the way the shining stream submerges in your neediness that drives you to be bratty. And briefly, before you do, you ponder over the fact how in your life shared with this person drives, moves forward. There’s never a still time—and you find that mesmerizing. Enough for you to simply brood in greed. “What’s it to you?” 

Hoseok flinches. Parts his mouth. His chain rattles and his fingers squeeze the balls of your feet, coaxing a hum out of you that is immediately silenced by his sudden outburst. 

“What’s it to me?” 

There it is. Another plot point. Your heart hammers. 

Hoseok lets go of your feet and you lament the absence. Stands up and towers over you, the moonshine soaking him in divine light that causes your breath to hitch in your throat. A faint layer of sweat has coasted along his hairline and settled there—and you long to swim in his bodily fluids. In the persona of his, in the tumultuous sea of the tension locked within him. 

“You’re genuinely asking me this question?” he pressures, lifting your legs in order to step in between them, and the unthinkable visits you once again. He props his hands on either side of your head and those two dog tags swing in your face. 

A wet patch forms in the center of your pajamas. Your breath mirrors his—hasty, deep and strained—and you can’t take it anymore. 

How far into this road of bravery until the moon averts its opaque eyes away from your sin? 

You arch your spine, hook your fingers on his dog tags and pull him a little closer. Breathe his air, breathe in his masculine, musky scent that intoxicates your senses to the point that there is absolutely nothing stopping you from getting dragged in the natural flow of this situation. 

“Yes, Hoseok. What’s it to you?” 

He pants. Glides, delicately, his fingers along your arm until he winds up at your small fist, clutching it in his as if it was his. And that warmth, you want to dip your head in it. 

“I had to watch you sit in that chair and not crack a smile. Sit next to him like an obedient girl, not allowed to speak. To me,” he grunts, tightening his lips, and that anger of his seeps into you, becoming yours. “He didn’t deserve you. You’re not a pretty toy. You’re a person.” 

He straightens but, panicking, you draw him right back by that chain. “Don’t fucking walk away from me.” 

He seethes and you feel your essence trickling down your thigh. That sea, inching forward, you whimper. And then he spreads that warmth over the crown of your head, rubbing your hairline just once with his thumb before he peels off your eye patches that you have forgotten about. 

And this is when your brows curl. This is the time that says there’s no going back. 

“I talked to you. We fought, don’t you remember?” 

He sweeps that digit over that soaked dark circle of yours underneath your eye. “What do you think would’ve happened to you if I talked to you nicely?” 

Cold shoulder. Uncomfortable time of forced aloneness, filled with the abyss of guilt that you had done something wrong. A toy that didn’t move its lifeless limbs right by his will. 

“I’ve known him for far longer than you. I know how he treats those he thinks he loves. I brushed it away with the others, but with you… I couldn’t. You were so full of life that was stuck in you because of him. Because he didn’t let you let it out. And I can’t forgive him for that.” 

What life? The one you searched for all your girlhood, the one Namjoon molded with his own hands until it no longer recognized the once-familiar lines of his palm? The one that yearned for Hoseok instead? 

A film of tears clouds your eyes and as hard as you try to blink them away, they linger, pooling at your waterline like sea foam. You need your vape, you need him inside you—you can’t face the mirror of the reality of that unfair treatment. 

How blind you were; how Hoseok has become that guiding stick. 

“Don’t forgive him,” you utter, grasping his chain tighter, drawing him even closer, making his breath tremble. The first tear that pours out leaks into the print of his thumb and at the sound of your soft cry, Hoseok topples. Kneels on the couch with your legs on either side of him and you pull, you pull him closer. 

“Do you want me?” he asks—a foolish, foolish question. Presses his forehead against yours, cups your face with both hands now while his back shakes and you touch it, you drag your fingernails down those prominent muscles. And he sighs, so desperately, so tenderly. “Do you want me to let out that life in you?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, sliding your hands underneath his black shirt, scratching the lowest part of his warm, warm waist before hooking your fingers on the waistband of his pants. It’s his—it always belonged to him. “Take me. Here.” 

He brushes his nose against yours, your breath and his singular. “You’re so feisty.” Lips nearly touch yours and your lungs give out on you, your air coming out in pathetic staccatos that make him growl, subduedly. Muscles rigid, bundle of nerves devoutly pulsing. Please, please. “But no.” 

The world implodes, the mocking shimmer of that planetary light gushing through—hand in hand with sobriety. 

But Hoseok, the prince of the unthinkable, dips your head back into that darkness. Lifts you by your armpits and sets you down on his lap, his hard length against your core uprearing your need for release. 

A hand sailing down your neck, your sternum, acknowledging itself with your respiration. “Don’t give it to me that easily.” 

Your own cages him there, right at the apex of the fleshiness of your breasts. “Jebal, Hobi.” 

Please, Hobi. You drive, in his fashion, your hips forward—ever so slightly. His eyes round at the mellow variation of his name wandering out of your mouth and wrapping around his neck, as if the gentleness you give him pains him, transforms into a noose around his vocal cords and he can’t speak. 

He sighs, the noise melting into a soft, low-pitched moan. “Don’t beg me,” he croaks out, so terribly strung out. “I’m-I’m—”

You lengthen your spine, closing your mouth over that one spot on the side of his throat that you can reach, silencing him. He doesn’t need to speak—you’re fine with the tacit language of his hands. And the taste of his skin, that fucking warmth dissolving upon your tongue, you can’t help but to moan just the same against him like that, rocking your hips awfully, awfully slowly, driving him to the point of madness that he stood at the edge of for so long. 

“I want you to touch me,” you murmur, tugging his hand lower to the first done button of your silky shirt and it’s him who hooks his fingers over that fabric now. You lick a stripe across the thick vein of his throat, grinding a little harder when you hear him suck in a pained breath. “I want you to feel that life in me and know it’s yours. Jebal, Hoseokie.” 

He grunts, ripping you away from him. You expect his eyes to be narrowed in that typical manner of his, but they’re not. They’re soft, round and glossy, looking down at you, unblinking. A face you’ve never seen before, that feels too, too significant—and you’re not sure if you deserve to get a load of it. Of his pinkish cheeks and downturned mouth, of his fingers agonizingly sluggishly undoing the first button of your shirt. 

Of his sentimentality that you never thought he was so efficient at. 

The sea that has remotely stilled—but you’re still riding the lenient waves, your torso curving with each button popping off as he engraves his warmth into your cold, cold skin. And once he reaches the very last one, he stops. Holds your shirt together, squishing your breasts, waiting for you to lift your head out of the sea water. 

And you do. 

He inches forward, grazing his lips against yours, making you feebly cry out. 

“Did you cry for him?” 

Your cry prolongs, vexation splattering over your arousal, and you’ve had enough of it. You flick your eyes between his, drawing back, flattening your lips in that anger of his that seems to be still flowing in you somewhere. No more, no more Namjoon; no more talk of your past relationship. It’s over, it’s over.

“Stop fucking—”

Hoseok doesn’t relent. Sinks his fingers into the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck to make you listen. “Did you cry for him?” 

Your heart wept, but your eyes didn’t. The tear you shed in front of him was the only liquid emotion that spilled out of you since the day of the break up. “No.” 

He blows a heavy breath of relief that oddly validates you—and light opens in your sensitive bosom. “Good girl.” 

And it is now that Hoseok presses his chest, his dog tags against that light of yours and clamps his mouth down on your top lip, hoisting you a tiny bit to sit you right down on his manhood. His strong arm wraps around your back while the other floats down and curls around your bum, growling into the kiss that he deepens. And then he parts your lips with his, slipping his tongue inside, and the dam breaks between your legs—as well as the quick little whines and squeaks that begin to leak out of your mouth and into his. 

The life in you throbs. 

His cock hardens even more underneath you and he pushes your clit against it, his noises and yours growing louder and louder in tandem until he’s breathless, panting so vivaciously that he needs a moment. A moment to focus on the mess he’s created of you, a glowing ball of rosiness, the prettiest of all flowers—and you feel like it, being looked at like that. 

“I knew you were smart,” he coos, peppering feathery kisses upon your cheek, jaw and chin, descending to the base of your neck. You moan out, fisting his shirt below his collarbones, the continuation of his validation for you nesting in your core. “That life in you will always win. No matter what.” 

You believe him—in fact, there’s nothing left for you to do, but to submit, submit and submit. And it feels like entering a dream that is kind, a reality that appears to be a dream, but is better. An existence smeared with clemency, where you can be a little girl again. 

“Touch it, please.” 

Hoseok hums, kissing the cleft between your clavicles. Shifts forward on the couch so you can rest your spine on the backrest, your head against the wall, and he slides his palms upward from your tummy to the apex of your breasts. You whine, torturously, at the contact, and you shudder and double over when he swipes his thumbs over your still stiffened nipples, buzzing shocks of acute pleasure coursing down your body, rooting in your clit that asks for his fingers, his tongue, but he remains where he is. Transfixed, starving, ravaged. 

He kneads your breasts like he kneaded his hands, with overpowering strength that quickens your blood flow, your body submitting to him and flushing like his does. A sliver of skin that your shirt exposes catches his attention—and at the sight of the flesh of your breasts spilling through, his cock twitches, his breath ragged, eyes droopy and so, so drunk. He pinches your nipples, still through that silken fabric, as if he was punishing you for causing him this unfair pain. 

Knead, flick, pinch. Your noises are obnoxious, his heat in you rising and rising, and you can’t take it anymore. The drum in your clit thuds and you push him away, the pleasure too overwhelming, too good and too arousing. 

And he pushes away the fabric, revealing your perky breasts. A glint settles on the edge of his irises and he gives you a coy smile before he smashes his mouth against yours, moving it in a rhythm that reflects the one in your bundle of nerves. And you grind, you grind like your life depends on it, your nipples and your pussy rubbing against him, against his icy dog tags, getting you closer and closer to your orgasm. And you would come like this had he not physically ripped you away from him. 

Heaving, he focuses, all over again, on the ruination he makes of you. The warmth in you flits so invitingly that you have to touch the places he did—your stomach, your sternum, your breasts. And as you do, you watch his gaze darken, you watch him nod his head, and wipe the corner of his mouth clean, catching his drool. 

“You feel it, don’t you?” he rasps, following the invisible traces you left on your body. Your stomach, your sternum, your breasts. “Right here. Life. Beautiful life.” He teases your hardened nub, circling it with the pads of his fingers, sliding it between his knuckles and squeezing, his smile growing with each shudder of your chest, with each response. “It’s time to make you come and let it out, you ready? Let’s take these off.” 

He tugs off your pajama pants, throws it behind his shoulder, examines the large wet stain on your panties that he coos at, raspily, petting it with his thumb—and you’re so turned on that even such faint touch like that brings you pleasure. You hold onto his arms for dear life, depending on him, trembling when the panties and the shirt are next, tossed upon the pile of your pants. 

You’re bare and he’s still fully dressed. Such titillating unfairness that turns you unhinged, maddened by liveliness your body is diffused with. 

Hoseok pins your legs back. Takes one hand and glides his fingers across your entire femininity, soaking them in the dew he has coaxed out of you, moaning gutturally. 

“He never made you wet like this, did he?” he asks, pride dripping out of him like his masculine pheromones, and with his wet fingers he palms himself. “You don’t even have to answer that. I know. I need to taste you, baby.” 

You don’t even get to fill a lungful of the stuffed, vanilla-scented air and he dives in, keeping your legs glued to your shoulders as he seizes your clit in his mouth, sucking on it briefly before he flattens his tongue all over you. He licks you like a lost man finding an oasis, humming into your heat while he tastes your personal slickness, swallowing everything he sowed. You bang your head on the wall, a numbed pang expanding all throughout your scalp by your claw clip, taking it all, moaning so loudly the whole of Seoul must be hearing you. Even Namjoon in his drunkenness, shameful that he never managed to eat you like this in the eight months you were his to consume. 

Your orgasm inches to you quickly. With half-lidded eyes, you watch the candlelight create sublime, eccentric images on his back. And as if he couldn’t handle the warmth anymore, he peels himself away from you just to take off his shirt, adding it to the pile. He doesn’t let you see his muscular body—he plunges back down, tongue outstretched, flicking the muscle on your swollen clit. He pinches your thigh, your mound, your folds, whimpering onto your flesh, hurrying to close his mouth over you to suck your clit. 

And within that divine suction, you come apart. The beautiful images on his back advance, fluttering on his smooth skin, and you hold him to yourself. The life in you explodes, saturating him in a dimmed, soft-hued, colorful light that he himself must be sensing because he moans, loudly, sinking his index finger inside your clenching hole. You can’t speak, you can’t breathe—you can only feel, you can only take. Your orgasm continues on, a ceaseless stream of delight untwisting in every part of your body. 

And when he begins to fuck you with that finger of his and hits that good spot, your orgasm melts into another one. And this time, you can’t take it. 

You shake so vivaciously that you fall off the edge of the couch, but he catches you. Hoseok unclips your hair and lays you down, propping your hips on the armrest instead and when he bends at the waist and opens his mouth, you scream out your disagreement, pushing him away. 

He blinks at you, mouth sopping wet. “I wasn’t finished.” 

Your oxygen is stuck in your throat, one that gets bespeckled with the beads of your dew. “Hoseokie—”

He traces it, wiping it off, holding you there. Presses his hard, clothed length against your bare pussy, rocking slowly, casting a private, affection-filled shadow with the arch of his body over yours. Hoseok kisses you once, a nasty kiss perfumed with your tangy scent, and you cry out. 

“The fact you can’t take the bare minimum personally offends me. He had you all to himself and he didn’t do his job well,” he mutters, squeezing your throat once. Drags his wet hand down your sternum, grasping a hold of both of your breasts, clenching them until they flush, again, like him. 

There it is, the saltiness of his sea. You yearn for the physical principle of it coating your tongue—for his cum to trickle out of the tip of it like your dew is off of his. And his words, his anger towards his best friend because of you—it heals you in a way you could never heal yourself. Another person seeing you and telling you that you deserve better, it is the most pristine form of remedy there is and you splutter on the whole beauty and compassion of it all, too weak to accept it at once. 

“That’s right,” you agree, as enthusiastically as your dopeness allows you, smiling lopsidedly, heart pounding. “Go slow on me.”

He croons, squeezing his eyes. “My little girl.” 

He buries his face in your neck, kissing you there, and along with the life in you—your heart explodes, too. The finality of your detransformation. Tears of joy ache in the corners of your eyes, the rawness of human fulfillment housing in you for all eternity. 

He kisses his way down to your breasts. “I’ll go slow on you,” he promises, darting out his tongue and flicking it over your nub, making you tremble. He straightens and dances his fingers along your thighs—up to your knees. “Do you want to stop here?” 

You shake your head. Place your feet flat on his toned stomach while you feel your dew dribble down your bum. Hoseok smiles, his mouth curving in that way of his that causes your own stomach to drop. He holds your heels, hooking his finger under the band of your socks and yanking them off. 

And his grin blooms at the sight of your dusty-pink toes, an endeared look thawing his eyes. He rubs them like he did at the beginning of this journey, keeps one at his stomach while he lifts the other one to his mouth. 

Your poor heart skips a beat. 

“Do you want me to fuck you like a little girl like you deserves?” 

He kisses the ball of your foot, doesn’t break the eye contact. Watches your mouth part in absolute astonishment and your cheeks deepen in their hue. And when he kisses it again, slower this time, it wakes you up from your stupefaction, and you lower your free foot down to his clothed cock. Hoseok groans, the sound muffled against your tootsie, shutting his eyes at the impact. Your chest flickers with a sense of pride that you made him react like that—and you want it again. You trail your toes across that length of his, but before you could reach the most sensitive part of him, he stops you. 

Sucks in that pained breath of his, red all over. 

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna come.” 

You mirror him, the idea of being capable of doing that to him pleasuring you. You leak onto the couch. Your blood boils. 

“That’s so hot.” 

He chuckles, anchoring your foot upon his heart, tapping it with your big toe. “It’s because you have my heart.” 

Your body ceases all work, as well as time. Even the candlelight pauses its dance, concentrating its caressing radiance on that chain of his. 

And you don’t think as you scurry onto your knees and embrace him, his dog tags no longer icy. He plants his nose into your hair, inhaling you, sealing you into the hug with both of his arms. Your heart reaches its own towards his and they cling to each other, too. 

And you’re not afraid to reciprocate his feelings—they’re as clear to you as that very luminescence of the vanilla candle. 

“You have me,” you whisper into his ear, his body not quivering but stable, safe. “You have my life. It’s more of a treasure than my heart.” 

He had you the moment he so evidently disapproved of your past relationship. He had you the moment he was curious to see if you were jealous when he was entertaining other women. He had you the moment he purposefully put a distance between you and him because he didn’t want you to get hurt by Namjoon. 

You just didn’t know it yet, not until clarity arose in front of you in the form of his honesty. 

Hoseok kisses your own ear, lingers there. “I want both.” 

“Then, have it.”

And he kisses your forehead. “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.” 

You can see in the ivory mist of his eyes that he means it—and so you tug off his military belt as you begin to pepper kisses down the column of his neck because he deserves it, because he cares for you, because he came to you as soon as he heard that you were single. And when you reach those dog tags, the words of his title imprinting themselves onto the surface of your lips, you clasp his cock in your hand. Too big for your small fist, too warm for you to handle—

“Lay back down.” 

You bite into the flesh right above that first steel pendant while keeping your eyes locked on his. “Yes, Sergeant.” 

Hoseok curses. Wrings a sharp gasp out of you when he pulls on your hair, giving you a nasty kiss full of tongue. “Don’t call me that when I need to be gentle with you,” he scolds, sucking on your bottom lip to make it better and you disintegrate. “Right now I would bend you over this couch and fuck you until Sergeant and Sir was all you knew, but I can’t do that. Not when you’re not used to me yet.” 

Yes, the promise of the sea—you convulse from head to toe, pining after it. 

“I want that so bad.” 

He nods, marking you on your neck. You whimper and he groans in response. “And I’ll give it to you, you just need to be good now. Lay down.” 

You comply, but you take him with you—grabbing him by that chain as you arch your back on the couch. He lets you, grins at you like the utmost sunshine, but that expression of delight breaks when a certain realization dawns upon him. 

“I didn’t bring any condoms.” 

You huff out a soft noise. “Good. I want you to come all over me.” 

Hoseok hangs his head low, sighing, on all fours above you. His chain swings, drawing the memory of this very night on your breasts. He looks up at you from this position, his eyes thin slits that cause you to clench around nothing. 

“I’ll give you a big load.” 

You beam like the purest angel, in spite of the context. “Yes, please.” 

Hoseok rolls his eyes back, his façade cracking, and he beams just the same, his mouth widening in the shape of a heart that moves through you. He kisses you deeply, a long peck that breaks you down into a putty, and when he withdraws, you can still see that smile plastered on his glowing face. 

“Good girl. Such good manners.” 

And with that praise, he sheathes himself inside you. You both gasp in union, entering a paradise no other human will ever witness in the afterlife. He stretches you out, slowly, careful not to hurt you as he waits it out, petting your hair in the meantime. 

“I can feel you stretching around me, fuck. You’re so warm, so tight for me,” he rasps, panting, that smile trembling on his lips as he tries to keep it together. He straightens, pinches your nipple and you feel yourself accommodating him quicker at that sudden electricity of pleasure, at the sight of his toned body and that chain. The shine of sweat, the dance of the candlelight, the width of his shoulders and carmine chest as it heaves in desperate hums and groans. You could come just from that—and the sensation is so dizzying that your eyes droop. Hoseok notices, grappling the crook between your neck and shoulder. “Stay with me, baby, you can take this. I’m gonna make you feel so good and you’re gonna come on this cock.” 

Those hums of his cruise all the way to your mouth as he sinks that encouragement into it, kissing you deeply, pinning your hands back above your head and sliding his fingers into a celestial intertwinement with yours. They throb within you, those words of his, where they disperse all around, helping you believe that you truly can take the whole manliness of him. Your mind spins, the pressure of your shared atmosphere ringing in your ears, and he knows, he knows that you’re ready for him.

“I’m gonna start moving now. Talk to me, baby. Tell me everything you’re feeling as I fuck you,” he murmurs, unsheathing himself a tiny bit before he curls his hips forward and upwards, creating a languid, spine-tingling rhythm that replicates the waves of his sea. They slosh to and fro with every slow stroke and he kisses your good spot with the tip of his cock. Your eyes flutter open and close, rolling like those waves, but you can still see the way his jaw is clenched, his gums on full show as he seethes in his self-control, the flush of his neck and the flexing of his abdomen that you can’t help but to touch in your otherworldly daze. He stares down at you, intensely, narrows his eyelids and furrows his brows when he feels your touch, and you discover that the spot, where his V-lines lead to your antidote, is one of uttermost sensitivity. 

He moans, burying himself deep in you, and stopping there. Mound to mound, soul to soul.

“Fuck, baby, you just know where all my spots are, don’t you?” he asks, his voice so terribly strained, torso doubled over, and you grin. 

“I think I was born already knowing them,” you flirt and Hoseok pounds into you for it—a singular thrust that scrambles all your brain cells. Your smile falls, your brows crunch, your throat utters such whiny noise that he himself grunts at the sound of it, and when you lift yourself onto your elbows to see his length driving in and out of you, he pushes you right down by your throat, kissing you hard enough that it hurts.

And he alleviates the lip lock by licking over your tongue, toying with it—all while he, little by little, picks up the rhythm, fucking into you with a force that coaxes your rawest moans out of you. 

“You can’t handle my tongue and I can’t handle it when you flirt with me,” he scoffs, smacking his mouth as he turns his head, claiming your mouth, claiming you. “God, I wanna destroy you so bad.” 

Your cry is cut out by another savage thrust and you claw at that sensitive spot of his, inciting him to do it again and again. “I’m yours to destroy.” 

He pauses, the crown of his cock teasing the beginning of your heat. Sweat drips down his temple and he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes your heart twitch in absolute sensuality and relish. 

“Say that again.” 

Your breath hitches. “I’m yours to destroy.” 

Hoseok curses, driving into you all the way. You whine out, clenching your fists, feeling every ridge and every vein of his cock glide forwards and backwards along your walls. And by tensing your body and focusing on the delight he’s gracing your body with, the build-up of your orgasm announces its presence.

“Fuck, Hobi, you feel so good,” you cry, gripping his forearms as he begins to hold your waist steady. He jackhammers into you so viciously that your vision scatters with a creamy hue of ivory, moaning in ragged staccatos that influence you so much that you naturally imitate them, fading into him, becoming one. 

“Whose are you?” he growls without interfering with the gracefulness of his sadism, moving back only an inch before slamming back into you, bruising your cervix—and you lose all brain cells, the synapses blanking out. 

But only one thing is clear. 

“I’m yours.” 

And the following snap of his hips drives you out of this world and out of this universe. The gravity keeps your muscles tense, confining your pleasure and the closeness of your orgasm within. The ringing grows in volume and you’re on the cusp. 

Hoseok is, too, because he begins to beg. 

“Please, please, baby. Come for me. I’m so fucking close for you. Please, I’m gonna come all over you.” 

And with a scream that vibrates through the walls of your living room, you comply. Your core grips him, your skin prickles and you levitate—your back arches off the couch, aching to be closer to him, and Hoseok whines. 

Pulls out, straddles you, and fist-fucks his shaft with frantic, frenzied motions. Covers you with ropes and ropes of his cum that ripple on your stomach, your sternum and your breasts as you drift in and out of consciousness. Warm, warm essence of his masculinity that is warmer than the rest of him. 

Blood-hot. 

And you feel as though you deserved every drop. 

Deserved to see the beauty of his orgasm. The flush of his lower regions, especially. The sight you longed to see. 

Hoseok lets go of his manhood, his hand shiny and wet, though he’s still hard, reaching the beginning of your parting lungs with how big he is. Bigger than Namjoon, bigger than anyone you ever dated. Their names wither in your mind, decomposing. And they lose all meaning. 

They cease to exist. 

You’re not his best friend’s ex. You’re not anyone’s ex—

“Look at how little you are,” Hoseok comments, interrupting the surge of your maddened thoughts. He smears the puddle of cum on your stomach that his cock can reach and your pussy flutters in constant motions that ask for him again. “So little under me and all mine, aren’t you?” 

His avowal brings a fresh dose of oxygen into your lungs and you breathe it in. Want to breathe it in for the rest of your life with him. 

But Hoseok doesn’t stop there. Once you agree with him by the nod of your head and a dopey, gratified grin that casts an affirming light on him, he bends over you, his fists on either side of your head. 

“I’ll show you what true possessiveness looks like. The world will burn if it hurts you and if people say one bad word to you, it will be the last one they ever said. But they will talk to you and you will talk to them. You will learn about this life of yours. What it holds, what it looks like. And I’ll be standing beside you and I’ll watch over you. Learn it, live it with you.” 

He rubs your forehead with his thumb in a fond gesture. Looks at you with a mute meaning that touches your heart and crawls inside before he kisses you, relaxes his lips against yours, and kisses you again. 

Again and again. 

Again in the shower. Again in your bed when you’re riding him, tasting the life he let out of you, because you blazed up with desire after you washed his body. And the sex is quiet, smothered with those kisses until your mouth and his is numb. 

And again throughout the years you acknowledge yourself with that life and realize that you understand it more profoundly and clearly in the process of getting to know Hoseok than this world. 

Hoseok is that life. 

And you kiss him and whisper those words onto his mouth when you marry him at the altar, years and years later, connecting your life and his forever. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[back2bluesidex]

Slide - The Ultimate Decision - MYG

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi X Lyricist!Reader 

Theme: Angst, smut, unplanned pregnancy. Fwb to ?

Word count: 2.2k+

Summary: 

"I can't feel my legs Hop right on the ledge, jump right off the edge"

Alternatively, 

Worst decisions are always driven by anger and alcohol; but sometimes those are also driven by Love.

Warnings: so much angst, reader's inner turmoil, unplanned pregnancy, yoongi is making things worse, Hoseok is the doctor but he is not to be shipped with the reader here, he is a catalyst though, pining, so much pining.

Listened to Slide by Chase Atlantics

Minors do not interact!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon (for early access)

A/N: The next chapter from the present timeline.

Taglist requests are closed for now

Read the next chapter

You fumble with your phone, scrolling down numbers after numbers but can’t find a single contact you can call at a time like this. 

The pregnancy testing kit lies on your left hand as if it has been tattooed on your skin. For some reason, you don’t feel dread creeping up through the path of your neck. 

Should you cry? Should you call Yoongi and curse him to your heart’s content? Should you ask him to take the responsibility when he is about to start living his old happy life again? 

Probably you should. 

But the thing is… you can’t bring yourself to do any of those. 

You don’t even know what you should feel or what you need to feel at a moment like this. 

You don’t even have any idea of what’s going to be your next move. 

Will you keep the baby? Or will you choose to abort it? 

But before everything, you should consult with someone, who is wiser than you. 

Your fingers hover above your mother’s contact ID, even though you know your calls are going to go unnoticed, unanswered, ignored as if you never came out of her womb. 

And things will turn even uglier if she answers your call and you manage to tell her what you have done to yourself, more or less willingly. 

So you let your phone fall limp on your lap. 

How funny - you have absolutely no one to confide in. no family, no friends, no one. 

As soon as the realization hits, your eyes start turning blurry. 

Tear drops escape one by one, dampening your cheeks, throat, collarbones. You caress your stomach. 

“What do I do now?” the mumble comes out choked. And then you are thinking of him again. 

How he cried in his sleep the first time you brought him here with you. How he repeated his actions again during his last visit here. 

Both of the time you stood on the sidelines, the center of his universe has always been Gyuri. 

In the end, though, you have been the one affected - with blooming warmth in your chest and in turn a presence of life in your womb. 

As you think of Yoongi, your mind runs back to the man who had helped you in picking him up from the streets. 

You still remember, his card said he was an obgyn. 

Your tears cease. 

Yes. As much as you need a friend or family right now, you need an expert too. 

Standing abruptly from your bed, you run toward the other side of it, reaching out for the night stand, where you had kept the man’s card more than a year ago. 

You don’t have to struggle much to find out the card, it’s there as if it has been waiting to be found all these times. 

Holding the card in your hand, opens the flood gate of fresh memory of that night, of Yoongi’s dirty face, vomit all over his clothes and him holding you tightly in his sleep. 

That was the first and last time. 

He never held you for a second time, unless you were having sex. 

Pushing down the depressing thoughts, you grab your phone and with swift fingers dial the number of the man - Jung Hoseok. 

The clock reads 9 pm on a Wednesday night. And you pray, this is not past his business hours, he has no such mentions in the card as well. 

The universe seems to grant your prayer this time, probably out of sheer pity, as the man accepts the call on the fourth ring. 

“Hello, It’s Dr. Jung Hoseok, how can I help you?” The man speaks with a professional tone that sets you on an unexplainable ease. 

“Hi, uh, I am sorry to call you like this but I had managed to get my hands on your card and I think I need your help. I, um, I’m pregnant. And I think I need an appointment.” your hands start sweating now when you realize all of it is real. You are pregnant with the baby of a man who doesn’t love you. 

Pathetic. 

“How many weeks are you?” the man asks with the same professional pronunciation. 

“I don’t know. I just found out a few minutes ago. This is my first time and I don’t know what to do.” you speak honestly. 

These are the same words you want to confess to a friend, to your mother as well and most importantly to Yoongi. But talking to a stranger, about how helpless you are, is much less nerve-wracking. 

“You are not a teenager, are you?” he speaks, suspicion laced in his voice. 

A sudden chuckle leaves your throat, “I’m twenty seven.” 

The other side of the line only hums and then after a beat he says, “we usually don’t accept appointments made via phone calls but I can guide you on how to book one. If that’s okay with you?” 

“Anything is okay with me.” 

And you are not lying. At this hour, alone in your apartment, robbed off options, in the lack of a confidant - any assistance is okay with you. 

Any assistance is fine if that means you will be able to figure out what you are going to do with a baby in your womb, gifted by the man whom you let destroy yourself for the sake of love. 

The appointment is due at 3 in the afternoon and right now the clock is at 1:26. 

The hospital is an hour's drive away, hence, if you leave now, you will still have a 30 minutes on your hand. 

But the problem is that you didn’t inform anyone formally about this secretive appointment. Applying an official leave would raise questions about the nature and reason of the appointment and you don’t want that. 

You want to protect this truth with every drop of blood your body owns. 

So, you decide to quickly drop by Namjoon's office and tell him you need the rest of the day off for some emergency. 

For a matter you know Namjoon is not privy enough to inquire about the so-called emergency. 

Much to your dismay, your plans shatter like a porcelain vase as soon as you open the door of Namjoon’s office. Because one, there is no Namjoon, two, there is Min Yoongi. 

Yoongi’s expression mimics yours as he takes you in, standing there, staring at him as if he didn’t fuck you raw and left you with consequences just a month ago. 

But then again… a month of radio silence, a month of stolen glances, a month of no skin contact, a month of no Min Yoongi was more painful than you’d dare to admit. 

Your heart thumps inside your chest as you realize, you are standing in front of the man whose baby is currently in your womb. 

You are carrying a baby! And that’s Min Yoongi’s! Screams your mind at the loudest possible volume. 

But still, by some miraculous strength, you manage to smile at him.

A casual, nonchalant smile as you are used to. 

Except this time, Yoongi doesn’t smile back. 

He looks at you with eyes so deep that you fear you will succumb to them yet again if you stay here for a moment longer. 

“Where’s Namjoon?” you get straight to the point, without wasting your time in any greeting. 

“Y/N. Wait.” but you have always been weak to the way Yoongi calls your name. This time, you are hearing it after what feels like an eternity. 

“He went out to escort a guest.” Yoongi says, flatly, his tone devoid of any emotions. It’s tough to believe he cried in your arms a month ago.

“Oh. Then can you please let him know that I have an emergency and I have left for the day? Thank you.” you don’t wait for his reply as you start turning your heels to run away already. 

His voice works like glue and stops you in your tracks. You are now unable to move. A cold, calloused palm comes in contact with your upper arm, forcing you to face the man. 

When you face him, you see his face and expression has softened. The stoic expression is now gone and you are afraid of what to make out of it. 

This is not pity, is it? 

“How are you? It’s been so long- I wanted to see you but-” 

“But there is no reason to do so, right?” you finish his sentence for him, “I am fine, Yoongi. How are you? How’s Gyuri?” 

“All good.” he ignores the mention of the woman, "What's the emergency? Are you alright?” He places the back of his palm on your forehead, checking your body temperature. 

Your eyes fill to the brim. You need to leave right now or you will start crying. 

“I- I’m fine.” you lie, removing his hand from your skin, “it’s just something personal.” 

Yoongi frowns at that “oh. You can tell me. If you need any he-” 

“I can take care of it myself, Yoongi. You have a life to lead, you have better days ahead now, why would you even care about me? I was just a fleeting chapter anyway. Please- please don’t act like our time together meant anything to you. Please, I beg.” try as you might, you couldn’t contain it anymore. 

Just like you, Yoongi, too, is taken aback with your outburst. Though his eyes are kind, if you dare to add, then those might as well be in pain. 

But his next words only break you further, “wasn’t it a given? A silent agreement that our time together wouldn’t mean much to any of us?” 

Is he challenging you? Trying to elicit a further reaction? Is it a knife to dig more in your fresh wounds? 

If yes, then you will do everything to disappoint him. 

You nod, “Yeah. You are right. Forget I have said anything. Bye.” 

Yoongi opens his mouth to say something but you are faster than his words. Before he manages to say a word, you are out of the door and shutting it on his face. 

He is cruel. 

He has always been. 

But you still love him. 

You have always had. 

The fact that Yoongi can be a little heartless has never been a shock to you. 

Nevertheless, it didn’t harm you any less when he let those careless words out of his mouth. Then again, you can not even blame him because you had been the one to place your heart in his hands and asked him to play with it. 

In the end, it’s your fault. 

And you are already paying the price in more ways than one. 

“Miss Y/N?” a nurse calls your name, pulling you out of your miserable thoughts, “you can go in now.” 

With a bow and a forced smile you leave the waiting area and enter the OPD room. 

A man is sitting at the desk, with his scrubs and white coat on, the nameplate on the table says he is the one who helped you out that night. He is Jung Hoseok. 

You failed to look at his face that night, being too busy with tending Yoongi. But now that you are looking at him, he seems to be the embodiment of everything that’s positive, light, bright - much unlike you (or Yoongi for that matter). 

His eyes light up as he takes you in, with a big smile he says, “oh? You are Miss Y/N? I remember you clearly. Please take the seat.” 

You wonder how it's even possible to recall you after seeing you once, that too a year ago, “You do?” 

“Yes. I still remember that night and your friend.” He mentions Yoongi.

If he sees the man’s mention dims you even further then he doesn’t say anything but he chooses to change the topic right away, “have you filled the form?” 

“Yes.” you hand him the piece of paper. 

He goes through it all at once, probably having everything memorized, but his eyes get stuck at one point. And you have an idea what it can be. 

“As I can see, you have not added anyone as your closest contact?” he says with a careful tone.

“Yes.” you reply briefly. 

“You need to add one person at least, maybe a friend, or a family, or the father of the baby.” he suggests. 

“I- No one knows about this just yet. I don’t have any immediate friend or family who could help me out.” your hands are now shaking. 

“Sorry to pry, but what about the father of the baby?” Jung Hoseok leans a little further on the table, as if trying to measure your facial expressions. 

“He is unaware of the situation.” 

“Are you sure you want the baby?” he voices in the softest possible tone anyone has ever used against you. 

“Yes. I want to keep the baby.” and that’s it. If the baby is one last proof of what Yoongi had with you for no less than a year, if the baby is a proof that Yoongi had once held you, cried in your arms, dipped inside you to forget his own complications, then you want to keep it. 

And this will be your ultimate decision no matter what anyone else says. 

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❆ Chapter One: Homecoming Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Hockey Player!Jungkook, Figure Skater!Reader, Hockey Player!Taehyung, Hockey Player!Jimin, Hockey Player!Namjoon, Hockey Player!Hoseok, Figure Skater!Jin, Coach!Yoongi Genre: Hockey!AU, Figure Skating!AU, Olympic!AU, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Self-Discovery, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn Word Count: 24.1k+ Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has always been destined for greatness as a competitive figure skater, her dreams of the Olympics sparkling like the ice beneath her blades. But when a devastating injury sidelines her, those dreams seem to melt away. Just when she feels lost, she unexpectedly meets Jeon Jungkook, a talented NHL hockey player. Warnings: Reader is injured and still using crutches, meet-cute reference to an unhealthy relationship with mom, absent father, parental issues, pining, low self-esteem, reader has anxiety, reader is very stressed out, honestly my girl is just exhausted, very pushy neighbors (but we love them for it), Taehyung is adopted, this is really just an introduction to everyone so not many warnings here... A/N: Happy New Year! Let's kick things off with a new massive series. This one will touch on very heavy topics such as toxic parents, mental health issues, and non-consensual touching. Please proceed with caution. New Chapters every month!

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I never used to think about what came next.

Why would I? Back then, the future felt like a far-off, shapeless thing—something for other people to worry about. I was too tangled in the middle of my story to even consider its ending. Life moved fast, like pages riffling under a restless thumb, each chapter running into the next before I had time to catch my breath. There was no pausing, no foreshadowing. Just motion. Just noise.

And sometimes—if the stars aligned, if the right song played through the speakers and your body remembered everything it had trained for—sometimes, it felt like you were brushing up against something holy. Like a dream you hadn’t dared say out loud. It sat there on the edge of your reach, glowing with possibility. But just when your fingers grazed it—when you let yourself believe it might be real—life had a way of snapping its fingers. Books closed. Lights cut out. And you were right back where you started, blinking in the dark.

I don’t think I ever really knew what “normal” meant.

Normal was something other people lived. People who wore buttoned-up shirts and had reliable morning routines, who drank coffee in break rooms and complained about meetings. My days started before the sun—slipping out of bed in the pitch black, lacing up my skates while the cold gnawed at my skin. Stretch until it hurts. Practice until the movements melt into muscle memory. The rink always smelled like frost, metal, and sweat. And underneath that, something sharper—hunger. Not the kind that fades with a snack, but the kind that lodges in your ribs and won’t let go.

That was my rhythm. That was my religion. Until it wasn’t.

I don’t remember the first time I stepped onto the ice. I just know I never wanted to step off. It was the one place that made sense. My body knew what to do there. My brain went quiet, finally. The chaos in me stilled, every time. That’s what made it home.

My mom, Emily, was the first to see it in me. That spark. That thing you can’t quite name but can’t ignore, either. And once she saw it, she refused to let it go. Her love didn’t come in soft words or warm embraces. It came in early alarms, packed bags, and a pressure so constant it eventually felt like air.

Some people called her obsessive. They said she was chasing ghosts, trying to reclaim something she’d lost. And maybe they were right. Maybe I was her second chance, her do-over. But I never resented her for it. Not really. Her ambition burned hot—too hot, sometimes—but it kept me warm. Even when it singed the edges of us.

She’d been a skater, too. Once. Before everything changed. Before the pregnancy, the marriage, the slow surrender of all the things she used to dream about. Her life narrowed, like a funnel, until all that remained was me and the rink. That was the shape her love took—sharp-edged and relentless, but real.

She met my dad when she was still trying to outrun her own shadow. He was in town for police training. They fell hard and fast—or maybe just fast enough to not question it. I came along not long after. A courthouse wedding. A move to Olympia. A life that never quite settled into the one they’d imagined. Eventually, we left. Colorado was calling. Or maybe just the ice.

Jim—my dad—stayed behind, burying himself in his routine, in a house that still smelled like old coffee and missed chances. I became the in-between. Tugged between two versions of love: his quiet, distant steadiness and my mother’s blinding storm.

And now here I was. Back in Michigan.

The intercom snapped me out of my head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’ve begun our descent into Detroit, where the local time is 5:18 p.m., and the temperature is a brisk fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened and tray tables are locked.”

Fifteen degrees. Michigan always did have a flair for the dramatic.

I pressed my forehead to the window, watching the clouds give way to gray city lights below. My knee ached, a deep, pulsing throb. The kind that doesn’t fade. I was supposed to see Dr. Jeon on Monday. Everyone said he was the best, that if anyone could fix it, it was him. But I wasn’t waiting on a verdict—I already knew.

The moment it happened, I knew.

The rink had been quiet that day, sun slanting in through high windows, music drifting through the speakers—Swan Lake, soft and haunting. I wasn’t competing. Just skating for myself. My mother sat in the stands beside my coach, their heads bowed in conversation. I picked up speed, moving into a fan spiral.

Then—nothing. Just the wrong angle. The wrong second.

The blade caught. My body twisted. My world flipped sideways.

When I hit the ice, it wasn’t the pain I noticed first. It was the sound. The dull, sickening crack, and then silence. My breath caught somewhere in my chest.

The plane touched down with a jolt, the wheels screaming against the runway. I flinched, the memory scattering like glass.

Around me, seatbelts clicked and passengers jostled for overhead bags, their conversations humming back to life. I stayed seated. My crutches were wedged beneath the seat in front of me, cold metal pressing against my legs.

A few months ago, I moved like wind. I was weightless. Now, every step felt like a negotiation. Every breath like a debt I didn’t remember agreeing to.

At baggage claim, I stood off to the side, crutches tucked beneath my arms, watching the carousel churn. Suitcases slid by in slow, looping circles like planets on a lazy orbit. My hands were full. My leg, stiff and aching, was practically dead weight. I had no idea how I was going to get them off the belt.

“You need a hand?”

The voice was sudden, close, and I turned too quickly. My balance shifted. One crutch slipped from my grip and clattered to the ground with a metallic thud.

“Shit—sorry,” I muttered, trying to grab for something—anything—to hold onto, but he was already there.

He caught me. Hands on my arms, steady and instinctive, like this wasn’t the first time he’d stopped someone from hitting the floor. His touch was firm but careful. Measured. And somehow, without a word, he anchored me.

Everything else—the hum of the baggage belt, the rolling wheels of suitcases, the overlapping voices echoing through the terminal—blurred around the edges. Like we were in a brief pause. A pocket of quiet inside the chaos.

“You okay?” he asked. His voice was warm, level. Unrushed.

I nodded before I even knew what I was saying. “Yeah. Fine.” A lie, of course. But a reflexive one. The kind you tell a stranger who just caught you in more ways than one.

He didn’t let go right away. Just lingered a second longer, maybe making sure I was stable. Then he crouched down to retrieve the crutch, his movements easy, unfazed. When he handed it back, his gaze didn’t carry pity—just something thoughtful. Attentive.

“Thanks,” I said, too quietly. I took the crutch and gripped it tighter than necessary.

He smiled a little, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything. “No problem.”

Around us, the terminal snapped back into focus. Suitcases banged onto the carousel. A family argued about car seats. A baby cried somewhere in the distance. But for a few seconds more, he stayed beside me, his presence quiet but undeniably solid.

His eyes flicked toward my luggage—still waiting, still unclaimed. “Need help with your bags?”

My first instinct was pride. “I’ve got it,” I said, automatically.

He raised an eyebrow, not judging, just mildly amused. “You sure?”

My knee pulsed in answer, sending a sharp signal up my thigh. I sighed. “Okay, maybe not totally.”

“No shame in that,” he said easily. He stepped forward, grabbed my suitcase like it weighed nothing, balanced my carry-on on top without breaking stride.

We started walking together, or rather, I hobbled while he adjusted his pace to mine without comment. His steps were smooth, unrushed. Like he wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Someone picking you up?” he asked, guiding us toward the exit.

“Nope. Just grabbing a cab.” I didn’t look at him when I said it, but I was aware of him next to me—his quiet presence, the low warmth of his voice, the way he carried my bags without making it feel like a favor.

“I’ve got my car in the overnight lot,” he said, voice casual. “Could give you a ride, if you want.”

I hesitated—too long. “That’s okay,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

His face didn’t change much, but something subtle shifted. Not disappointment exactly. Just... a beat skipped.

We pushed through the sliding doors and were hit with a blast of cold so sharp it stole my breath. I hissed through my teeth, pulling my coat tighter.

He glanced over. “Forgot what Michigan feels like in January?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Something like that.”

The air felt cruel. Not just cold, but personal. The kind of cold that didn’t just bite—it burrowed.

“So,” he said, voice soft and clouding in the air, “where were you before this?”

“Nevada,” I said. “Before that, Colorado. We moved around a lot.”

“We?” he echoed, like he already knew the answer.

“My mom and me,” I said. “She never liked staying in one place too long.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. “Sounds like it kept things interesting.”

“It did,” I said, laughing softly. “And exhausting.”

He smiled at that, and it reached his eyes.

The conversation, somehow, didn’t feel forced. It flowed the way snow falls—quiet, natural, layering into something without you realizing it.

“You staying in town a while?”

“For the foreseeable future,” I said. I hadn’t said it out loud until now. It sounded strange. Final.

“Good,” he said simply. And the way he said it—low, certain—made my stomach flip for reasons I couldn’t explain.

I looked at him then. Really looked. He had that quiet kind of good looks—the kind that crept up on you. Tall, broad-shouldered, a little scruffy, like he hadn’t shaved in a couple days. His eyes were dark, warm. Like they’d seen things and still knew how to look gently.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he added, running a hand through his hair. It flopped back into place like it belonged that way—messy but deliberate.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

“Where are you staying?” he asked, the question light but laced with something... expectant.

“Royal Oak,” I said. “Just moved in. The old houses there are so old and beautiful. I like that.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

The space between us felt thinner suddenly, like a thread pulled taut. His gaze flicked down to my hands, and without warning, he reached for them.

His fingers wrapped around mine—bare, stiff from the cold. His hands were warm. Startlingly so. The kind of warmth you notice because it feels like it doesn’t belong in a place like this.

I froze. Not physically—at least not entirely—but inside. Some part of me flinched without moving, unsure what to do with that kind of contact.

It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way it spread. Quick. Quiet. Everywhere.

“We should get you a cab,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now. “You’re gonna lose a finger if you stay out here much longer.”

“Probably,” I murmured, managing a half-smile, though I didn’t pull away right away. He was just so warm, and his skin was so soft.

But eventually I did. I stepped back, and the cold rushed in like punishment.

He didn’t seem to notice the shift. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He flagged down a cab like it was second nature, raised one hand, and the car pulled over within seconds. Everything about him felt smooth, capable—like someone who knew how to move through the world.

He opened the door for me, then grabbed my suitcase and hoisted it into the trunk like it weighed nothing. I watched, rooted to the sidewalk, arms wrapped tight around myself as the wind bit harder.

He turned back around and looked at me—his expression open, calm. Like maybe this was all normal. Like I wasn’t just standing there, blinking through what felt like the end of something before it even had a chance to start.

“Thanks,” I said, finally. My voice was small. Not shy, exactly. Just unsure. Of him. Of myself.

He hesitated, just slightly. Then: “Jungkook.”

It took me a second to realize he was telling me his name. Offering it, like a kindness. Or a beginning. Maybe both.

“Y/N,” I said, a little too quickly. It came out sounding strange in my ears. Like I was saying it for the first time.

He smiled, like he liked the way it sounded. “Y/N,” he repeated, quietly. Testing it. Letting it sit on his tongue for a second longer than it needed to.

There was a shift then—a lean, not quite forward, but enough to make my heart catch. He looked like he was about to tell me something else. Something private.

“My friends and I go to this bar on Grand, on Tuesdays. It’s called Bronx,” he said. Like it was nothing. Just a casual thought. “You should come by sometime.”

I felt the flicker. That sharp, involuntary flutter in my chest.

But I shut it down fast.

Because guys like him—tall, kind-eyed, warm-handed guys who looked like they belonged in glossy photos and movie trailers—didn’t mean anything by that. They didn’t say you should come by because they wanted you, specifically. They said it because they were polite. Friendly. Because that’s the kind of person he probably was—someone who didn’t leave people hanging out in the cold without an invitation somewhere.

I forced a smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

My voice betrayed nothing. Not the pulse in my neck. Not the creeping question that had already started unraveling in the back of my mind: *Did he mean it like that?*

He brightened a little. “Great,” he said. Simple. Genuine.

And then that was it. He stepped back, shut the cab door behind me, and just like that, it was over.

The cab started rolling forward, and I twisted in my seat, looking back through the window. He was still there. Hands in his coat pockets, watching me go. When he noticed me looking, he lifted a hand in a wave—casual, easy.

I raised mine back, but it felt stiff, awkward. Like I was pretending I knew what I was doing.

I sat back and let the silence fill the cab around me. Pressed my forehead against the icy window and closed my eyes. The cold helped. It grounded me.

And still, I could feel the moment pulsing behind my ribs. Like it had already dug itself in.

But I pushed it down.

He probably wasn’t even flirting.

He was just being nice. Helpful. Friendly in that way extroverts often are to the damaged and weirdly quiet.

It didn’t mean anything.

I didn’t do this. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t meet strangers and imagine possibilities. I didn’t let myself believe that someone like him could look at someone like me and see anything worth lingering for.

Still…

That smile.

The way he said my name, like it had a shape he wanted to memorize.

I told myself not to read into it. I told myself to be smart.

But even as the cab turned away from the curb, my thoughts refused to listen. For the first time in a long time, they wanted to drift somewhere else.

And against all logic, I let them whisper the one thing I’d trained myself never to ask.

What if he meant it?

It was a little past seven when the cab pulled up in front of my new apartment building. The sky had already slipped into that deep, smudged purple that comes right before full darkness—like the city had been bruised by the cold. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting soft, yellow halos on the sidewalk. My breath clouded the window as I leaned forward, squinting at the building like seeing it from the inside of the cab might make it feel less... foreign.

The driver popped the trunk without a word. I climbed out carefully, my crutches clacking against the frozen pavement, the wind slicing straight through my coat like it didn’t care I was already exhausted. That specific kind of tired had taken over—the kind that didn’t just live in your muscles, but somewhere deeper. Bone-tired. Soul-tired. I felt like I could lie down on the sidewalk and not move for a week.

The doorman was waiting. Late fifties, maybe older. Graying beard, wool gloves, an expression that said he’d seen this a million times before. He seemed almost bored with me, but I had never claimed to know much about faces. Emily usually had two or three and all of them usually meant roughly the same thing.

“New tenant?” he asked gently, taking in the crutches, the suitcase, the half-zipped coat.

“Yeah. 311.”

He didn’t smile, but there was something kind in his face—steady, nonjudgmental. “Elevator’s this way. I’ll get the bags.”

He moved with a quiet kind of efficiency, hoisting my luggage without fanfare and leading me through the glass doors. Warm air hit me the second we stepped inside, but it didn’t do much. The chill had already settled too deep.

The ride to the third floor was silent, except for the elevator’s low mechanical hum and the quiet squeak of my crutches on tile.

The apartment door opened with a stiff creak.

It smelled faintly of fresh paint and wood shavings—like the place had been redone recently, maybe just enough to feel new. But it was empty. No trace of a previous life. No leftover energy or forgotten curtain rod brackets. Just a blank, echoing box.

My footsteps bounced off the hardwood. There was no couch, no bed, not even a lamp. The walls were bright white and clean, but they felt more like placeholders than personality. It was like walking into the first draft of a home—raw, unfinished, waiting.

I stood in the middle of the living room and exhaled slowly. The air inside was still, untouched. A different kind of cold.

The silence pressed in. I reached for my phone and ordered pizza—not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t know what else to do. Pepperoni and mushrooms. Breadsticks. Something easy. Something normal. If I could just do one ordinary thing, maybe I could trick myself into believing this wasn’t so strange—being here, being alone, being... untethered.

The moment I hit "order," the silence rushed back in. I looked around, trying to imagine the space with actual furniture. A couch against the far wall. A coffee table. Maybe a bookshelf or two, even though I didn’t technically own any books that weren’t dog-eared paperbacks from airport terminals. Still—it would be something.

I’d never lived alone before. Not even for a week. My whole life had been spent sharing space—with my mom, with coaches, with other skaters during training seasons. I didn’t even know what someone needed to live by themselves. Like, did people just... know what to buy? Dish soap? Lamps? Rugs?

I turned slowly in place, studying the layout. The kitchen was a compact galley tucked into the left corner—sleek gray cabinets, bare countertops, a fridge that still had the protective film on the handle. No dishes, no groceries, not even a roll of paper towels. A kitchen that looked like a display model in a catalog—neat, untouched, uninviting.

The bedroom was small, but bright. Big window. Narrow closet. Enough space for a bed and maybe a nightstand if I got creative. And the bathroom was all clean lines and white tile—cold and clinical but functional. At least the water pressure seemed good.

But the best part, the one thing that made me pause, was the little alcove near the entrance. A window seat built into the wall, framed by two narrow bookcases on either side. It was unexpected—this soft, quiet space in an otherwise utilitarian apartment. I could picture myself there on some future night, curled up with a blanket and tea, snow falling outside. I didn’t even drink tea. But maybe I would. Maybe I’d become the kind of person who did.

For a few seconds, that vision held. A glimpse of what this place could be.

I sat down carefully on the window seat, resting my crutches against the wall. Outside, people moved along the street below, bundled in coats, heads ducked against the wind. They looked like they knew where they were going. Like they had homes to return to. Dogs to walk. Rooms that felt lived in.

I had a suitcase, a half-eaten past, and a blank canvas I wasn’t sure how to fill.

I tried not to think about it too hard. I’d figure it out. Eventually. Probably.

My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket, and I answered without thinking.

“Hey,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Did you make it?” My mother’s voice came through flat and sharp, like she was trying not to sound annoyed but failing anyway.

I knew that tone. Tight, clipped—meant to sound like concern, but edged with something else. Resentment maybe. Or disappointment.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just got here.”

There was a pause, but not the kind that invited conversation. Just the kind that preceded more instructions.

“You need to eat something. Something with protein. And make sure you stretch tonight. Five reps of the ankle series. And don’t forget the quad hold—it’s been long enough. You can’t let the muscle atrophy. The longer you wait to get back into a routine, the worse it’s going to be.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it built. A rolling list of reminders and critiques I’d heard so many times they might as well have been tattooed on the inside of my skull.

“You’re slipping into bad habits,” she continued. “I get that you’re upset, but taking a break from discipline isn’t going to solve anything. You have to stay sharp, even now.”

Even now. As if everything hadn’t already fallen apart.

I didn’t say anything. I just held the phone to my ear and let her talk. She didn’t ask how the flight was. Didn’t ask how I was feeling. Didn’t ask what the apartment looked like, or if I’d managed to bring the bags in by myself, or if I was scared. She never did. And part of me hated how unsurprised I was by that.

Eventually, after a solid five minutes of talking at me—not to me—I cut in. Gently.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said. “I need to unpack.”

There was a beat of silence, like maybe she heard something in my voice she wasn’t sure what to do with. But it passed.

“Alright. Night.”

The call ended. And with it, the noise in my head stopped—abruptly and completely. The silence filled the space around me like water in a tank. Heavy. Quiet. Cold.

I stood in the middle of the apartment and looked around again. Still just walls and windows. Still too bright, too clean. Not a single thing to suggest a life had ever been lived here—or was about to be.

I wandered a little, dragging my fingers along the blank drywall. I couldn’t tell if it felt like a beginning or an ending. Maybe both.

Jungkook’s face surfaced in my mind, uninvited. His voice, the way it wrapped around my name like it was something rare. The way he’d looked at me—really looked.

But that was probably just him being nice. He seemed like the type who was nice to everyone. The type who smiled at baristas and helped old ladies carry their groceries. That kind of warmth wasn’t about me, personally. I just happened to be the one standing in front of him at the time.

Still... part of me wished I had asked him more. Or said yes, just to see what it felt like to say yes to something I didn’t overthink to death. But instead, I was here. Alone. In an apartment with no furniture, no food, and not even a mug for water.

I didn’t know how people did this—built homes out of spaces like this. What did you even buy? A rug? A lamp? A plant? I didn’t own any of those things. I didn’t even know how to *want* them yet. My whole life had been about function. Goals. Time splits. Physical therapy. Not... candles and color schemes.

I didn’t know what kind of person I was supposed to be without someone else dictating the shape of my day. But maybe that was the point.

Just as I started to sink into that thought, a knock at the door pulled me upright. I glanced at my phone. The pizza.

Finally.

I moved toward the door, my crutches tapping across the hardwood. But when I pulled it open, it wasn’t a delivery guy standing there.

It was a girl.

Tiny but sharp, like a spark wrapped in velvet. She wore a black knit sweater dress that clung just right and a sequined mini that caught the hallway light with every small movement. Her boots were scuffed in a cool-on-purpose kind of way, and her hair was buzzed close to her scalp—soft and dark, like velvet. She was beautiful in that specific, intimidating way that made you wonder if you should already know her name.

Her eyes were the thing that caught my eye the most. Deep brown and wide, with this gentle openness that made it impossible to look away. The reminded me of him.

“Hey!” she said, bright and familiar, like I was someone she already liked. “I’m Mina. I live next door. The pizza guy knocked on our door by accident—rookie mistake. Figured I’d deliver it myself and say hi.”

I blinked, caught off guard. My stomach grumbled loudly enough for both of us.

“Thanks,” I managed. “Would you mind putting it in the kitchen? I’m kind of...” I glanced down at the crutches.

“Oh, totally!” she said, stepping inside like it was already her second time visiting. She walked with the confidence of someone who’d never questioned whether she belonged.

She set the box down on the bare countertop and turned back toward me.

“So... what happened?” she asked, tipping her head toward my crutches.

“Sports injury,” I said. It was short, vague, and mostly true.

Mina nodded like that was good enough. “Bummer. You doing okay?”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Getting there.”

“Well,” she said, hands on her hips, “moving sucks enough when you’re healthy. Doing it like this? Brutal.”

I laughed, surprised. “Yeah. It’s... a lot.”

She grinned. “No kidding. So, what’s the plan? Sleeping bag on the floor tonight?”

“I’ve got a suitcase and a yoga mat,” I said, a little defensively. “I’ll survive.”

Mina’s expression shifted like I’d just told her I was planning to spend the night on a sidewalk.

“God, that’s so depressing,” she said, but not unkindly. “You don’t even have, like, a chair?”

“I said I’ll survive.”

She squinted at me, like she was deciding something. Then, without another word, she picked up the pizza box and marched back to the door.

I blinked. “Wait—are you taking that with you?”

She looked over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. “Relax. You’re coming with me. You can eat at my place.”

“I—what?” I gestured helplessly to my clothes, to the emptiness around me. “I just changed into sweatpants. I don’t even have a plate.”

“Perfect. My kind of dinner party.”

Then she was gone. Just like that. Down the hall, pizza in hand.

I stared after her, stunned. Did she really just steal my dinner?

I stared at my reflection in the hallway mirror across the entry, still wearing my old track jacket and fleece pants, socks mismatched, hair shoved under a beanie.

She wanted me to come over?

I stood in the hallway for a moment longer than I needed to, crutches tucked beneath my arms, heart racing for no good reason. It wasn’t far—ten steps, maybe twelve. It wouldn't hurt to try. I grabbed my keys, my phone, and whatever was left of my courage, then made my way to 312.

I knocked, light at first, then louder when there wasn’t an answer right away.

The door creaked open.

But it wasn’t Mina.

A tall blonde woman stood in the doorway, her posture relaxed but somehow elegant. She had this understated confidence, the kind you couldn't fake. Her long hair hung smooth and straight over her shoulders, catching the hallway light like silk. Sharp, dark brows. Almond-shaped brown eyes so deep they were nearly black.

Where Mina had this kinetic, almost manic energy, this woman felt still—centered. Like nothing could rattle her.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low and a little husky. “You must be the girl from 311. Mina said you’d be joining us tonight.”

Her tone was warm but matter-of-fact, like my presence was expected. Mina was very quick. She'd only left my apartment less than thirty minutes ago.

“Yeah. Uh, thanks,” I said, suddenly aware of how I looked—sweatpants, old track jacket, socks that didn’t match. “I don’t want to impose or anything, I just—”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t bother with that. Mina’s made up her mind. There’s no use resisting. You might as well come in and let it happen.”

Before I could think of a response, Mina appeared in the hallway behind her, now in yoga pants and a faded concert t-shirt that looked like it had survived a dozen years and maybe even a festival or two.

“I knew you’d come,” she said, triumphant.

“You left me no choice,” I replied, trying for dry humor, though my voice still felt small in my throat. “You literally stole my dinner.”

Mina beamed like I’d just complimented her. “Exactly. Look how well it worked out! Way better than eating alone in your echo-chamber of an apartment.”

She stepped aside to let me in, then made a dramatic gesture toward the kitchen. “Oh my God, wait. I just realized—I didn’t even ask your name. I get so excited about people sometimes I forget basic manners.”

“Y/N,” I said. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y/N,” Mina repeated, like she was adding it to a mental guest list. “Perfect.”

The blonde woman smiled from where she was leaning against the counter. “I’m Leera,” she said. “But everyone calls me Lucy.”

“Only because I care,” Mina said, opening the pizza box like she was unveiling treasure.

The apartment felt like the polar opposite of mine—warm, mismatched in the best way. The walls were painted a dusty green, and string lights wound their way lazily across the ceiling beams. Plants sat in mismatched ceramic pots on nearly every available surface. The furniture didn’t match, but it didn’t matter—it worked. A soft, oversized armchair in the corner. A chipped wooden bookshelf filled with actual books. Framed photos on the wall that didn’t try too hard to impress. It felt lived in. Loved.

And it smelled amazing.

“Wait,” I said, eyeing the counter. “Why are there four pizzas?”

Mina shrugged, already opening another box. “We ordered ours before your guy showed up with yours. Honestly, we probably would’ve ordered four anyway. This way it just feels fated.”

Lucy opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Diet Coke—mine. She held it up with a raised eyebrow. “Want a glass? Ice?”

“Sure,” I said, my shoulders relaxing without my permission.

We gathered around the island, and before I knew it, I had a plate of food in front of me and a drink in my hand. Mina talked fast, hopping from subject to subject like her thoughts didn’t have brakes, and Lucy chimed in occasionally, always measured, always with that quietly amused tone like she was used to this routine and liked it more than she let on.

Mina was an event planner, which made perfect sense—she had that sort of wildly creative energy. Her life, she told me, was a mess of spreadsheets and glitter, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Her family was originally from Wisconsin, though her grandparents had emigrated from Korea. She had two brothers, both overprotective in different, exhausting ways, and one fiancé—Jimin—who she described as “obnoxiously supportive, like it’s his full-time job.”

Lucy, on the other hand, rebuilt classic cars for a living. I actually laughed when she said it, not because it was funny, but because I didn’t believe her at first. She had this sleek, polished air that made me assume she worked in design or luxury retail or something that involved perfectly tailored coats and clean fingernails.

But no. She spent her days under the hoods of aging Corvettes and vintage Mustangs, smelling like motor oil and coffee.

“People are always surprised,” she said with a faint smirk. “But it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. My dad started teaching me when I was twelve.”

As they talked, I found myself nodding, laughing in places I didn’t expect. It didn’t feel forced. It didn’t feel like I had to earn my seat. They weren’t waiting for me to prove anything.

They were just... letting me be there.

It wasn’t until I glanced at the clock that I realized it was almost midnight.

Somehow, a night that had started with stolen pizza had turned into something else. Something warmer. Easier. Something that felt dangerously close to *belonging*.

“Get used to late nights,” Lucy said, bumping her shoulder against mine gently. “Being friends with Mina means you’re on her time zone.”

Friends.

The word hit differently than I expected. Like something I wasn’t sure I was allowed to claim.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used that word about myself—friend. Maybe never. There hadn’t been room for it growing up. My life was airports, hotel rooms, ice rinks. Mornings that started in the dark and ended long after the sun went down. Everything was measured in routines and results. Emily made sure of that. Friends, she said, were distractions. Noise. And eventually, I believed her.

So I learned how to keep my distance. I got good at it—stepping back before anyone could step away first. It was easier that way. Safer.

But Mina and Lucy weren’t trying to fit me into a box. They weren’t asking what I could do for them or weighing my worth. They just made space. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that scared me more than being alone ever had.

“So, Y/N,” Mina said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of late-night stillness, “what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

I blinked, pulling myself back into the room. The warmth of the apartment, the soft light overhead, the smell of garlic still lingering in the air—it all felt too good, too easy.

“Big day,” I admitted, stretching slightly. “Furniture’s supposed to be delivered in the morning. Then all my stuff from Nevada should arrive by mid-afternoon. I need groceries. And I thought about picking out paint colors, but... that might be pushing it.”

Mina’s face lit up like I’d just suggested a road trip to Disneyland. “Need help? I’m free tomorrow. I thrive on chaos. We’ll have you fully moved in and halfway redecorated by dinner.”

She gave me a playful glance, eyes flicking toward my crutches. “You know, considering your... limited mobility.”

I hesitated, instinct pulling me toward the automatic no. But Mina didn’t wait for invitations. She made herself part of the plan before you even knew you had one. And somehow, saying no to her felt more exhausting than just letting her bulldoze her way through my life.

“That’d actually be great,” I said. “Thanks.”

Lucy looked over from the sink, where she was drying a mug with practiced ease. “Just don’t let her bully you into a theme,” she warned, smirking. “She’ll have your place looking like a Pinterest board before you can blink.”

Mina gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I have taste. I’m just trying to help her create a home. Is that such a crime?”

Lucy tossed the towel onto the counter. “I’m just giving her fair warning. Once the throw pillows come out, there’s no going back.”

I laughed, a real one this time. The kind that rose without effort, uncoiling something tight in my chest.

A yawn crept up before I could stop it.

“Go freshen up,” Mina said, waving me toward the bathroom. “I’ll set up the couch. It���s not a luxury suite, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor.”

Gratefully, I slipped down the hall, ducking into the small guest bath. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth with the travel toothbrush I kept in my purse, and stared at my reflection under the soft bathroom light. I looked tired—really tired—but there was a softness to it now. Less like unraveling, more like unwinding.

When I came back out, the couch had been transformed. A mountain of blankets, layered pillows, even a folded throw at the foot. It looked lived-in, warm—inviting in a way that my entire apartment hadn’t managed to be.

“Thanks,” I said, lowering myself onto the cushions. “This is a serious upgrade from what I had planned. You’ve both officially saved me from a night of regretting every decision I’ve ever made.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “We aim to please.”

“I’ll stop by around four tomorrow,” she added. “Just in time to pull you out from under Mina’s pile of fabric swatches.”

“Much appreciated,” I said, flashing Mina a grin.

Mina feigned indignation. “Rude. You’re going to love every second of it.”

Then her eyes brightened again. “Actually, I’ll see if the guys are around this weekend. They can help with the heavier stuff. They’ve got a game in Anaheim Friday, but they should be free after that.”

I froze mid-sip of my Diet Coke. “Game?”

Mina blinked like she’d forgotten the detail. “Oh—yeah. Jimin, Taehyung, and my other brother, Jungkook? They play for the Michigan Red Wings.”

I stared at her.

“That’s... hockey, right?”

Lucy snorted into her sparkling water.

Mina nodded slowly. “Yeah. NHL. You know... National Hockey League? Ice, sticks, fighting?”

I shook my head, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Hockey wasn’t really on my radar.”

“Shocking, coming from someone who lived on a rink,” Lucy teased, eyes amused.

“Emily used to complain about hockey guys hogging ice time. That’s about all I know.”

Mina’s face lit up again. “We’re taking you to a game. No discussion. The energy, the speed—plus, we sit in the family section, so you get snacks.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Mina thinks snacks are a recruiting tool.”

“They are,” Mina said. “And you’ll love it. Even if you don’t know what’s happening, it’s fun. And loud. And stressful. In a good way.”

I laughed. But inside, I was still stuck on the name.

I hadn’t said it aloud, but it echoed in my chest like a dropped pin in an empty room. Could it be... him? No. That was ridiculous. My Jungkook—if I could even call him that after a fifteen-minute conversation—had been a stranger with soft eyes and too-warm hands and a smile that had made something shift inside me.

This Jungkook played professional hockey.

I felt ridiculous for even making the connection.

But then Lucy, as if reading my mind, added casually, “He hasn’t dated anyone since Sky last year. It’s honestly kind of tragic. A guy like that shouldn’t stay single for long.”

Mina’s playful energy dimmed slightly. She gave Lucy a look, then turned to me. “Jungkook’s not like that. He’s not into flings or drama. He’s waiting for the right person."

Lucy lifted her sparkling water in a mock toast. “Not that it’s stopping every woman in Detroit. Pretty sure the entire city knows he’s single.”

Mina groaned. “Don’t even get me started on the girls who hang around the rink. I swear, some of them think it’s a dating service.”

I smiled, curling deeper into the couch, the blankets pulling up around my shoulders like armor.

“Duly noted,” I said. “I’ll be sure to stay on your good side.”

Mina pointed at me with mock severity. “Wise.”

But then she softened again, her voice quieter. “I just hate when people use them. They’re my family.”

And in that moment, I saw something deeper in her—a fierce kind of loyalty that burned hotter than all her jokes. It wasn’t about hockey. It was about the people she loved.

“Well,” I said honestly, “they’re lucky to have you.”

Mina blinked, like the words caught her off guard. But instead of responding, she just smiled, murmured, “Goodnight, Y/N,” and padded down the hallway, her socks sliding slightly on the hardwood.

Lucy lingered a little longer, eyeing me with that calm, assessing gaze of hers.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I said. And I meant it. “Thanks again. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

She nodded. “We get it. Starting over’s rough. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Then she disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet.

Only I didn’t feel alone.

I sank further into the couch, the smell of lavender detergent in the blankets, the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen. My body felt heavy in a way that wasn’t painful for once—just... tired. In a good way.

My eyes closed without permission. My last conscious thought was of a crooked smile and dark eyes that had somehow felt like a beginning.

And that night, I dreamed of snow falling quietly and the warmth of someone reaching for my hand.

I woke up the same way I had every day for the past eight weeks—my knee throbbing like it had something to prove.

The ache was dull at first, the kind that makes you think maybe, just maybe, this morning would be different. But then I shifted slightly and a sharper, more insistent pain flared behind my kneecap, reminding me that hope was a luxury I couldn’t quite afford yet. I winced, pulling my leg toward my chest, stretching it carefully, slowly. The stiffness resisted. Then surrendered. Barely.

Moving furniture today was going to be a blast.

I stayed there a moment longer, curled on Mina’s absurdly comfortable couch, tangled in blankets that smelled faintly like fabric softener and lavender. The apartment was quiet, the kind of deep quiet that only exists early in the morning—when everything and everyone is still. The radiator hissed softly from the corner, fighting a losing battle against the Michigan winter pressing in from the windows.

I didn’t have to check the time to know it was early, but I did anyway. 5:48 A.M.

Typical.

Sleep and I had never been on great terms, but these days it felt more like a breakup. I closed my eyes again, not to fall back asleep—just to rest. Just to delay the day starting for a few more minutes.

Yesterday flickered back in fragments. The flight. The cold. The quiet, empty apartment. Then Mina. Then Lucy. Then... Jungkook.

Even just thinking his name made something shift in my chest. Not painful. Not entirely pleasant, either. Like a muscle tightening that didn’t know it was still sore.

Which was ridiculous.

He was just a guy. A good-looking one, sure—but not in the way people are in magazines. In the way that made you forget your next sentence. In the way that felt *unfair*. The way that made you certain people like him didn’t cross paths with people like you.

We’d talked for what—fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty? Long enough for me to catalog the exact shape of his smile, but not long enough for it to mean anything.

And yet... here I was. Thinking about him before six in the morning like some walking cliché.

I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face. This wasn’t high school. This wasn’t a crush. This was just a kind moment from a stranger who happened to look like a movie star and carried himself like he didn’t know it.

Still, the memory of his voice saying my name was lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.

But none of it mattered. Even if he *had* meant something by it—and I wasn’t convinced he had—what was I supposed to do with that? I barely knew how to talk to people, let alone date one. Affection had always felt like someone else’s native language. My version of love was performance-based, transactional. Achieve, and you were worthy. Fall short, and the silence grew colder.

So no, I didn’t have a roadmap for this.

I shifted again, and my knee screamed in protest. Right. Focus.

I hauled myself upright with a groan, planting both crutches beside me, letting them take most of my weight. I needed coffee, but that required bravery—or at least caffeine-fueled motivation. Neither of which I had yet.

Instead, I wandered into the kitchen and finished off the warm, half-flat Diet Coke from the night before. Desperate times. The fizz scratched at my throat just enough to wake me up a little. I didn’t open any cabinets. It felt too intimate to rummage through someone else’s kitchen before sunrise.

The microwave clock blinked: 6:04 A.M.

Mina definitely wasn’t up. Lucy probably wouldn’t be either. I stood there for a moment longer before deciding to head back to my place. Shower, stretch, take my meds. Try to feel like someone capable of handling a full day of adulting.

By 8:30, I had managed it. Mostly. My hair was damp, my knee was taped and braced, and I’d done the stretches Dr. Thompson insisted on, even though they still felt pointless. The painkillers had kicked in, and I had just enough energy to start a to-do list:

Groceries. Unpack. Figure out where the hell a couch goes. Try not to cry about how bad I was at interior design.

I was halfway through scribbling down Find real food (no more pizza) when there was a knock at the door.

Mina stood there in a puffer vest, hair spiked every which way, holding out a steaming travel mug like it was an offering. “Morning. You live.”

I took the coffee with both hands. “Bless you.”

She pushed her way inside like she belonged there—and honestly, she sort of did now. “Ready for some chaos?”

“You’re a morning person,” I said, not quite accusing, but close.

“I’m an anytime person,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll learn to adapt. So. What’s the plan?”

I handed her the list.

“Furniture delivery at nine. Then unboxing. Then... Target?”

Mina studied the list with the focus of someone preparing for battle. “This is light work. You’ll be fully settled by sundown.”

She dropped onto the floor and whipped a notebook from her bag. Before I could blink, she was sketching out a floor plan, complete with boxes labeled “COUCH” and “TV?” and arrows noting things like natural light flow and ideal throw blanket zones.

I stood above her, blinking. “Is this normal behavior?”

“For me? Absolutely,” she said without looking up. “Trust the process.”

The furniture guys arrived just before nine. Mina sprang into action, directing traffic like she was born to manage chaos. She didn’t even glance at her phone, just pointed and ordered and thanked them all with charm turned up to eleven. The movers didn’t stand a chance.

For once, something in my life was going... weirdly well.

Boxes had arrived on time. The movers had only dinged the wall once. And now, for the first time since I left Nevada, I had furniture that wasn’t a yoga mat or a borrowed couch. It felt surreal. Like maybe, just maybe, things were finally starting to settle.

Mina, however, looked personally offended by the number of boxes stacked in my living room.

“That’s it?” she asked, one eyebrow raised as she scanned the pile like she was waiting for a second shipment to roll in.

“Yep,” I said, leaning against the counter and sipping the lukewarm coffee she’d brought me. “That’s the grand total.”

She stared at the labels like they’d betrayed her. “‘Books,’ ��Books,’ ‘Books,’ ‘Kitchen,’ ‘Miscellaneous,’ and—oh look—‘More Books.’ Y/N, I’m gonna say something radical: you don’t own enough crap.”

I shrugged. “Less stuff, less mess.”

She blinked. “That is objectively false, but okay.”

“I travel light.”

“You travel like a monk,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Even Taehyung’s freshman dorm room had more personality, and that boy decorated with thumbtacks and gas station signs.”

I snorted. “I can literally see the gears turning in your head. Just... please. Let’s focus on the basics before you start planning a ‘vision’ for the apartment.”

Mina lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But we will be revisiting this. I refuse to let you live in a space that screams ‘mid-2000s divorcee who owns a futon and a single pan.’”

“You’ve known me for fifteen hours,” I pointed out.

“And in fifteen more, I’ll have completely restructured your life,” she said, beaming. “This is just the soft launch.”

“This is you holding back?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t it terrifying?” she said sweetly. “Now grab your list—we’re going shopping.”

I moved toward the entry table and grabbed the notebook I’d scribbled on that morning. “Just a heads-up, I don’t have my car yet. It’s still at the dealership getting the tires replaced.”

Mina didn’t even blink. “No problem. I’ll be your chauffeur. I insist, actually.”

“You’re really committing to this whole sidekick role.”

“Oh no,” she said, unlocking her phone with a flourish. “You’re the sidekick. I’m the eccentric lead with a heart of gold.”

She fired off a text, then made a call so fast I didn’t even catch who she was dialing until I heard her say, “Jimin? Babe, question—can we borrow your truck for the afternoon? Y/N has the cargo capacity of a shoebox and we’re going to Super Target.”

A pause.

“Thank you! Love you. I’ll wash it before we return it.”

Another pause.

“Okay, you wash it then. Delegation is a skill.”

She hung up and turned to me like nothing had happened. “We’re good. He left the keys under the flowerpot.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was clinging to the door handle of Mina’s blindingly yellow Porsche as she maneuvered through downtown traffic like she was being chased in an action movie. She drove like someone who thought stop signs were optional and speed limits were more of a friendly suggestion.

“Do you... drive like this with everyone?” I asked, voice tight.

She flashed a grin. “Sometimes. There's a reason Jimin doesn't let me hold the keys most of the time.”

By the time we screeched into Jimin’s driveway, I’d made at least three desperate mental promises to become a better person if I lived to see the afternoon.

We swapped cars—Mina took the driver’s seat of Jimin’s much more reasonable pickup like she owned it, adjusting the mirrors and setting her phone to Bluetooth before I even closed the passenger door.

“You know,” I said, finally exhaling, “this already feels like a full day.”

“Oh honey,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder as she backed out, “we haven’t even begun.”

Two hours and three shopping carts later, I came to two very solid conclusions:

One—Mina was a force of nature and should never be allowed in a Super Target unsupervised.

Two—I actually kind of adored her.

She wasn’t just energetic. She was unstoppable. She flitted from aisle to aisle like a whirlwind, throwing things into the cart with the confidence of someone who truly believed in her choices—an area in which I had very little experience. A full-length mirror. Bath towels that were “the perfect neutral.” A utensil drawer organizer, which she insisted was non-negotiable.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not stabbing yourself with a rogue whisk,” she said, tossing it into the cart.

I, on the other hand, moved slower. I hesitated over cereal brands and stared too long at trash cans. I felt the need to justify every purchase—do I need this? will I use it? is it too much?

Mina didn’t ask. She just filled the space with warmth and commentary and the occasional unsolicited recommendation for scented candles.

“This one smells like baked apples. It’s cozy but not try-hard.”

“I’ve literally never bought a candle,” I said, and she stared at me like I’d just confessed to murder.

“Okay, you’re lucky you’re cute because that’s criminal.”

By the time we made it to the checkout, I was leaning heavily on the cart like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

We wheeled our loot through the parking lot, the cold air a slap after the warmth of the store. Mina popped the truck bed and we started loading everything in, box by box.

“You know,” I said, pulling my jacket tighter, “I really didn’t think I’d end up doing any of this today.”

She glanced at me over the tailgate, her breath puffing into the air. “What’d you think you’d be doing?”

“I don’t know. Sitting on the floor. Feeling overwhelmed. Ordering another pizza. Crying, maybe.”

She smirked. “That was the original plan, huh?”

“More or less.”

“Well,” she said, tossing in the last bag, “you still might cry, but now your apartment will have paper towels and a decent shower curtain. Progress.”

As we climbed back into the truck, my phone buzzed with a new text. I didn’t check it right away. I just sat there for a second, watching Mina fiddle with the heat and turn the radio down to a low hum.

It was past noon. I was sore. My knee was aching. And I was completely, utterly exhausted.

“I’m telling you, Y/N,” Mina said, tossing shopping bags into the bed of Jimin’s truck like she was confetti-bombing the neighborhood, “those shirts were a necessity. When something fits that well, you don’t overthink it. You buy it in every color. It’s science.”

I raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, leaning awkwardly against the side of the truck while balancing on my good leg. “I’m pretty sure science has nothing to do with impulse-buying three identical button-ups.”

“They’re not identical,” she said, tossing the last bag in with a flourish. “One’s black. One’s navy. One is... I don’t know, ‘stormy sage’? Fashion is nuanced.”

I looked down at the shirts she was now proudly referring to as if they were designer pieces. Converse button-ups. Cropped. Surprisingly flattering. Cute, yeah. But three of them?

“I don’t even know how you did it,” I said, shaking my head. “I blinked and suddenly we were checking out with thirty more things than I planned, including three shirts I definitely don’t need.”

Mina grinned, hands on her hips. “I’m persuasive. You’ll thank me when those shirts become your entire personality.”

I laughed under my breath. She was impossible. And probably right.

“Fine,” I muttered, cracking the passenger door open. “The shirts are great. But now the gimp requires sustenance.”

“The gimp?” she said, snorting as she walked around to the driver’s side. “You really know how to sell the sympathy angle.”

“I’m just saying, if you don’t feed me soon, I will collapse in the parking lot and you’ll have to explain it to your fiancé.”

She started the engine, still grinning. “How do you feel about Korean food? There’s a spot on the way back that does bibimbap so good it might actually heal you.”

“Perfect,” I said, already daydreaming about something hot and homemade and not packaged in plastic wrap. “Just promise me there’ll be rice. And something spicy. I need to feel alive again.”

“You got it. Spicy, salty, and life-giving. Just like me.”

“Debatable,” I muttered, and she stuck her tongue out as she peeled out of the lot.

The drive back to my place was slower this time—probably because she’d burned off her daily need for chaos at the store. The truck was full to the brim with our haul: paper towels, dish soap, cleaning supplies, a shower curtain Mina swore would "tie the whole bathroom together," and of course, the trio of button-ups that I was already regretting less than I wanted to admit.

Halfway there, Mina launched into an enthusiastic pitch about why Jimin needed to help paint my apartment this weekend.

“The walls are so beige,” she said, one hand gesturing wildly while the other stayed loosely on the wheel. “It’s giving rental. It’s giving dentist’s office. We need warmth. Color. Maybe an accent wall.”

I shot her a look. “I just moved in. I haven’t even figured out where the forks go yet.”

“That’s why you need me,” she said, smiling smugly. “And Jimin. And maybe Taehyung. Although he’s more of a ‘music and snacks’ helper than a ‘holds the ladder’ type.”

“No painting,” I said firmly.

“But—”

“No.”

She sighed, long and dramatic. “Fine. But I’m bringing swatches over. Just so you can think about it.”

“Compromise,” I said, holding up a hand. “I’ll look at swatches. No promises beyond that.”

“Deal. For now.”

By the time we got back to the apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, and we both looked like we’d survived a war. We unloaded the truck one bag at a time, neither of us speaking much, just working in sync. The wind had picked up, slicing through our jackets, numbing our fingers.

The second we got inside, we dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen counters in a completely chaotic pile—frozen pizzas leaning against laundry detergent, cleaning sponges nestled beside a head of lettuce. No one was winning any organizational awards.

We shoved the cold stuff into the fridge in a way that would haunt any dietitian—boba cans, leftover takeout, half a dozen condiments, and nothing resembling a proper meal plan. Then we collapsed on the couch with steaming takeout containers and the kind of hunger that bordered on desperation.

I hobbled over with my box of rice and kimchi stew, trying to navigate the living room without tripping over the legs of the coffee table. My crutch caught on the edge once—then again. And then a third time, jerking my arm forward so hard the lid nearly popped off the container.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Mina watched from the couch, chopsticks in hand, expression somewhere between entertained and alarmed.

“You okay there, Y/N?”

“I’m about this close to burning these crutches in the parking lot,” I said, gesturing with my free hand and nearly dropping my food in the process. “I swear they’ve gained sentience and are actively working against me.”

Mina bit back a laugh. “You’re over it, huh?”

“So over it.”

I sank onto the couch next to her, balancing the container in my lap, my knee throbbing in protest. “Walking used to be hard enough without props. This is like trying to tightrope across a canyon with ski poles.”

“Well, the good news is: you only have to survive a few more weeks.”

“Three weeks and four days,” I corrected. “Not that I’m counting.”

“Of course not.”

She passed me a can of sparkling water, then flipped on the TV, scrolling past half a dozen crime dramas before settling on something soft and slow—a cooking competition where everyone was too nice to be entertaining but too charming to turn off.

After lunch, Mina disappeared into the glossy pages of a wedding magazine she’d snagged from the mail pile, her fingers flipping through dresses and flower arrangements with laser focus. It was the first real lull in hours. No furniture to move. No errands to run. No decorating debates to lose.

I curled up on the far end of the couch, stretching out slowly, carefully—testing how far my knee would let me go without complaint. I exhaled, head leaning back against the cushion, and let the silence settle around me like warm water.

And of course, the second my brain had the space, it wandered right back to Jungkook.

I barely knew anything about him. Not his last name, not what he did, not whether he liked cats or had siblings or believed in fate. All I really had was a twenty-minute interaction at baggage claim and the way his name had sounded when he said it—low, warm, almost shy.

Still, I kept replaying it. The way he looked at me. The way he said my name like it was something he wanted to remember. It wasn’t dramatic, and yet... it stuck.

Ridiculous. But also kind of undeniable.

He was impossibly good-looking, yeah. The kind of good-looking that made you glance twice without meaning to. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he moved, how he listened. How he’d reached for my hand like it wasn’t even a decision, just instinct. There was something about him that had made the world feel quieter for a moment. Lighter. Less sharp around the edges.

And now, here I was, replaying it like some girl in a coming-of-age novel. Like I didn’t have more pressing things to worry about. Groceries. Doctor’s appointments. Building a life from scratch.

Bronx. Tuesday nights.

He’d said it like a suggestion. Easy. Offhand. But it hadn’t felt offhand. Not to me.

Could I actually go?

Part of me wanted to. Just to see if that strange, electric hum would still be there. To see if I’d imagined it. To see him again and maybe say something smarter this time.

But then there was the other part—the louder, older part of me that had spent years learning how to protect itself. That part was already rehearsing the excuses. Maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe he said that to everyone. Maybe it wasn’t an invitation at all, just a casual, polite mention of a bar he happened to like.

But then again... why mention Tuesday? People don’t give you days unless they want you to show up.

I sighed, tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling like it might hold some answers. If this were a song—some cheesy country track—you’d just check a box. Yes or no. Done. Simple.

But life wasn’t simple. Not for me. Not for anyone, probably, but especially not for someone who’d spent most of their teenage years building routines instead of relationships. Who’d been taught that attention had to be earned. That being wanted came with strings.

Even now, the idea of someone like him being interested in someone like me felt... farfetched. I couldn’t even picture it without flinching a little. Not because I didn’t want it. But because I didn’t know what I’d do if it was real.

Before I could sink deeper into my overthinking, Mina’s phone exploded with a series of high-pitched tones that could only mean one thing: bridal emergency.

She groaned, already reaching for it as she stood up, balancing her plate in one hand and pressing the phone to her ear with the other. “What now?” she muttered, then rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

She turned to me as she shoved her feet back into her boots. “Promise me you won’t touch anything while I’m gone. That includes trying to alphabetize your books or reorganize the pantry. Lucy and I will help you tackle the mess later.”

I raised my hands like a suspect in a crime show. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She pointed at me like she wasn’t entirely convinced, then turned toward the door. “Back soon. Don’t burn the place down.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Then she was gone, already halfway through a conversation before the door even clicked shut behind her.

The quiet that followed was different than before—thicker, somehow. Not empty, just... still. The only sounds were the hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the building settling around me.

I looked around the room, at the shopping bags still stacked near the kitchen, the unopened boxes lined up against the wall. The place was technically furnished now, but it didn’t feel lived in yet. It still felt like a set waiting for someone to walk onstage and make it real.

I didn’t have the energy to try.

Instead, I let myself sink deeper into the couch, pulled my phone from my pocket, and scrolled to a playlist that always helped me think—instrumentals, soft indie stuff, a few moody movie scores that reminded me of long drives and late-night practices.

I popped in my earbuds and hit shuffle. The music slipped into my ears like a sigh, wrapping around my tired thoughts and pulling me under.

And then, somewhere between the second and third song, I closed my eyes.

I managed to avoid Mina for two full days—an impressive feat, considering she lived across the hall and had the persistence of a golden retriever with a tennis ball. Jet lag and my still-aching knee made the perfect excuse. I leaned hard into both.

But Saturday morning came, and so did Mina—arms full of coffee, muffins, and what she proudly announced as a “battle plan.”

“Today,” she declared, kicking my door open like she owned the place, “is Divine Design Day.”

I blinked at her from the couch, where I’d been trying to read through a headache and ignore the existence of daylight. “Is that a real thing, or are you just making up reasons to rearrange my life again?”

“Both,” she chirped, setting down the coffee with the precision of someone used to delivering caffeine with urgency. “And don’t even try to wiggle out of it. The reinforcements are already on their way. Jimin and Taehyung will be here by ten sharp. Painting, organizing, general transformation of your sad little loft—consider it handled.”

I groaned, flopping my head back against the cushion. “Can’t we just live in the mess for a few more days? I haven't even decided if you could paint, yet.”

“Nope. Inspiration waits for no one. Plus, you’re lucky. If you’d given me one more day, I would’ve started mood-boarding your whole apartment.”

There was a part of me that wanted to protest, but... another part that was curious. She and Lucy had been hyping these guys up for days, and I hadn’t exactly met many people since moving in. Still, the thought of spending a whole day with strangers—loud, close-knit, apparently good-looking ones—made me wish I had more than half a muffin’s worth of energy.

“Wasn’t Jungkook supposed to be part of this decorating army?” I asked casually. I would like to meet both of her bothers. She talks about them so much it felt like I knew them personally.

Mina made a face. “Took a hit last night during the game. Spent the morning with the team doctor. He’s fine, but they’re keeping him out of practice for a few days.”

I’d heard the game through the walls—cheers, shouting, cursing, more cheering. Mina and Lucy had invited me to watch with them, but I’d passed. Something about crowds, even just two people shouting at a TV, still made me feel uneasy. I’d curled up with a book instead, but the next morning’s dramatic play-by-play had made me regret it a little. It had sounded... fun. Loud, chaotic, communal. The kind of thing I’d never had much of.

“Alright,” Mina clapped, snapping me back to the present. “Let’s hit Home Depot before the guys show up.”

I glanced down at my knee, already aching from the mild activity of existing. “Can’t Lucy come with us? She’s the one who probably cares whether my walls are ‘cool gray’ or ‘ash cloud.’”

Mina rolled her eyes. “She threatened to spike my coffee if I woke her before nine. So, no. You’re stuck with me. And you just said paint is fine, so I can assure you grey is out of the question.”

I sighed and started gathering my things—wallet, phone, crutches. “Just promise me you won’t go overboard. I don’t want this place ending up looking like an HGTV fever dream.”

“You wound me.” Mina held a hand to her chest in mock offense. Then, smiling mischievously, added, “But okay, compromise: you get veto power. Use it wisely.”

We took Lucy’s BMW since Mina’s Porsche could barely fit two people and a purse. As I awkwardly hoisted myself into the passenger seat, I muttered, “I still need to pick up my car. It’s just sitting at the dealership.”

“Hard pass,” Mina said, already pulling out of the lot. “You’re not driving until you’re off those crutches. And possibly not even then.”

“I’ve got a new doctor. Appointment’s Monday. Dr. Jeon.”

Mina nearly swerved. “My dad? You’re seeing my dad?”

I blinked. “...Did you not think to mention your last name?”

“I guess not?” she laughed, shaking her head. “Oh my god. This is perfect. You’re in good hands. He’s basically the unofficial Red Wings physician. He’s fixed more joints than a mechanic.”

“That’s comforting,” I muttered, feeling strangely reassured.

Home Depot was a blur of color swatches, paint samples, and Mina flitting between aisles like a woman on a mission. She had a clipboard. She was terrifying and weirdly efficient and somehow made it through the whole trip without spilling coffee on her all-white outfit.

I couldn’t lie—by the time we checked out, some part of me was genuinely excited. The thought of my walls not looking like the inside of a beige envelope had its appeal.

When we pulled up to the building, Jimin’s truck was already there, parked next to a rugged Jeep that looked like it had seen actual mountains.

“Right on time,” Mina said, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call the guys. And no, Y/N, you’re not allowed to feel guilty. You’re not lifting a finger.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said, holding up my hands.

“You weren’t,” she said sweetly, “but I know you. You hate asking for help. Tough. Today, you get to sit there and be adorable while other people carry your heavy stuff.”

“Your dad’s my doctor, not you,” I shot back, and she just winked as she dialed.

“We’re here. Come get the stuff,” she barked into the phone, then ended the call without waiting for a reply.

A few minutes later, Lucy came strolling down the front steps, looking completely put together despite just waking up. Behind her were two guys. I recognized Jimin from Mina's lockscreen—dark hair, lean and strong, with easy confidence and a smile that lit up his whole face. The other was taller, leaner, but still broad. He moved with this lazy grace, like the world would move around him if he waited long enough.

Mina launched herself at Jimin before he made it halfway up the sidewalk, and he caught her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The taller guy—Taehyung, I assumed—was already slinging bags of paint out of the backseat like they weighed nothing. His arm was around Lucy’s shoulders, and he had a grin that looked both infuriating and charming.

He gave me a once-over as Lucy led him over.

“So, you’re the new recruit, huh?” he said, voice warm and teasing.

“That’s me,” I said, returning his smile. “Fresh out of basic training.”

“I like her,” he said to Lucy. “She’s got good banter. Can we keep her?”

“Only if you behave,” Lucy muttered, elbowing him.

He noticed the crutches next, his brow lifting.

“What’s with the wingmen?” he asked, nodding toward them.

I blinked. “The what?”

“The crutches,” he grinned. “Your wingmen. Not very discreet, but I respect the commitment.”

“Oh. Sports injury,” I said, half-laughing.

“Ah,” he said, then mock-whispered to Lucy, “I don’t know. She doesn’t look like she can keep up.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Keep pushing it and I’ll replace you.”

Taehyung turned back to me, grinning like a kid with a secret. “Tell you what—I’ll carry you, and Jimin can handle the actual work.”

And before I could respond, he bent and scooped me up like it was nothing. My crutches clattered to the sidewalk, and I let out a yelp somewhere between startled and outraged.

“Taehyung!” Mina shrieked, rushing over. “She’s injured! You can’t just scoop people like produce!”

“She’s tiny,” he said, unbothered. “And I’m gentle.” He looked down at me, still holding me like a rom-com cover. “You don’t mind, right?”

Still processing the fact that I was somehow four feet off the ground in the arms of a complete stranger, I blinked at Taehyung, unsure whether I should laugh, scream, or demand a refund from the universe. But instead—because apparently my brain had no interest in logic—I nodded.

“Uh... sure, Taehyung,” I muttered, my voice wobbling somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement.

He grinned like I’d just handed him a gold medal. “See? Knew I liked you.” Then, louder, over his shoulder, “Y/N’s my homegirl now. No take-backs.”

Lucy snorted. “Oh, you know it, G,” she said, like this all made perfect sense. Like a guy carrying a semi-stranger across a parking lot was completely standard behavior.

Still on Taehyung’s back—because why not—I caught sight of Jimin approaching, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he’d seen this happen before. Which, honestly, he probably had.

He reached out a hand to me, his voice warm and soft. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” he said, and it wasn’t just politeness. There was something about the way he looked at people—steady, kind—that made you feel like you could take a full breath around him.

I adjusted my arm and leaned forward just enough to shake his hand, my own awkwardness bubbling at the edges. But there was something about him—maybe the calm in his eyes, maybe the way he didn’t flinch or rush—that made it easier than I expected.

“Thanks,” I said, managing a smile. “You must be the sane one.”

“God, I hope not,” he replied with a soft laugh. “But I *am* the quiet one. You’ll get used to these lunatics. Eventually.”

“I’m starting to think I don’t have a choice,” I said.

Before I could say anything else, Mina’s voice cracked through the moment like a starter pistol.

“Alright, enough with the welcome parade!” she barked, clapping her hands. “We’re not here to flirt—we’re here to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jimin said with a mock salute before peeling off toward the truck to start grabbing paint supplies.

I shifted awkwardly on Taehyung’s back. “Okay. Time to put me down now.”

“Nope,” he said, the word sharp and final, like we’d made a legally binding agreement. “I said I’m carrying you in, and I meant it.”

“I have legs,” I pointed out. “At least, technically.”

“And I have arms,” he replied cheerfully. “So really, this works out for both of us.”

“You’re seriously carrying me and the paint?” I asked as he reached for a box without a hint of effort.

Taehyung didn’t even look at me. “Multitasking is a lifestyle.”

I sighed. “Can someone at least grab my crutches?”

“Lucy!” he called. “Get Goose and Maverick, will you?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t ask for clarification. Just bent down to collect them with a kind of long-suffering patience that told me this wasn’t the first time she’d played interpreter for him.

“Goose and Maverick?” I asked, giving him a sidelong glance. “Really?”

He looked at me like I was the one missing something. “They’re your wingmen. You literally can’t take off without them.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, grinning. “Repeatedly. But people still keep me around, so I must be doing something right.”

By the time we made it up to my apartment—me, Taehyung, the paint, and my dignity all jostling for space—I had stopped trying to argue. It wasn’t worth it. And, if I was honest with myself, there was something kind of... nice about it. Not being in control. Being carried, even if it was chaotic and borderline absurd. It was the kind of closeness I wasn’t used to, the kind I usually deflected with a joke or a polite smile.

Inside, the rest of the crew filed in behind us, arms full of supplies. Mina immediately took over like she was hosting her own HGTV show, issuing orders about where tarps should go and what walls needed taping. Jimin unpacked the brushes with surgical precision. Lucy cued up a playlist. Taehyung, still carrying me like some kind of absurd prince, finally set me down gently on the couch.

“There,” he said, dusting off his hands dramatically. “Safe delivery. No scratches.”

I adjusted my brace and flexed my knee. “Do I get to rate you on the app?”

He grinned. “Only if I get five stars.”

“You get four,” I said, deadpan. “Docked a point for dramatics.”

Taehyung gasped. “Rude.”

Mina leaned over, handed me a muffin from the tray she'd brought earlier. “Don’t feed the monster. He thrives on attention.”

“He thrives on being carried in song,” Lucy said, tossing him a paintbrush. “Start with the baseboards, Prince Charming.”

The room hummed with laughter and easy movement, brushes unwrapped, music starting low in the background. It didn’t feel like a decorating day—it felt like some strange, spontaneous little family had formed inside my apartment. No one was looking at me like I was fragile. No one was asking for anything. And I hadn’t laughed this much in... I didn’t even know how long.

Somewhere between the paint fumes and the dance breaks, something inside me softened. My body still hurt, sure, but my chest didn’t feel quite as tight. The anxiety that usually sat behind my ribs had, at least for now, gone quiet. And I realized that I was smiling.

As the afternoon wore on, it became increasingly clear that this wasn’t just about paint and furniture. It was something else entirely.

It was friendship. It was kindness.

They didn’t say it aloud, but I could feel it in the way they handed me brushes without hesitation, the way Lucy made sure there was music playing that I might like, the way Jimin quietly rearranged a chair so I could get through on my crutches without asking. This was how they welcomed people in—not with big gestures or declarations, but through movement. Through presence. Through effort.

And they didn’t seem to need anything in return.

By lunchtime, I’d made Taehyung laugh so hard he nearly dropped his roller. I’d tossed out a sarcastic one-liner that had Lucy wheezing. Mina had crowned me “queen of passive-aggressive commentary,” and I didn’t even flinch when Jimin tried to nickname my crutches again. The air was warm with paint fumes and music and the kind of easy conversation that comes when no one’s trying too hard.

For the first time in a while, I wasn’t just reacting. I was participating. I was letting people in.

By late afternoon, the loft had started to change—walls no longer blank, corners no longer empty. It wasn’t just a space anymore; it was starting to look like a home. One I could actually picture living in. Unpacking didn’t feel like a task to avoid now—it felt like a step forward.

So I started with what I knew: books.

Jimin carried the boxes over, stacking them carefully by the shelves. “These yours?” he asked with a crooked smile, already knowing the answer.

I nodded. “My version of comfort food.”

He grinned. “Respect.”

I opened the first box, and the scent hit me instantly—familiar, musty in a good way. The smell of ink and paper, of nights spent in bed with a flashlight and early mornings tucked into the corner of rinks. These books had followed me everywhere—Nevada, Colorado, hotel rooms, off-seasons, injuries, airports. They were mine. And in a way, they were the only thing that had ever really stayed.

I sat on the floor, carefully stacking them by genre and alphabetically—because of course I did—and let myself get lost in the quiet comfort of order.

Until Mina’s voice rang out from the living room.

“Hey, Y/N,” she called, tone casual. “Do you want us to start unpacking these other boxes? The paint’s dry in here.”

I glanced up from the shelf. “Yeah, go ahead. They should just be boring essentials.”

“One’s labeled ‘Miscellaneous,’” she said, “and the other... has no label.”

I frowned. “That’s weird. I thought I got everything.”

“You want me to open the mystery box?” she asked, and I could already hear the curiosity revving like an engine.

“Sure,” I said, distracted as I slid a copy of The Secret History into place. “It’s probably just chargers or socks or something.”

Then came the sound of tape being torn back—followed by a sharp, high-pitched squeal that nearly knocked me sideways.

“Mina,” I groaned, setting down the next book, “are you trying to communicate with bats?”

No answer. Instead, a second later, her head popped around the corner, eyes wide, smile even wider. That look she got when she was seconds away from chaos.

“What?” I asked, already bracing myself.

She strutted into the room like a cat who’d just dragged in a very shiny mouse. In her hands was something rectangular and gleaming.

And the second I saw it, my stomach dropped.

The plaque.

The one with my name on it, etched in gold under the words Olympic Silver Medalist – 2020.

It glinted in the late afternoon light like it had been waiting for its cue.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, the back of my neck prickling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mina beamed. “Explain.”

“I—where did you even find that?”

She held it up like it was an award she’d won. “In the unmarked box. Along with a lot of other sparkly surprises.”

Of course. Thanks, Emily, I thought bitterly. Who else would’ve made sure that box made the journey, whether I wanted it to or not?

Mina looked like a detective who had just cracked a very personal case. She wasn’t smug, exactly—more amused. Intrigued. Like she’d found the missing puzzle piece to a picture she didn’t know was incomplete.

“So, care to tell me why you’ve been living in my building for days without mentioning that you, I don’t know, competed in the freaking Olympics?”

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. I could feel the heat crawling up my throat. I wasn’t embarrassed, exactly—but I wasn’t ready either. Not for this. Not yet.

“I was going to tell you,” I muttered. “Eventually. It just... didn’t come up.”

“Didn’t come up?” she echoed, laughing. “Y/N, this isn’t like forgetting to mention you’ve been to Italy. You were on a cereal box.”

I flinched. “Only once.”

She waved the plaque again. “You medaled. At the Olympics. And I’m your friend. Friends share things like this.”

“I know,” I said, my voice quieter now. “I know. I just... liked that you didn’t know. That for once, I wasn’t the skater or the medalist or Emily’s daughter. I was just... me.”

Mina’s face softened. She lowered the plaque.

“Okay,” she said gently. “That I get.”

I exhaled slowly. “It’s not that I’m ashamed. I’m not. It’s just—when people find out, everything shifts. They treat you different. They expect something. Or they think they know who you are. I didn’t want to start off like that.”

She nodded, sitting beside me on the floor. “And now that the cat’s out of the box?”

I gave her a sideways look. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

She grinned. “Anytime.”

I hesitated. “Does it... change anything?”

Mina nudged me with her shoulder. “You think a medal’s gonna scare me off? Please. If anything, it just makes you more interesting. Besides, Jimin and Taehyung probably don’t even know how figure skating works. You’re safe.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

She reached back into the box and pulled out more relics—photos, laminated programs, a couple of medals, and even a few old costumes, sequins still clinging to the fabric.

One had a note pinned to it. My mother’s handwriting, Just in case. I stared at it for a beat.

“Subtle, Emily. Real subtle.”

“Who’s Emily?” Mina asked, peering over my shoulder.

“My mom.”

Mina picked up one of the magazines from the box, the glossy cover catching the light, my teenage face frozen in mid-spin, smiling in a way I barely remembered. She turned it over in her hands like it might explain something if she looked long enough.

“So...” she said slowly, almost gently. “I’m guessing you didn’t pack all this yourself?”

I shook my head. “Not even close.”

She looked up, eyebrows raised.

“I left all my skating stuff back in Vegas,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, like it wasn’t a topic I still hadn’t fully figured out how to talk about. “But Emily has her own ideas. She thought I might need a little ‘reminder’ of who I am.”

“Or, like... a museum exhibit’s worth of reminders,” Mina muttered, holding up one of my old costumes. It shimmered in the afternoon light, all rhinestones and careful stitching.

I reached for it instinctively, my fingers brushing the fabric like it might sting. “I didn’t want this here. Any of it, really. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever skate again, so... why surround myself with sequins and medals and expectations, you know?”

Mina’s smile faded. She set the costume down and placed a warm hand on my knee, her touch gentle. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly, even though it wasn’t. “I just didn’t expect to see all of this again. Not now.”

We sat there quietly for a moment. Not awkward—just still. Her hand stayed on my knee, grounding me while my thoughts spun. I looked around the room, suddenly aware of how surreal it felt to be surrounded by my past in the middle of what was supposed to be my fresh start.

“She thinks I’m being dramatic,” I added after a beat, voice quieter. “That this injury is just a bump. That I should already be back on the ice, training. That I’m wasting time.”

Mina frowned. “But you’re recovering from surgery. Doesn’t she know what the doctors said?”

“Emily only hears what fits the version of reality she wants,” I said, with a dry laugh. “And her version doesn’t include me being uncertain or scared or... done.”

“She’s insane,” Mina said flatly. “You don’t just bounce back from something like this because someone else decides you should.”

“Yeah, well... she’s been pushing since I was little. It’s what she does. I think she believes if she just shoves enough glitter at me, I’ll snap out of whatever this is and turn back into the girl she remembers.”

Mina leaned back, still watching me like she was trying to figure out how to carry some of the weight I’d just handed her. “Well, screw that. Whatever version of you is here now? That’s the one we’re rooting for.”

I smiled, feeling something in my chest ease. “Thanks. I’m not really great at this whole... emotional honesty thing.”

“Please,” she said, scoffing playfully. “I grew up with three brothers and a father who thinks hugs are a form of weakness. This is practically therapy compared to that.”

I laughed, a real one this time. “I’m really glad I met you.”

Mina grinned and bumped her knee against mine. “Same. And just so we’re clear, we’re not just friends, Y/N. We’re best friends. You’re stuck with me.”

I bumped her back. “Best friends it is.”

We sat like that for a while, surrounded by old photos, forgotten trophies, and glittering ghosts of the life I’d been trying to leave behind. And for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating. It just felt... like part of the story. One I didn’t have to erase to move forward.

Just then, Lucy’s voice called out from the back room.

“Hey, lazy bums! Are you two just gonna lie around while we do all the work?”

“Yep, that was the plan,” Mina called back immediately, not missing a beat.

“Sounds good to me,” I added, smirking.

Lucy appeared in the doorway a second later, a paint roller in hand and a grin on her face. She flopped onto the floor beside us, stretching out like she hadn’t just spent the last hour painting trim.

“Well, if you’re being lazy, I might as well join you,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans.

Mina turned toward her with a sly look. “So, Lucy. Did you know Y/N here is a certified Olympic figure skater?”

Lucy’s brows shot up for half a second before she shrugged like someone had just told her I was good at baking.

“No shit? I knew your name sounded familiar.” She looked me over with a nod, like it all made sense now. “That’s pretty badass.”

I blinked. “You’re really not fazed by this, are you?”

“Nah,” she said, lying back on her elbows. “You kinda give off badass energy even without the medal. The glitter just confirms it.”

“Seriously,” Mina added, rolling onto her stomach, chin in her hand. “The things you can do with your legs—I’m just saying, if I had that kind of flexibility, Jimin wouldn’t let me out of the bedroom.”

I groaned, covering my face. “Mina.”

“What?” she said, unrepentant. “It’s true.”

Lucy smirked. “She’s not wrong. I mean, flexibility like that? You could probably win gold medals in other areas.”

“Wow, thanks for the visual,” I muttered, face burning as I tried to redirect my attention to literally anything else.

“Not for me, you dork. For guys. The one's you'd want to attract in this scenario.”

I forced a laugh, trying not to let the heat rising in my chest show. “Well, I wouldn’t really know.”

There was a pause.

Mina blinked. “Wait. Are you saying... like wouldn’t know, wouldn’t know?”

I stared at her, then stood abruptly, heart thudding. “Okay! That’s definitely enough over-sharing for one afternoon.”

“No way,” Mina said, sitting upright, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you—Y/N. Are you a virgin?”

The word hit the air like a firework, and I froze, eyes darting toward the window like I might escape through it.

“Mina,” I hissed, “could we not announce it to the world?”

She looked more shocked than judgmental, which helped, but only slightly.

Lucy didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at me—really looked—her expression softening into something that felt neither surprised nor judgmental. Just... curious. Thoughtful. Then she shrugged.

“Honestly?” she said, voice even. “Kind of refreshing.”

I blinked. “Sorry—what?”

She leaned back onto her elbows like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “It took me a while, too. I didn’t have sex until I was twenty-one. And even then, I felt behind. Like everyone else was speaking some language I hadn’t learned yet.” She paused, her mouth quirking up at the edges. “But it turns out most of them were just faking fluency.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Huh.”

“Seriously,” she added. “You’re not weird. And it doesn’t say anything about who you are or what you’ve done or how together your life is. It just... is.”

That’s the thing about Lucy. She said what she meant, then gave you room to sit with it. I wasn’t used to that. Most people either tried to fix things or pretended they didn’t matter. But she just let it hang there, uncomplicated.

Mina, on the other hand, was already recovering from her shock with the energy of someone who’d just discovered a juicy plot twist. She grinned and grabbed the nearest throw pillow, launching it in my direction. “Okay, okay, we’ll drop it—for now. But just so you know, this is absolutely going on the future girl's night conversation list.”

I ducked the pillow with half a laugh. “Do you guys always interrogate your friends like this?”

“Only the ones we like,” Mina said sweetly.

“Pillow fights optional,” I muttered as I stood and made my way toward the kitchen, mostly for an excuse to breathe.

“No secrets between best friends, Y/N!” Mina called after me, her voice lilting with dramatic flair. “We’re basically emotional archaeologists. We will uncover every layer.”

I opened the fridge door just to have something between us, gripping a bottle of water like it might offer emotional protection. The cool air hit my face, and for a second, I just stood there, letting it settle my thoughts.

The truth was, I hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really. The words had just come out—too fast, too raw. But instead of judgment or awkwardness, I’d been met with honesty. Warmth. A kind of acceptance that didn’t require explanations or apologies. And maybe I wasn’t used to that. But standing there, with their voices still drifting in from the living room and laughter bubbling up again like nothing had shifted—I realized I didn’t really want to hide anymore.

Monday morning arrived dark and quiet, the kind of morning where the sky barely bothered to shift from night. I woke up before my alarm, as I usually did, but this time I didn’t rush to the kitchen or swing into a stretching routine. I stayed exactly where I was—wrapped in a cocoon of downy pillows Mina had sworn were “life-changing.”

I wasn’t sure they’d changed my life, but for once, staying in bed didn’t feel like avoidance. It just felt... necessary. Today mattered. More than I wanted to admit out loud.

It was the kind of day that split a timeline. Before. After. The day everything might shift—one way or another. My first appointment with Dr. Jeon. A new specialist. A new city. A new shot at figuring out what came next. Or maybe just confirmation of what I was afraid to say out loud. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this to be over or not.

Back in Vegas, Dr. Banerjee had tried to be gentle, but his words had still landed like punches. He’d told me not to count on a full recovery. Not to get my hopes up. Emily, of course, had immediately decided he was being negative. She was convinced I was dragging things out. Playing the victim. Acting fragile for attention.

And the worst part? Some days, I almost believed her. Was I being dramatic? Was I just afraid of the truth?

I threw off the covers and sat up slowly, stretching my arms over my head before bending into my usual warm-up—first the good leg, then the bad. My knee felt tight, but not terrible. There was a faint ache, sure, but I’d woken up to worse. It wasn’t a sharp pain, at least, and I could still move with control. That was something.

I stood carefully and tested my balance. No major complaints from my joints. A small flicker of hope lit up in my chest, tentative and trembling. It had been so long since I let myself hope. Too long.

I moved into deeper stretches, more out of habit than optimism, and felt a twinge of pride when I realized I was still flexible. Still strong. The months off the ice hadn’t erased all of it. The grace was still in me somewhere, buried under layers of doubt and bruised confidence.

For a second, I let myself imagine it—spinning again, arms lifted, back arched. Spirals on clean, untouched ice. The moment where the world went quiet and I felt like I could breathe. I missed that feeling more than I knew how to say.

The first couple of weeks after the surgery had been a strange kind of relief. I wasn’t training, I wasn’t performing, I wasn’t pushing. It was the first time in years that no one expected anything from me. I sank into it like a vacation I hadn’t realized I needed—reading entire novels in one sitting, binge-watching trashy reality shows, eating grilled cheese at two in the morning just because I could. But it didn’t last.

By the time mid-December rolled around, the stillness stopped feeling restful and started to feel like a weight I couldn’t shake. Emily noticed before I did and took it as an excuse to “intervene.” She hauled me back to the rink, under the pretense of helping me “reconnect” with my roots. What she meant was: prove you’re still useful. Prove you’re still capable. Prove this wasn’t a waste.

She stood at the edge of the boards like a judge with a stopwatch. I hadn’t even taken five steps before my knee buckled and I fell. Flat. In front of Yoongi. In front of the kids who used to look up to me. That was the last time I let her drag me there.

It didn’t stop her from trying, of course. Emily didn’t believe in stillness. She believed in productivity, in motion, in proving people wrong—even if those people were her own daughter.

She had me “consult” with Yoongi for weeks after, pretending it was useful. But all I did was sit at the rink, freezing and frustrated, trying to pretend I wasn’t quietly unraveling. That’s when the idea of leaving started to feel like more than a fantasy.

Dr. Banerjee had mentioned specialists in Michigan who had worked with athletes recovering from similar injuries. I clung to the idea like a lifeline. If I was going to make a decision—if I was going to have any chance at figuring out whether skating was still possible—I needed space. I needed air. Emily wouldn’t give it to me, so I had to take it.

She hadn’t liked the idea of me leaving Vegas. Said it was impulsive. Said it was a waste. But when she realized I wasn’t going to budge, she pivoted to control in the way she always did—organizing everything from five hundred miles away.

She found the apartment, bought the car, booked the appointment. She made the calls, set the schedule, tried to package my new life like it was her idea. I let her. I didn’t care who pulled the strings as long as it got me on a plane and out of that house. And now... here I was. In a new city. In a quiet apartment with half-painted walls and friends I hadn’t known I needed until I found them. I still didn’t know exactly what I was doing.

I got ready slowly, moving through the motions with mechanical care—shower, dry my hair, jeans, a soft navy sweater. Something neutral. Something that wouldn’t make me feel like I was trying too hard. The familiar rhythm of routine helped. A little.

I ate a lemon poppy seed muffin while standing at the counter, brushing the crumbs away absently. My mind kept drifting ahead, to the waiting room, to the questions Dr. Jeon might ask. To what he might see when he looked at my scans. Would he see potential? Would he see damage beyond repair?

Would he see me? Was I still Y/N Y/L/N, elite figure skater? Or had I already become someone else—and just hadn’t admitted it yet?

A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Morning!” Mina’s voice rang out cheerfully before I even made it halfway across the room. The lock clicked, and a moment later, she strolled in like she owned the place—radiant, caffeinated, and entirely too awake for how early it was.

I’d given her a spare key yesterday. Or more accurately, she’d insisted, and I hadn’t come up with a good enough reason to say no.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt. She floated into the kitchen, grabbing a banana from the counter like it had always belonged to her.

“Happy Lose-the-Crutches Day!” she said, throwing her arms in the air like we were celebrating a national holiday.

“You’re so weird,” I said, shaking my head, but I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

“Oh, come on. You can't tell me you're not excited to ditch your flyboys.” She nodded toward the crutches leaning against the wall. “I’m just saying, maybe with fewer metal limbs, you’ll stop knocking over every piece of furniture in your path.”

“I make no promises,” I said. “I’ve been tripping over thin air since before I could walk.”

“Not your fault,” Mina said breezily, now halfway through the banana. “You were born to glide. Gravity doesn’t apply to you unless you're off the ice.”

I raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical.

She met my gaze without flinching. “I’ve seen you skate. It’s like watching something—” she paused, searching for the word, “—weightless. Like you’re built for it.”

I’d heard things like that before, mostly from articles or overzealous fans, but coming from Mina, it felt different. She wasn’t trying to flatter me. She just meant it.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, my throat tightening in that annoying way it did when someone was kind and I didn’t know how to receive it.

Mina grinned again, apparently satisfied. “Come on, babe. Grab Goose and Maverick and let’s roll.”

I rolled my eyes at the names she’d assigned to my crutches—her Top Gun obsession had resurfaced with alarming enthusiasm—but I grabbed them anyway. The sooner this appointment happened, the sooner I’d know if I could finally start moving forward, or if I’d have to figure out how to live with where I was.

We made our way outside, the cold morning air biting at our faces as we slid into her car. She cranked the heat, and the vents roared to life.

“Thanks for driving me,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though my stomach was twisting itself into knots.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she said, pulling out of the lot. “I don’t mind. Besides, it gives me a reason to stop by the hospital and bug my dad. Makes me look like the responsible child.”

“I’m guessing that’s not a hard title to hold onto.”

“Okay, true,” she said with a laugh. “But I like going there. Seeing him in his element. We’re all so different, my brothers and me. Taehyung’s like this human tank on skates, and Jungkook moves like he was born doing crossovers. But they’ve always had my back. Being the youngest with two protective hockey-playing brothers definitely has its perks.”

I smiled, glad for the distraction. “How’d they end up on the same team? That doesn’t seem like something that just happens.”

“It doesn’t,” she admitted. “Taehyung wasn’t a huge name going into the draft. Scouts overlooked him for years. But then the Red Wings saw him in one showcase game, and that was it. They picked him up late, and it turned out to be one of the smartest moves they ever made. Jungkook came up a year later—he was already on their radar, but I think having Tae here made the decision easier. Plus, hometown brothers? The media eats that up.”

“Guess I’ll need to start brushing up on hockey,” I said, trying to sound more relaxed than I felt. “You know, now that I’m basically related to the Red Wings through you.”

“It’s practically required in Michigan,” she said, flicking her turn signal on. “We don’t mess around about two things here: winter and hockey.”

As we pulled into the hospital parking lot, the familiar knot of anxiety settled lower in my stomach, tight and insistent. This was it. The appointment. The one that might tell me if I had a future in skating—or if I had to start imagining something else entirely.

But the fear wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been in Vegas. Maybe it was the distance from Emily. Maybe it was Mina’s steady presence. Or maybe it was just the quiet sense of possibility that came from being somewhere new.

“You okay?” Mina asked, cutting the engine and turning to me.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I think I’m ready to find out.”

She nodded. “That’s all you can do.”

We sat there for a beat, the car ticking softly as it cooled. Then Mina, never one to let a moment sit too long, launched into a new story—this time about the Jeons’ childhood road trips to Canada for tournaments, how Jungkook used to get carsick but refused to admit it, and how Taehyung once brought a lizard in his hoodie and didn’t tell anyone until it crawled across Mina’s lap at a border checkpoint.

I laughed, really laughed, and felt something settle in my chest. Not peace, exactly, but something close to it.

Mina’s stories were full of color and warmth, and the more she talked, the more I could picture it—their house full of noise and teasing, her dad coming home in scrubs, her mom in the kitchen, Taehyung trying to sneak snacks upstairs, Jungkook glued to a pair of rollerblades in the driveway. A family that made room for each other. Who didn’t just push, but protected. Who loved out loud. For the first time, I realized how much I’d missed that. Or maybe just never really had it. Not like that, anyway.

I looked out the window at the hospital entrance. Whatever Dr. Jeon had to say, I wasn’t alone walking into it. That mattered more than I ever would’ve guessed.

The front desk was all clean lines and hushed conversations between the receptionists. Signing in felt oddly ceremonial, like I was handing over the last of my denial with the click of a pen. Five minutes later, when the nurse called my name, the nerves that had been quietly simmering suddenly surged to the surface—tight and sharp, crawling up my spine and gripping my chest like a vice.

The exam room was exactly what you’d expect: bland, sterile, steeped in the sharp tang of antiseptic. The cold linoleum sent a chill straight through my sneakers, and I felt it settle in my bones. The nurse was quick and impersonal—height, weight, blood pressure—before she disappeared behind the door with a soft “Doctor will be in shortly.”

I climbed up onto the edge of the exam table, its paper crinkling beneath me, and folded my hands so tightly my fingers went pale. Mina sat in the chair beside me, swinging her foot gently, her presence steady and grounding, but even that couldn’t slow the drumbeat of anxiety pounding through me.

It was ridiculous how fast my heart was racing. I’d stood in the center of Olympic arenas, lights blinding, crowds watching, expectations weighing heavy on every jump and spin. But this was different. This wasn’t about a medal or a score—it was about who I was without all of that. About what I’d have left if the ice was no longer mine.

My foot tapped an anxious rhythm against the cabinet. I barely noticed until Mina reached out and rested a hand gently on it. The pressure was light, but it was enough to still me.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

I nodded, but it felt hollow.

The door opened with a soft click.

The man who stepped in looked more like someone you’d want to sit next to at a backyard cookout than a doctor about to deliver a verdict on your future. He was tall, lean, probably in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair combed back in a way that said he’d either put zero effort into it or had perfected the art of making it look that way. His suit was understated—charcoal slacks, a navy sweater under a white coat—and the warmth in his brown eyes contrasted the clinical chill of the room.

He glanced at the clipboard in his hands, then looked up. “Y/N Y/L/N?” His tone was even, pleasant.

Then his eyes landed on Mina, and everything about him softened. A genuine smile cracked across his face, crow’s feet appearing at the corners of his eyes.

“Well hey der, Mina! Didn’t see ya there!”

I blinked. Did he really just say ‘hey der’? The accent was unmistakable—Midwest, probably northern Michigan or somewhere not far from the Wisconsin border. Mina had said he'd grown up in Green Bay. It was so gentle and earnest, I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

Mina jumped up and threw her arms around him. “Hi, Dad.”

She stepped back and gestured toward me. “This is Y/N. She just moved in next door, and I thought I’d tag along to introduce her.”

Dr. Jeon—or Suho, apparently—turned toward me, his smile still warm, still easy. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Hope she’s not driving you too crazy already.”

“She’s been great,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt. I was still trying to untangle the ball of nerves sitting like stone in my stomach.

He nodded. “Good to hear. And call me Suho—everyone does. Any friend of Mina’s is a friend of mine. I’ve got a feeling you’ll be around more than a little.”

Before I could say anything else, Mina piped up, practically bouncing where she stood. “Oh! Are you and Mom still going to the Red Wings game Friday?”

“You know it. Wouldn’t miss it.”

She turned to me, eyes gleaming with excitement. “You should come with us. Lucy and I always go, and after the game, we meet up with some of the players—it’s actually a blast. Please come?”

I shook my head with a small laugh. “You’re doing the puppy eyes again.”

“They work, and you know it. C’mon, please?”

I looked at her—hopeful, grinning, her hands clasped in mock prayer—and felt the last of my resistance crumble.

“Alright. I’ll go.”

“Yes!” she cheered, clapping her hands. “Can I pick your outfit?”

Suho held up a hand, chuckling. “Okay, let’s maybe not plan her wardrobe while I’m trying to be a doctor here.”

“Oops,” Mina said, kissing his cheek before heading toward the door. “See you Friday!” She waved at me before slipping out, the door closing softly behind her.

The air shifted almost immediately—less playful now, quieter. Not uncomfortable, just... different. Like we’d all remembered why I was here.

I looked at Suho, who was already pulling up a stool and flipping open my file.

“She always been like that?” I asked, my voice still light, but something in it cracked slightly.

He smiled without looking up. “Since she learned how to talk. She hasn’t stopped since.” He turned a page, scanned it, then glanced at me. “But she’s got a good heart. And she’s stubborn—runs in the family.”

I let out a soft, distracted laugh, but the nerves were already crawling back in.

Suho adjusted the file in his lap. “Your orthopedic in Nevada sent over everything. November, right? ACL tear, surgery a week later, concussion from the fall?”

I nodded slowly. My throat felt tight again. “Yeah.”

The memory was sharper than I expected, cutting through the surface like ice cracking underfoot. One second I was mid-jump, body precise and controlled, and the next, everything was wrong—air, noise, then the sound of the impact, the searing pain that came before the lights even fully faded.

Suho didn’t rush. He flipped another page. “Looks like you’ve been doing your post-op rehab consistently. That’s good. Really good.” He looked at me again. “How’s the knee feeling now?”

“Sore,” I admitted. “Mostly at night. And if I’m on my feet too long, it kind of... throbs.”

He nodded. “That’s normal. Ligaments take time to recondition. It’s not just the muscle you’re rebuilding—it’s trust. Between your body and your brain.”

He moved closer, gently lifting my leg and rotating it with practiced care. “Range of motion looks decent,” he murmured. “And you’re not wincing—that’s a good sign.”

He set my leg down gently and looked at me fully. “I think you can start weaning off the crutches. Short walks at first. Around the house. No hills, no stairs yet.”

A small breath escaped me, part relief, part fear. “So... does that mean skating’s on the table?”

He didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, rested his hands on his knees, and studied me for a beat. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes—professional caution, tempered by experience.

“If you’re diligent—if you give this the time it needs—then yes. I think it’s a real possibility. But don’t rush it. Your knee isn’t ready for jumps or spins. We’ll start small—treadmill by the end of the week. Gentle walking, just to get it used to bearing weight again. If that goes well, we’ll try light skating. Easy glides, no tricks.”

It wasn’t a promise. But it was hope. And right now, that was more than I thought I’d get.

“Thank you,” I said, and my voice wavered just enough that I had to look down.

“One step at a time,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do it all at once.”

I nodded, swallowing hard.

He flipped through the last of the pages in my file. “Let’s get you scheduled for a follow-up in early April. That’ll give us time to reassess—see where you’re at in terms of strength and mobility.”

I hesitated. The real question was still there, sitting in the back of my throat, bitter and impossible to swallow. I stared at the floor, then forced myself to look up.

“Will I be able to compete again?” My voice barely made it out.

Suho looked at me for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his tone shifted—gentle, but unflinchingly honest.

“It’s possible. But I won’t lie to you—there are no guarantees. Some athletes make a full comeback after an ACL tear. Others plateau. It depends on how well your body responds to the rehab. And how patient you’re willing to be.”

I nodded slowly, even though part of me was still frozen. Still scared.

“The hardest part,” he added, “comes when it starts to feel like you’re better. That’s when you’re most vulnerable to reinjury—when the confidence comes back faster than the strength. So take it slow. Let your body lead. We’ll reassess in April and see what’s next.”

He met my eyes, steady and kind. “Can you promise me that? That you won’t rush this?”

I nodded, but my mind was still spinning. Everything Suho had told me was looping back on itself, piling up before I could properly sort it out. ACL rehab. Crutches. No jumps. Maybe skating again. Maybe competing. There were so many maybes, and behind each one was a risk I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to take.

And underneath it all was the fear—quiet, patient, always waiting. It hadn’t left. It just shifted shape. I stared down at my hands, the knuckles still pale from how tightly I’d been wringing them, and tried to breathe through the weight in my chest.

Then Suho’s voice cut through the spiral. Not sharp, not rushed. Just steady.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “I know this isn’t easy to hear. And I know how hard it must be, having your future suddenly look different than you planned. But listen to me—don’t lose hope. You’re frustrated, sure. That’s normal. But recovery isn’t just physical. Mental strength is going to be just as important. Probably more.”

I looked up, caught off guard by how serious he looked. Not grim—just honest. Like he was telling me something he’d learned the hard way, something he really meant.

“If you stay patient, stay consistent, and keep showing up for yourself,” he continued, “you give yourself the best possible chance of getting back to where you were. And maybe even beyond that.”

A small, cautious warmth sparked somewhere inside me, like someone had lit a match in the dark. I swallowed hard. “You really think I can come back from this?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve seen a lot of athletes recover from worse. And I’ve seen some of the best give up—not because their bodies failed, but because they let fear win.” He leaned forward a little. “I can’t make any promises. But I wouldn’t be saying this if I didn’t believe you had it in you.”

I didn’t know what to say. The part of me that had braced for another clinical assessment—something cold and distant and definitive—didn’t quite know how to absorb this. It wasn’t a guarantee. But it was hope. Honest, measured hope. And after the months I’d spent waiting for the other shoe to drop, it felt like the first real breath I’d taken in a long time.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. Then, catching myself, “I mean—thank you, Suho.”

He grinned. “There you go. Getting the hang of the whole first-name thing.”

A faint laugh slipped out of me, and for the first time all day, it didn’t feel forced.

Suho stood and moved toward the counter to jot something in my chart, then turned back to me. “Just remember, you’re the one doing the work. I’ll guide you, sure. But this journey? It’s yours. Own it. Take your time. Don’t skip steps. There’s a time to push—and this isn’t it.”

“I hear you,” I said, managing a half-smile as I picked up my crutches. “No hero moves yet. Got it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yet.”

I nodded again, and this time it felt steadier. Not because I suddenly had all the answers, but because I had something to aim for. A thread to hold onto.

Suho opened the door for me, then gave me a last look as I passed through. “I’ll see you Friday. At the game.”

I blinked. “Right. I almost forgot.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “Mina never lets anyone forget.”

I smiled—really smiled—and stepped into the hallway.

Outside, the January cold slapped against my skin the moment the sliding doors opened. The wind cut straight through my coat, and my breath came out in tight little clouds. But strangely, I didn’t mind.

After the appointment, Mina wouldn’t take no for an answer. She claimed we had to eat, and I didn’t have the energy to argue. So we ended up at the little café on Maple—the one with the scratched wooden tables and the chalkboard menu that hadn’t changed in three years. The kind of place where the barista already knows your order and slides it across the counter with a wink. Comfort food, warm light, good coffee. Safe.

We ate slowly, mostly in companionable silence, only breaking it to talk about the game Friday or how Minnesota had a “better winter” than Michigan, which, according to Mina, was a hill she was prepared to die on. Eventually, she checked the time, grabbed her keys, and gave me that look—the one that meant she had a plan I hadn’t agreed to.

“Come on. Emily said your car would be ready today, right?” she said as we slid into her car.

I nodded, suddenly queasy.

By the time we pulled into the dealership lot, my nerves had twisted into a tight knot at the base of my stomach. I spotted it right away—sleek, shining, sitting in the front row like it knew it was being shown off. A brand-new Mercedes-Benz SUV, polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the cloudy winter sky.

Of course it was a Mercedes. Emily didn’t do practical. She did statements. To her, this was a gift. To me, it felt like every moment of my life rolled into one big fucking joke on four wheels. She has no idea who I am.

I swallowed the knot of disappointment and climbed into the driver’s seat. The leather was buttery soft, the scent of new upholstery too strong, too sterile. Everything felt untouched, untouched by me at least. Like it belonged to a version of my life I hadn’t chosen.

I adjusted the seat, turned on the ignition, and rolled out of the lot with careful hands. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. Emily. Right on cue. She’d probably been watching the time, waiting for the appointment to end so she could debrief like it was a business transaction.

I stared at the screen for a second before letting it ring out. She could go to voicemail. I’d blame driving later if she pressed. It wasn’t a lie—not completely.

We pulled up to the apartment just as Lucy’s BMW came around the corner. She practically leapt from it before the engine had even settled.

“There she is!” she called out, beaming, arms already wide like she was announcing me to a crowd.

Mina laughed, waving her over. “Perfect timing.”

Lucy jogged up, flushed from the cold, her scarf trailing behind her like a cape. She had that kind of contagious energy—bright, earnest, just a little chaotic—and it made it harder to hold onto a bad mood around her.

“You guys wanna do a lap around the block?” she asked, already bouncing in place like a wind-up toy. “Gotta break in your sea legs, Y/N.”

“It’s January,” I said flatly. “In Michigan.”

“So?” Mina shrugged, already pulling on gloves. “You’re a figure skater. Cold’s your natural habitat.”

“It’s twenty-two degrees out,” I reminded them.

Lucy grinned. “Exactly. Practically tropical.”

I stared at them for a moment—two overexcited lunatics in head-to-toe winter gear—before sighing and grabbing my coat. “Fine. But if I slip and die, I’m haunting you both.”

They whooped like I’d just agreed to join a flash mob.

The walk was slow but steady. The air was sharp, biting at my cheeks, but after the stuffy silence of the exam room and the hollow quiet of the dealership, it felt... clean. Real. Every step without the crutches was a small win, even if I could feel the strain creeping in by the second block.

About a minute in, my phone buzzed again. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. I thumbed it silent and slid it into my coat pocket before either of them noticed.

Mina noticed anyway. “Emily again?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll call her later.”

“You were living with her up until... what? A week ago?” Lucy asked, not unkindly—just curious, like she was building a timeline in her head.

“Yeah,” I said, watching my breath cloud in the air. “My parents split when I was a kid. My dad moved to Washington, and my mom and I kind of... floated. Wherever the best training was, that’s where we ended up.”

“That sounds like an adventure,” Mina said, wide-eyed.

I gave her a smile, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Mostly it was rinks and airports. Hotels that all looked the same. The places blur together after a while.”

“No sightseeing?” Lucy asked, her nose wrinkling.

I shook my head. “Not really. It’s a job, you know? Early mornings, late practices, physical therapy. You don’t get a lot of time to explore.”

“That kinda sucks,” Lucy said matter-of-factly.

I laughed, and this time it felt genuine. “Yeah, a little. I mean, I’m grateful, but it’s not exactly the glamorous life people think it is.”

“Not a lot of friends on the road?” Mina asked gently.

I looked up at the gray sky, thinking. “Mostly other skaters. But it’s competitive—cutthroat sometimes. You don’t always know who’s rooting for you and who’s waiting for you to fall.”

“Ever seen someone pull a Tanya Harding?” Lucy teased, grinning.

“Not exactly,” I said with a smirk. “But there’s definitely sabotage. Just... quieter. More backhanded.”

We all laughed, and for a second, the tension that had been riding my shoulders all day eased.

Then Mina’s voice softened. “That’s not how you got hurt though, right?”

I shook my head. “No. Just a dumb accident. My blade caught in a rut, and I went down hard. Concussion. Torn ACL. Game over.”

Lucy winced. “God, that sounds awful.”

“It was,” I admitted. “Still kind of is.”

“There wasn’t much about it in the news,” Lucy said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I didn’t even realize you were off the circuit.”

“That was on purpose,” I said. “She’s also my manager. She wanted to keep it quiet in case I bounced back fast. Didn’t want to spook the sponsors.”

“Is that... weird?” Mina asked. “Having her as your manager?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never known anything else.” I shrugged. “She took over after the divorce, when I was still competing in juniors. It just kind of became her job.”

“Do you miss her?” she asked softly.

The question caught me off guard. I looked ahead, watching the sidewalk stretch out in front of us. “It’s... complicated. I think we both needed space. She’s always been so focused on the next step—the next medal, the next competition. I don’t think she knows how to see me outside of that.”

“That would drive me nuts,” Mina said.

“It did,” I said quietly. “For a long time.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just thoughtful. And then, just like that, the conversation drifted. Mina launched into a story about the latest drama with her cousin’s wedding—a florist who ghosted them mid-consultation—and Lucy added commentary so animated she nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.

By the time we got back to the apartment, I was tired, but not drained. My knee ached, sure, but I’d made it. The elevator ride up was calmer than we had been outside. I leaned back against the wall and looked over at them.

“So,” Lucy said, dragging out the word like it held a secret, her grin widening with each syllable. “It’s Monday night. None of us have to be up early tomorrow. The guys are off doing whatever it is they do when they disappear for hours…”

Mina looked up from her phone, eyes lighting up like a switch had flipped. Their eyes met. And just like that, I could see it—the silent conversation, the plan forming between them before I even knew what was happening.

“You know what that means?” Lucy asked, already bouncing on the balls of her feet.

I blinked. “No clue.”

“Girls’ night!” Mina squealed, throwing her arms in the air like she’d just won the lottery.

“Girls’ night?” I echoed, my brow furrowing slightly, still trying to catch up.

“Oh, you have *no idea* what you’ve been missing,” Lucy said, sliding an arm around my shoulders like we were lifelong best friends instead of new neighbors. “It’s basically a sacred ritual. We eat junk food, drink ridiculous cocktails, wear the comfiest clothes known to mankind, and watch movies until we can’t keep our eyes open.”

“It's just a movie marathon where we get wasted and eat too much food,” Mina added helpfully.

I raised an eyebrow, not quite convinced. “And this is... fun?”

Lucy gasped, placing a hand over her heart like I’d just insulted her entire personality. “Y/N. It is everything.”

“I mean, I’m not really much of a drinker,” I said, hesitating, suddenly aware of how uncool that probably sounded.

“Lightweight or just not your thing?” Lucy asked, her voice genuinely curious, not judgmental.

“Neither, really. I just... never got around to it,” I said, and immediately felt the heat rising in my face. “Training and alcohol don’t mix, and I’ve basically been in bed by nine since I was twelve.”

Mina’s eyes went wide, her jaw dropping with mock horror. “Wait—you’ve never had a drink?”

“Not never,” I said quickly. “Just... not casually. Not like this. Not with friends.”

“No religious reasons? Family rule?” Lucy asked, gently.

“No, nothing like that,” I said, shrugging. “It just wasn’t part of the world I lived in. Between competition schedules, meal plans, and early flights, I didn't have time for parties or experimenting. And if I’m honest, it’s always made me a little nervous.”

“Well, tonight,” Mina said, taking a dramatic step forward and pointing a finger in the air like she was making a toast, “we right this injustice.”

I laughed. “What, no bedtime tonight?”

“Exactly. No curfews, no counting macros, no stress,” she said, linking her arm with mine. “Just sugar, salt, and emotionally irresponsible rom-coms.”

Before I could answer, Mina and Lucy were already halfway out the door, calling over their shoulders.

“We’re grabbing the essentials. Don’t go anywhere!”

Their front door swung shut, left half open in their wake. I stood there for a moment, dazed and smiling.

From inside, I could hear them already arguing about what to watch. “We are not watching ‘The Notebook’ again,” Mina insisted.

“Oh, come on! You cried harder than I did last time!” Lucy shot back.

I leaned against the doorframe, listening, letting their chaos fill the quiet spaces that had been echoing in me since the fall. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to brace myself for anything.

A few minutes later, their door flew open again.

Mina emerged first, barefoot and already in sweats, carrying a stack of DVDs taller than her torso. Lucy followed behind her, using a laundry basket as a makeshift party kit—bottles of something pink and sparkling clinking against bags of chips, boxes of cookies, a jar of marshmallow fluff, and three mismatched wine glasses rattling with every step.

“What kind of movies do you like?” Lucy asked, not even looking up as she wrestled the basket onto the kitchen counter.

“I’m easy,” I said. “Whatever you guys are into.”

“Perfect,” Mina said, flipping through the stack. “We’re going for maximum serotonin: rom-coms, teen drama, and something slightly trashy just to round it out.”

Lucy held up a pack of rainbow-colored popcorn like she’d found the Holy Grail. “We’re starting with 10 Things I Hate About You. It’s non-negotiable.”

“I approve,” I said, laughing as I took a handful of snacks from the basket to help sort. “Do people actually eat this much during girls’ night?”

“This?” Lucy said, looking insulted. “This is restraint.”

“And sweats, Mina?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even own sweats?”

She placed a hand on her chest. “Excuse me. I am making a sacrifice for the integrity of the night.”

I headed back to my apartment to change, pulling on a pair of fleece joggers and an old, oversized Team USA hoodie that still smelled faintly like eucalyptus from my gym bag. I didn’t spend long in the mirror—just tied my hair back and grabbed a pair of fuzzy socks.

The moment I stepped into Mina and Lucy’s apartment, I paused at the threshold, overwhelmed—in the best way—by the transformation that had taken place.

The lights were low, the soft yellow string lights overhead casting a cozy, almost magical glow across the living room. A mountain of blankets and pillows was already spread across the couch and floor like the aftermath of a slumber party tornado. In the kitchen, Lucy was mid-chaos—bottles, bowls, and bags scattered across the counter like she was preparing for a sugar-fueled siege. Mina was hunched over the DVD player, muttering about the remote being possessed.

It was warm, loud, alive. The exact opposite of how my life had felt lately.

A slow smile spread across my face. Emily would’ve fainted if she saw this—junk food, mismatched glassware, alcohol in cups that weren’t crystal. She had once made a comment about goldfish crackers being "what people without standards feed their children." But tonight wasn’t about control. Or image. Or what looked good in a press photo. Tonight was about firsts.

First girls’ night. First drink. First time letting go, even just a little.

“So, what’s the first movie of the night?” I asked, slipping off my slippers and stepping into the living room like I belonged there.

Lucy tossed a bag of Doritos toward Mina, who caught it one-handed and grinned.

“We’re saving the emotional wreckage for later,” Mina said with a smirk. “We’re starting light. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

Lucy gave an exaggerated sigh as she plopped onto the couch. “Ugh, McConaughey in his prime. That man could make me move back to Texas.”

“You lived there for two years,” Mina shot back.

“Details,” Lucy said, waving her hand dismissively. “Point is, he makes me nostalgic for accents and bad decisions.”

“You and Jimin both went to school in Texas, right?” I asked.

“Texas Tech,” Lucy nodded. “But Jimin actually paid attention in class. I was mostly there for the marching band and the tailgates.”

“And you still ended up with Taehyung,” Mina said, nudging her.

Lucy grinned. “I mean... not mad about it.”

Their easy back-and-forth made me smile, even though I still felt like I was learning how to exist in conversations like this—casual, intimate, no agenda.

“Speaking of accents,” I said, “your dad, Mina... his Wisconsin thing is strong.”

Mina burst into laughter before I even finished the sentence. “Oh my God, I should’ve warned you! I’m so used to it now, I forget how intense it can sound to normal people.”

“‘Hey der, Mina!’” I mimicked, and she doubled over, gasping.

“Stop, stop—I’m crying,” she wheezed. “Seriously though, it gets worse when he’s tired. Or if he’s talking to my grandma. It’s like full lumberjack mode.”

“Honestly?” Lucy chimed in, already halfway back to the kitchen. “Your dad is kind of... hot. Like, weirdly hot. Not for a dad. Just... in general.”

“Mmm, no comment,” I muttered, face flushing as I reached for a pillow to bury it.

Lucy reappeared with three glasses in one hand and a bottle of something in the other. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice, Y/N.”

“He’s... attractive,” I said carefully, trying to sound neutral.

Lucy raised her brows. “That’s it?”

“Isn’t he basically your future father-in-law?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Lucy raised her glass like it was a mic drop. “Exactly. Means I have good things to look forward to.”

“You guys are insane,” I mumbled.

“Oh, please,” Mina said casually. “I’m not blind. I know my dad’s good-looking. My mom jokes about it all the time. She says it’s why she puts up with his weird hobbies and the way he leaves coffee mugs in every room of the house.”

“I’m going to need to un-hear all of this,” I said, laughing into my hands.

“Welcome to girls’ night,” Lucy said, plopping down beside me and handing over a glass. “Where boundaries go to die.”

I took the glass warily. “What is it?”

“Just a little something light,” she said. “Promise. Fruity, barely any alcohol.”

I took a sip—and immediately choked. It tasted like fruit punch spiked with jet fuel. “*That* is not light,” I coughed.

Mina winced in sympathy. “Oof. Lucy, you always do this.”

“Fine, fine.” Lucy rolled her eyes and stood. “One ‘starter drink’ coming right up.”

She returned a moment later with something pink and frothy in a mason jar. “Try this. It’s basically a melted popsicle.”

I sniffed it cautiously, then took a sip. Sweet, fizzy, tangy—like raspberries and lemon sherbet. Still a little warmth on the back of my tongue, but nothing aggressive.

“Good, right?” Lucy asked, eyeing me over the rim of her glass, her grin twitching at the corners like she was holding back a celebratory cheer.

I nodded, a little more confidently this time, and took another sip. “Really good, actually.”

“Told you,” she said, clearly pleased with herself.

“Just... pace yourself,” Mina added from where she was curled up in a blanket on the floor. She raised a brow in my direction. “It tastes like juice, but there’s more vodka than fruit in that drink.”

“Duly noted,” I murmured, though I was already taking another sip.

The hours passed in a haze of warmth and movie quotes and laughter that felt like it belonged to another life—one that didn’t involve injuries or ice or expectations. We made it through Clueless and Legally Blonde before any of us realized how late it had gotten. I was sprawled out across the couch, my head resting against Lucy’s leg, Mina draped over the other end of the couch with her feet tucked under a pillow like a cat in hibernation.

It was the kind of comfort that felt rare—unguarded, unpretentious, easy.

“The night is young,” Lucy mumbled into a pillow, stretching out with a satisfied sigh. “What’s next?”

“Leo,” Mina declared, eyes lighting up as she reached for the next DVD. “It’s not a real girls’ night until Leo shows up in a tux.”

Lucy groaned playfully. “You and your Titanic obsession.”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece,” Mina countered, already loading the disc.

“I mean, she’s not wrong,” I offered, earning a grin from both of them.

Lucy ambled into the kitchen to grab another drink. Her footsteps had a slight sway now, like the cocktails were finally catching up with her.

“Anyone else?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“I probably shouldn’t...” I began.

“Nuh-uh,” Mina said, cutting me off without even turning around. “You’re still too coherent.”

I let out a breathy laugh as Mina pressed another glass into my hand. “If I end up passed out on this couch, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” she said, raising her own drink like she was making a toast.

By the time Jack started sketching Rose, we were full-on tipsy. The drinks had softened all the edges. Conversation got louder, the laughs longer. At some point, Lucy and Mina reenacted the "I'm flying" scene on the coffee table, arms stretched wide and teetering dangerously close to the bottle of wine Mina had insisted on opening. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

When the credits finally started rolling and the room settled into a comfortable hum of silence, Mina looked over at me, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and curiosity.

“Alright. Real talk, Y/N.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I feel like I should be bracing myself?”

“You’ve really never?” Lucy cut in, more serious now, though the playful edge hadn’t entirely left her voice.

I groaned, letting my head fall back against the cushion. “Why are we circling back to this?”

“Because,” Mina said, poking at my leg with her toe, “you’re too mysterious. We need to know everything.”

“There’s not that much to know,” I muttered.

Lucy stared at me like I’d just told her I didn’t believe in birthdays. “Y/N, you’re twenty-four. You’ve never had sex? Not even once? I mean, I know I waited for a while, but I still fooled around a bit before that. You haven't done anything?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Nope.”

Mina gasped like I’d confessed to never having tried pizza. “Are you serious?”

“There are plenty of people who wait,” I said, more defensive than I meant to sound. “It’s not that weird.”

“Sure,” Mina said, leaning her chin on her knees. “But you’re gorgeous. You could probably have your pick.”

“I’d totally jump you,” she added casually, reaching over to flick a bit of lint off my pants.

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “Wow, thank you. That’s very touching.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a proud smile.

Lucy looked genuinely perplexed. “So... no one? Not even a hot skater guy during training camps or some European fling after a competition?”

I shrugged. “Never really had the opportunity. Or... I guess I just didn’t make one.”

Mina stared at me, incredulous. “You mean to tell me that with all those hours at the gym, there wasn’t one shirtless Russian worth risking it all for?”

“Some of us actually used the gym for training,” I said.

“Some of us used it for both,” Lucy said with a wink. “Multitasking is a skill.”

“Perv,” I muttered.

“Proudly,” Lucy said, tossing a popcorn kernel into her mouth like she’d just dropped a mic.

Mina sat up a little straighter, the gears in her head clearly turning. “Okay. We need to find you someone.”

“No,” I said instantly. “Absolutely not. I don’t need a setup.”

“But think about it!” Mina said, suddenly looking far too serious for someone wrapped in a blanket burrito. “Lucy, who do we know?”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “Please. Stop.”

“You can’t just tell us you’ve never and then not let us help,” Lucy insisted.

“I can and I will.”

Mina narrowed her eyes. “Unless... you have met someone.”

“No,” I said way too quickly.

Lucy sat up like she’d just heard a dog whistle. “You so have.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” I insisted, feeling heat crawl up my neck.

“Oh my God,” Mina gasped, eyes sparkling. “You met someone. Who is he? Is he cute? Is he here? Did you kiss?”

“You guys are relentless,” I muttered, laughing despite myself.

Lucy folded her arms, raising one perfectly shaped brow. “We’ve been in long-term relationships for years. We live for this stuff now. Spill.”

I sighed, realizing I wasn’t getting out of this. “Fine. I met a guy at the airport. He helped me with my bags. We talked for a few minutes. That’s it.”

“Was he hot?” Lucy asked, already leaning forward like this was the climax of the story.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” Mina repeated, scandalized.

“I mean, he wasn’t just cute,” I admitted. “He was... kind of next-level.”

“Tall?” Lucy prompted.

“Yeah.”

“Dark?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Handsome?”

I exhaled. “Ridiculously.”

Both of them squealed so loudly I nearly dropped my drink.

“Did you get his number?” Mina asked.

“No.”

“Did he get yours?”

“No.”

“Y/N!” Lucy groaned. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t know if he was just being polite! I wasn’t going to throw my number at him in the middle of baggage claim like some rom-com extra.”

“But he said he wanted to see you again?” Mina asked, her voice softening.

I nodded slowly. “He mentioned grabbing coffee sometime. But that was it.”

“Girl,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “We need to manifest this man’s return into your life.”

“I’m not holding my breath,” I replied. “I’ll probably never see him again.”

Mina rested her head on my shoulder. “Maybe. But maybe not. You never know.”

I smiled faintly, grateful for their enthusiasm even if it made me feel more exposed than I’d planned. The movie was still playing in the background, the soft sounds of Celine Dion bleeding through the speakers. The room had gone quiet again, but this time it wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable. Safe.

Mina looked up at me, her expression suddenly serious. “Your butterflies are still out there, Y/N. You just have to be ready when they land.”

Taglist: @smartkookiee @knightofmidnight @mar-lo-pap @jjeonjjk7 @somewhatjungkook @lovingkoalaface @jimineepaboya @iswearimover5feetall @blissingtaehyung @futuristicenemychaos @kooloveys @jenniebyrubies @8thmuse @beattiestreet @tatzzz-25

[explicit-tae]

Ungodly Hour (Jimin)

It's your turn to make Jimin your "bitch" during Taehyung's 'Hallow-tine's Day' party.

Word Count: 6.435

Warning: smut, slight sub jimin, oral sex, dom reader, unprotected sex, face riding, alcohol intake, dirty talking, face-riding, oral sex (f/m), edging, face slapping, nipple sucking, begging, praise kink, handjob,

Valentine's Day Masterlist | Part One

“How long have you been working here?”

You inhale through your nose as your eyes catch onto Park Jimin, along with Jungkook, Hoseok, Namjoon and Taehyung. All of them - of course, besides Jimin - offer you kind smiles and Taehyung even a short wave. 

“What can I get you?” you sigh out. It was going to be a long shift - and you’ve only been here an hour. 

“Did Jimin invite you to the Hallow-tine’s day party?” Taehyung asks, turning to the man who is seated beside him. 

“Why would I do that?” Jimin scoffs, his eyes down at the menu to scan the various amounts of meat. 

“I’ll take that as a no. You should definitely come.” Taehyung says, a boxy-like smile flashing your way with a set of white teeth. 

You lick your lips, tilting your head a bit at Taehyung. They were the last people you’d expect to see right around now outside of school. Especially since this was your job you were working at and you were also involved with one of them - in a way - who you wanted nothing more than to respond snarkily. 

“I…a Hallow-tine’s day party…?” you question with a shrug. “Can I get you all any drinks?”

“I’ll take a sprite-” Hoseok begins.

“It’s like a Halloween party.” Taehyung continues, uncaring. All he did want was for you to attend this party, silently pining for you and Jimin to continue this…relationship of sorts? It isn’t developed as of yet, but soon he has high hopes. “But on Valentine’s day, of course. So come in a costume!” he smiles, blinking your way as if a “Hallow-tine’s” party makes sense.

You couldn’t help but crack a smile at Taehyung.

“Costume winner get’s $1000.” Jungkook pipes up, averting his eyes upwards to look at you now. “I’ll take a water.”

“A water?” Jimin scoffs, knitting his brows. “Am I the only one drinking?”

Jimin turns his eyes to you, his mind flashing with memories of the past weekend he shared with you - the same ones that began in the classroom and ended with you and him entangled together the entire weekend afterwards. The same memories are plagued with you and him walking the halls of the University as if it never happened, back into the classroom bickering with one another. That was back in October and nearly 4 months ago.

“Whiskey.” Jimin says. “The whole bottle.”

“Are you serious?” Jungkook snickers. 

“You have a baby and act like you’ve never downed a whole bottle of whiskey in this very restaurant.” Jimin retorts, leaning against the booth with a raised eyebrow.

“Those days are behind me, Jiminie.” Jungkook shrugs his shoulders. It wasn’t entirely true. He wasn’t opposed to drinking, but he still had to go home and help his girlfriend after this. “I’m a father.”

Jimin gags.

“Soo…?” Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows at you. “It’s a Halloween party as you know. Just set on Valentine’s day. Come in a costume. Everything will be provided. Drinks…food…”

“Is there a reason why you want me to come?” you place the tablet onto their table and place a hand onto your hip. “Also, why is the halloween party so…late?”

“Why not?” Taehyung questions. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we? We want you there.”

“Speak for yourself.” Jimin mumbles to himself. 

You bite your lip to refrain from responding to Jimin, who appears as if he wants you to. A smirk is forming onto his lips as he witnesses your restraining appearance. 

“I couldn’t attend. I was focused on preparing for my daughter.” Jungkook explains to you instead, a twinkle in his eyes that causes you to smile a bit at how cute he looked - and excited that he was now a father. “So Tae being dramatic,” Jungkook rolls his eyes. “decided to have it in February.”

“You can go a few hours without flirting with her.” Taehyung rolls his eyes towards Jimin. “And I wanted all my friends there. Bring the baby-”

“Fuck no.” Jungkook scoffs. “My mom is taking her for the weekend. I’m not sure how I feel about being without her.” Jungkook sighs and there goes your heart. You ponder how Jimin could be friends with someone as sweet as Jungkook. Maybe he was forcing it, you think.

“But seriously, Y/N. You should come. It’s a slutty event-" Taehyung begins.

“You know a lot about slutty, Y/N.” Jimin nods his head.

“Not now.” Hoseok hisses low, turning his eyes to Jimin. 

“I do know.” you laugh a bit, body flushing with heat. You cannot act ashamed by what you do -  not now or ever. “Maybe I can add a slutty costume to my wishlist and you’ll buy it for me. That’s what you usually tend to do with anything else.”

In the end, it’s you who has the last laugh; one that has his friends joining along with your comment. 

“Whisky, sprite, water…” you nod your head, picking up the tablet to put their drink orders through. “Anything else I can get you all to drink?”

Your and Jimin’s banter didn’t stop there as the entire time they were there he was retorting back to you. But, you wouldn’t say it bothered you much. It was quite fun in a usually boring shift.

You had agreed to come to Taehyung’s Hallow-tine’s party, one he explained was usually planned by Jungkook, but instead opting to not. Now that, as Jungkook put it, was a father, he had prepared his home for a baby and not parties. 

“That doesn't mean the parties are going to stop.” Taehyung had said piped in immediately after. 

“How long have you been working here?” Jimin asks, downing a shot. It was five minutes until closed and he was the only one here. You ponder how one man can still drink and not appear utterly wasted.

“A year.” you respond, spraying down the table he occupies. “I don’t only fuck myself on onlyfans for a living.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Y/N. I just never saw you here.” he says, licking his lips. “We come here often.”

“Picked up more hours recently.” you admit. 

“Onlyfans going dry?” Jimin jokes.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. You won’t take his joke seriously as this was Jimin. But, he was correct in a way. You never solely depended on it to pay you expenses and always had a job lined up.

“It’ll never be dry as long as you’re subscribed.”

Jimin snickers at how quick you were with responding to him. He scoots out of the booth and stands, stretching a bit. 

“What are you wearing?” Jimin asks. “To the party?”

You shrug. “Haven’t really been to a Halloween party before. Especially a Hallowtine’s. It’s a slutty event.” you say, trying your best to imitate Taehyung’s deep voice. “So I’ll make sure to have my ass out.”

Jimin clicks his tongue.

“We should go together.”

You’re silent for a moment, hearing other servers around you clean their tables just as you were doing. Closing shouldn’t be hard tonight as it was a slow evening. 

“Together?” you cross your arms. “Is this the part where you confess your undying love for me?”

“Y/N,” Jimin shakes his head. “I hate you.” he deadpans. “But…we agreed that it’s your turn.”

You know what Jimin is insinuating. Four months ago, it was Jimin who had the upper dominance. You were “his bitch”. This time, it was your turn. Should it have taken this long? Probably not. But, you were a busy person and so was Jimin. You weren’t going to be the one to go to him first - as stubborn as you were.

“Okay.” you say, the corner of your lips twitching upwards. “I’m sure I can find a slutty police costume.” you poke Jimin’s shoulder. “You’ll be the inmate.”

“That’s so basic.” Jimin rolls his eyes a bit, your touch lingering on his shoulder. He blinks a few times, even humming to himself as he thinks about the costumes. “Are you going to use the handcuffs on me?”

You roll your eyes and cannot help but laugh out at the change in Jimin’s demeanor or the way his voice drops a few tones. You cannot help but think about the idea of Jimin being the one whimpering for you, handcuffed so he couldn’t get his hands on you.

“Basic?” you hum. “How about we fit the theme then? We can both be cupids.” you wiggle your eyebrows. 

“Cupids? I’m not sure I trust a bitch like you with an arrow.” Jimin scoffs, but he does enjoy the idea. 

“My arrows won’t make you fall in love with me. They will make you feel other things.” you press the palm of your hand onto Jimin’s chest and allow it to linger for a moment, a glint in your eyes that causes Jimin to raise his brows. “Find the costumes.” you murmur, pushing him away a bit all the while your eyes remain on his.

“You’re such a teasing bitch, Y/N.” Jimin states, but he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t anticipating it.

Leaving Jimin in charge of the costume meant that, for you, it was free of charge. It also meant he had full control of your attire and you were hoping it wouldn’t be too slutty.

At first, you weren’t sure about it when Jimin came at you with what appeared to be lingerie and a pair of wings for you to wear. “It’s red.” you had told him with a raise of an eyebrow.  “Isn’t it supposed to be, I don’t know, white?”

“White is too pure for a whore like you.” was Jimin’s response, followed by a smirk. He wouldn’t tell you that he thought red would look good on you underneath the neon lights at the party. He didn’t want to gas your already big head up.

So you wore the red fishnets followed by the lingerie of the same color. He even gave you lace gloves to wear, stopping right at your elbows. 

At first, you were nervous to wear something so revealing in public. Jimin had convinced you that when Taehyung meant slutty, he meant it truthfully.

“I got you these, too.” Jimin stated as you looked over yourself in your hallway mirror. Your eyes had connected with his through the reflection. He’s holding a black, rectangular box in his hands. “To go with your costume.”

You turned to face him now and he handed over the box. Your eyes scanned the small, silver letters right in the middle of said box. Saint Laurent. You then looked up towards the man who’s waiting for you to open said box.

The heels are more of a wine color than a red, but it wouldn’t be noticeable at the party. The YSL letters along the heel catch your eyes immediately and you feel your eyes widening.

“These must’ve been expensive.” you told him with a swallow. “So not only are you my bitch tonight, but you’re also my paypig?”

“They were expensive.” Jimin responded, a low smirk forming onto his lips. “I’m sure I’ll get my money’s worth tonight.”

Arriving at the party alongside Jimin, you understood now that he wasn’t lying. The lights are flashing and there’s smoke lining the ground so even if what you were wearing was too revealing, it didn’t particularly matter.

Jimin appeared more of a traditional cupid, dressed in a long white cloak - or chlamys he said because he was Jimin and he needed to correct you - gold wrist cuffs and a gold shoulder belt. He also has wings that match your own.

“Y/N!” Taehyung greets over the loud music. He’s holding two red cups in his hands. One he gives to you and the other to Jimin after he takes a sip of it. “You look amazing! Finally someone who gives slutty but classy.”

You smile at Taehyung a bit shyly. He turns to Jimin and furrows a brow at him before snickering. “Have fun you two.” he says, winking. “Nice heels, Y/N.”

Jimin takes a sip of his drink, his eyes glaring at his friend as he walks off. Taehyung wouldn’t tell you how Jimin bought the heels for you prior to you being invited to the Hallowtine’s party. Or how he insisted that they couldn’t be regular heels or nothing about him was “regular”.

“How drunk are you trying to get?” Jimin asks, downing the rest of the drink. It’s a mixture that only Jungkook would’ve made. If it was Namjoon, it would taste bitter and strong of alcohol and leave it up to Hoseok, it would just be juice.

“You drove so.” you shrug your shoulders. “I’m following your lead.”

Jimin smirks a bit. “These parties go on all night, Y/N. Tae lets me sleep in the guest room.”

You lift a brow but don’t respond. Instead, you do the same as he and down the remaining liquid in your drink.

The party goes on with you and him doing exactly that. You and him - and even some of his friends - take shots as if they’re water. You play games with them, majority of them you lost - much to Jimin’s dismay as you and he were partners. You dance, too, finding that the large space with dancing bodies to be exciting. Everyone was already drunk and it was hard to feel self-conscious when the liquor was making you outgoing and sociable.

You were in the middle of unwrapping a lollipop when Jimin stood beside you. “Enjoying yourself?” he asks with a furrowed brow. “You’ve been dancing with them for over 30 minutes non-stop.”

Them being Jungkook’s girlfriend and Chaeyoung, who were already drunk. You had to admit you had the most fun with them, even if Jungkook had to carry his girlfriend out. Or if Chaeyoung had decided to call it a night and nap in the kitchen - only because she didn’t want to miss out on who won best costume.

“And you’ve been watching the entire time?” you put the red, heart shaped lollipop in your mouth. “That’s not creepy.” you say sarcastically.

Jimin tilts his head. He isn’t sure where his friends have gone and he knows Taehyung has no intentions of announcing the winners yet. That being said, he was tipsy, horny and you were being too much of a bitch right now.

“Huh…” you look at Jimin a bit closer, squinting your eyes. Even underneath the flashing lights, the look in his eyes is highly evident. You reach a hand out to touch his slightly uncovered chest, the cloak hiding little of it. “...you must want to fuck me.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, even if it was the truth. “I hope you didn’t think those heels were free.” he retorts. 

You smirk, glossy lips shining underneath the neon lights. “Don’t worry, I’ll wear them just for you in my next video.” a finger swipe up from Jimin’s chest right to his lips. You tap them playfully before turning on your heels. 

“Where are you going?” Jimin huffs, his body flushed. His legs work on autopilot as he follows you. 

“We should go somewhere to be alone, shouldn’t we?” you ask as you reach the kitchen. The alcohol appeared never ending and it had to be a sign of wealth because who else could truly afford all of this alone? Not including decorations, food and a $1000 cash prize.

You grab a bottle of champagne and shrug your shoulders. No one would miss it. 

“Lead us to the guest room.”

“Upstairs.” Jimin says, jutting his head to the left where the staircase was at. “To the left, last door.”

Jimin wants you to lead the way just so he can watch you from behind. The wings compliments your costume, a sensual look that looks almost ethereal. The neon lights cast a glow off of you that his tipsy mind is angered with himself for finding you appealing. 

The heels make your legs appear longer, Jimin thinks. Even from the loud music, he swears he can hear them click onto the tiled floor.

The guest room is large, you note upon opening the door. It’s clean and organized with a single, queen size bed right in the middle of it. On either side of said bed has two night stands, both holding decorative lamps. Right above the headboard is an oval shaped mirror that reflects the neon lights that shine inside when the door opens.

“It’s quiet.” you note once Jimin closes the door. The music is loud outside and it offers a muffled version from inside the bedroom that’s soothing. “Champagne?” you turn to face Jimin, raising the bottle.

Jimin nods, his eyes on you.

“Sit down.” you press, jutting your head towards the bed. 

“Hm, demanding.” Jimin does as he’s told. He passes by your, his arm brushing past yours and he sits onto the edge of the bed. 

You pop open the champagne and a bit of it spills. Jimin is unphased by the action and continues to look right up at you. You step closer to him, lifting the bottle to your lips and taking a sip.

Jimin watches the way a bit of it trails from the corner of your mouth and falls down your jawline. He takes a deep breath as you come closer. Your gloved hand reaches out for him and latches underneath his chin. You gently lift it up, a thumb lightly tapping at his plump lips. You lift the bottle to them.

Opening his mouth, Jimin’s eyes never leave yours as you pour the champagne into his mouth. The bubbling liquid fizzles onto his tongue and he swallows it whole when you’re done. He licks his lips as if savoring the taste. 

Your touch underneath his chin is hot. Your hands roam towards his cheek, a thumb running along his lips as you tilt your head. For a man, Jimin did have such plump lips that never appeared to be chapped - a thought you hated.

“It must be killing you to sit here.” you murmur, standing right between his parted legs. One knee lifts a bit so that you press it against the bed and right between his legs. You furrow your brows when you feel it - the bulge. Sure, Jimin’s costume covered a bit of his lower half, but you weren’t expecting this so soon. “Excited already?”

“It’s the alcohol.” Jimin retorts, already willing to fight against you. It was going to take a few tries to get him to submit, but you were a patient person. After all, only you could do it. 

“Shut up.”

Your knee presses against Jimin a bit - not too hard, but enough to get the man to click his mouth shut. The expression on his face would cause you to laugh if you weren’t determined to remain in character.

“You,” you snort. The bottle of champagne tightening in your grip. You lower your face so that you and Jimin are eye to eye. “want to call me a bitch so bad, don’t you?”

Jimin does - not in a malicious way. He never truly does mean it in that way - nor does he even intend on you knowing this, either. 

Jimin remains silent, his eyes flickering to your lips for a mere second before back to your eyes. You’re so close to him, your knee not letting up as it continues to graze against his painfully hard cock. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, attempting to control his breathing.

“Kiss me.”

It’s an action that Jimin doesn’t fight you on. Your lips have a bit of gloss to them surprisingly. After all the shots, snacks and overall partying you’ve done. They’re sticky, but sweet; tasting of cherries that he knows he would want to get another taste of when this was done and over with.

You deepened the kiss, gloved hand not falling from his chin. It’s an act of possession and neither of you appeared to care. Soon, your tongue and his is dancing along one another, hot and needily. You can feel his cock pulsing pathetically against your knee.

Aggressively, you shove Jimin away from you. The action causes him to grunt and nearly hiss at you, but he bites his tongue. You notice the action immediately and hide your giddiness.

“More champagne?” you ask with a quirked brow.

Jimin nods.

“Cat got your tongue?” you question with a scoff. “Use your words, Jimin.”

Jimin’s eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Yes…?” you were having a bit too much fun with this. “Where are your manners?”

“Yes. Please.” Jimin grits out, his right leg shaking. He was holding himself back in berating you like he usually does - an action that never bothers you. It’s something that he’s familiar with. 

“Good boy.” you say with a smirk. Jimin is taken aback by your words - more so because it causes his cock to jolt immediately once it leaves your mouth. 

You press the champagne bottle to your own lips, eyes never leaving Jimin’s. Droplets begin to fall from the corners of your lips again, dropping directly to your chest. Without thinking much, you lift the bottle more, allowing a bit - not too much to be messy - to fall onto your chest.

“Go on.” you say.

Jimin dives in instantly, his warm tongue licking up the champagne from your skin. He groans to himself as he dips lower between your breast, a hand reaching out so all he had to do is push your lingerie-

SMACK!

Jimin’s head is jerked to the side, a stinging in his face.

You were getting bold, having too much fun with you being the one on top. “You didn’t have permission to touch me, right?”

A part of you expects Jimin to either 1, hit you back or 2, berate you like he always does. 

You didn’t expect Jimin’s head to slowly turn back towards you, eyes dark, and for him to say; 

“Sorry.” in such a low, voice. “Can I…touch you?”

Jimin’s voice is pleading that it shocks you for a moment and shoots straight to your core.

Slowly, you exhale. “What do you want to do?”

Jimin’s cheeks are flushed. He glances away and you can tell he’s biting the inside of his cheek.

“I want to lick the champagne…off of you.” Jimin murmurs, cheeks a crimson color. “Please.”

Your lip twitches upwards. Slowly, you begin to repeat the action, this time placing your free hand behind Jimin’s head. He turns it back towards you as the champagne begins to slide down your breast, in his eyes slow motion.

Jimin’s mouth salivates and his eyes dart to yours, silently pleading. You nod your head and it doesn’t take Jimin much hesitation for his tongue to be right back on your skin. He licks the top of your breast, grunting at the taste before he dips his head lower. His hands work up your breast, tugging the lingering down so that they pool out of them. He doesn’t hesitate to engulf both of them into his hands and to suckle, the citrusy taste hitting his taste buds immediately.

You moan a bit at how starved Jimin appeared, suckling onto your breast as if his life depended on it. His hands squeezing the mounds as if they would disappear if he hadn’t. His eyes are closed, face stretched in utter bliss at being allowed to do this - to taste the champagne right from your breast. When the high (and alcohol) wears down, you were going to have to tease him about it.

Now, however, Jimin’s tongue continues to swirl onto your nipples with such needy greed, going from one to the other every few minutes. Your head is pushed back, moans releasing from your own parted lips, nearly forgetting just who was supposed to be in charge tonight. 

You couldn’t allow Jimin to regain control once more - not tonight when it was your night.

The hand that once kept Jimin against your chest entangles in his dark tresses and you yank him away from you. Jimin whines at the sudden action, but licks his lips when his eyes blinks open to look right at you.

“Too much?” Jimin quips. 

“You looked too happy.” you retort. “Can’t let you have too much fun.”

“Of course not. You’re a bitch.”

Jimin is taunting you, wanting to see what you’d do. Maybe pull his hair or slap him again. He never did that before - or expected to like it as much. Maybe doing this with someone you hate (maybe that was a strong word, he didn’t hate you truly) made it more fun.

“You talk too much.” you shove Jimin’s head away. You drop the bottle of champagne beside you before grabbing hold of the cloak Jimin was wearing and tugging it. It flies off of him, leaving him in his underwear. You quirk a brow. “And you call me a whore.”

A shiver runs through Jimin but he doesn’t allow it to dwell. He watches the way your face brightens.

“Lay down.”

Jimin does, eyes blinking towards the ceiling. He can hear the way your heels click against the floor. The bed has movement and it dips as you begin to climb it - climb onto him. Your gloved hands roam his chest and Jimin rolls his neck a bit.

“There’s only one way to shut a whore up.” you say, before dropping yourself onto Jimin’s face, clit right against his lips. He’s shocked, but would be lying if he didn’t find the action entirely hot.

Jimin understands just what he was meant to do in this situation, hot tongue flinging out to roam your wet clit. Your thighs cage him between your legs, right hand gripping his hair tightly. Instantly, his own hands hold onto your outer thighs, tongue plunging between your folds.

Jimin recalls the many times he’s watched you - live or during recorded videos you’ve uploaded - fuck yourself. How wet your pussy was. Even then, it caused his mouth to water at the thought of how good you might've tasted against his tongue. How he could have you quivering if he’d ever get the chance to. The last time he’s tasted you was months ago and he could never get enough; not even now.

Your stomach churns as Jimin’s tongue continues to devour you effortlessly. Your attempt to shut him up did exactly that with little push back. Your hips buckle a bit, wanting to feel more of Jimin’s willing tongue against your clit, eyes squeezed shut. Jimin was such an asshole - a cocky one at that. He knew how attractive he was. How intelligent and cunning he was. He understood every assignment, inside the classroom and out. It’s why you and he budded heads so often.

“S-stop.” you stutter, but Jimin doesn’t. He knows fully that you don’t want him to stop and neither does your pussy. His head, pushed firmly against the bed, rocks back and forth as his tongue lays flat against your clit. His eyes flicker open to look at your scrunched, familiar face to know you were about to cum all over his tongue. A taste he craved for.

You cum, must to your dismay, all over Jimin. You’re highly upset with yourself for allowing him to get you distracted enough that it happens. You choose to take said irritation out on him.

You push yourself away from Jimin, eyes dark. “You’re such a whore, Jimin. So greedy for my pussy that you’d do anything to have it.” 

You push yourself away from Jimin, the man licking his lips seductively. 

“You’re right.” Jimin says, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve missed your pussy.”

Your eyes widen a bit, not expecting him to admit it.

“I’ll never admit it in front of anyone.” Jimin murmurs, squinting his eyes to you. “I’ll continue to belittle you in front of everyone. I hate you.”

Your walls clench and you’re truly unsure how that makes you a bit horny.

“You hate me?” you say, amused. You lowered yourself so that you’re right in front of his clothed cock. You place a hand on it and it immediately jolts.

“No.” Jimin shakes his head, stomach churning at the sudden touch. “That’s also a lie. I hate the way you make me feel.”

Jimin must’ve been drunk or more than just the alcohol. 

“You’re the only person that successfully manages to come toe to toe with me in everything.” Jimin licks his lips once more, your taste still on him. 

You blink a few times. “Hm.” is all you say and without warning, you take out Jimin’s cock. It’s erect and pink - and oh so pretty. The tip is oozing with pre-cum that you just want to lick up. “Tell me more.”

Jimin swallows when he watches you take off your gloves and throw them aside. You wrap a hand around his cock.

“You,”

Jimin doesn’t get to say much because he watches you lay your tongue out to allow a trail of saliva to drop onto his tip. It trails down the shaft until it reaches your cuffed hand. You slide your enclosed palm up and down to lubricate his cock.

“-oh fuck.” Jimin groans.

“Speak or I’ll stop.” you warn, eyes hard. 

Jimin swallows again. “I-I,” he begins just as you begin to jack his cock. “...I don’t hate you, Y/N.” he repeats, but understands that he can’t have you stop now that you’re making him feel so good. “I…I hate myself for being so consumed by…fuck…by you.”

More words that shoot directly to your core. Jimin was oddly hot now, eyes squeezed shut while you forced a…confession out of him?

“Arguing with you is the only way I know how to express myself around you.” God, Jimin thinks. You weren’t making anything easy for him. 

Your tongue flickers against his tip and nearly laughs when Jimin flinches.

“Keep. Talking.” you grit, tongue twirling around his tip like you’ve done to the lollipop earlier.

“You know what the fuck you’re doing!” Jimin hisses, head lifting with hazy eyes as he catches suckle right onto the tip of his cock. “You’re…such a bitch, Y/N.” he groans, head slamming back against the bed. “And you drive me fucking crazy…you and those damn videos. I’ve watched you squirt more times than I can fucking count.”

“Good boy.”

Your mouth takes Jimin whole now, deciding maybe it was time to stop teasing him. He was being so good, after all. A completely sober and not so horny Jimin would’ve never admitted these things. 

Jimin whimpers, you calling him a ‘good boy’ just makes this situation worse (better). Your mouth is so warm and wet, fully devoted to now cater to him; even if it is just for a moment. You take him entirely into your throat, then lift up so that only his tip is in your mouth. You repeat the action, each time sucking even harder. A hand wraps around his shaft so that you can jack him as you come up.

“Your mouth feels so good.” Jimin whines, hand itching to touch you but he doesn’t want you to stop. “You’re so good at this, fuck,” Jimin groans. “you’re so good at everything.”

It must’ve hurt him to say that, you think as you continue to suckle onto his cock. Satisfaction flows through you as Jimin continues to babble on, intoxicated on more than just the alcohol.

Your mouth pops Jimin’s cock out from your lips, saliva pooling out along with it. 

Jimin shudders, chest heaving at how you stopped so abruptly.

“Who knew you felt this way.” you tease, a hand wrapping around his wet, hard cock. “When you sober up, I’ll have so much material to tease you on.”

Jimin knows this just as much as you do.

“If I didn’t know better…you’d be admitting to liking me.”

Only teasing him, of course. You would never believe that Jimin would like you outside of sexual encounters you and he share. But you did enjoy teasing him about what he has admitted to you.

“Would that be bad?” wasn’t what you were expecting from Jimin. If anything, it wouldn’t even be on your list of responses from the man.

Would that be bad?

Would it?

Well - no. It wouldn’t be bad, but weird. You and Jimin went at one another's neck so much that most people that knew you expected it. They waited for you to pipe in whenever Jimin spoke and vice versa. The tension between you two in the beginning slowly turned to something sexual; mainly because of Jimin watching you.

You bite your lip, unsure how to respond. Jimin doesn’t expect you to truly. Your words were true, you would tease him on end when this was said and over with and he’d do what he does best - talk shit, deny and deflect. 

“I’m going to sit on your cock.” you say randomly. “I’m going to fuck it until I cum.”

Jimin gulps, nodding his head feverishly. “Okay.” he says, voice dropping a few tones. “I want you to use my cock as you like.”

Fuck, you think. Pussy drunk Jimin was something else - so submissive with little to say besides complying. You could get used to this.

You climb onto Jimin, kicking off the heels you just realized you were still wearing. You’re facing him, Jimin notices, when you hover above him. You sit onto his cock slowly, pussy clenching until he’s fully inside of you.

Jimin’s hands dig into the sheets, lungs filling with air.

Satisfaction runs through you witnessing Jimin being so fucked out. You know how he felt when you were his bitch and you had to admit that it felt amazing. 

You rise and fall on Jimin’s cock, legs widening to assure he had a perfect view of it all. Jimin finds it hard to watch you, his mind flickering to the countless times he’s watched you through his phone screen. The way you’d fuck yourself with your dildo, rising and falling just the same way. Your face morphing to a one of pleasure, wet pussy dripping with lustful arousal…

Jimin groans, a hand reaching out to touch your clit. He cannot believe just how wet you were, thumb rubbing along your clit. 

“Your pussy’s so…” Jimin shakes his head, exhaling. “...pretty and wet.”

“You sound like the simp you always call Jungkook.”

Jimin snickers, but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, since you allow it, he continues to twirl his thumb around your clit.

“I want you to cum all over me.” Jimin murmurs. It isn’t demanding in the slightest. It’s pleading. His eyes are begging. “I want you cum all over my cock like you do with your dildo.”

A whimper releases from your throat, eyes widening slightly. Your hips roll onto Jimin’s cock, wishing he would just shut up - but no, he didn’t.

“I don’t even have to cum.” Jimin groans, looking seconds from doing just that. The thought of being used by you as if he was your own personal fuck toy was highly exciting. He’s watched you for so long - the amount of times he came just by you squirting was too much to count.

“You’re so obsessed with me, Jim Jim.” you giggle, head falling back to let out a quick whine. “This pussy has you wasting thousands on heels.”

“It’s not wasting if you have it, Y/N.” Jimin’s hands roam up to grip your breast. His stomach churns with you squeezing around his cock.

“I know you want to cum.” you quip, this time slamming your hands onto his shoulders to push him back. You continue to rise and fall onto his cock sloppily. “Cum with me since I’m feeling nice.”

You also wanted to feel him cum inside of you; to watch the way his face would turn to one of pure ecstasy.

Jimin’s hands catch hold of your hips as you pound right on top of him. Your lips were centimeters from his and you contemplate kissing him, but decide against it. You didn’t want to appear like you were thinking about the plumpness of his lips; how full and tinted they were or-

Jimin presses his lips against yours as he cums, splashing your walls with warm cum and you’re cumming right along with him, hips quivering. The kiss is deep, neither of you breaking apart for a long, long moment.

Your forehead lies against his, panting when your lips finally detach from his. You fall beside him and groan.

Jimin breathes heavily. “You okay?”

You nod your head slightly. “Yeah. You?”

Jimin was asking himself the same thing. He was going to feel the full effects of it tomorrow.

“Yeah.” Jimin answers truthfully. “Do you…want to go back to the party?” he asks awkwardly. The music is faint from behind the door. “I don’t think we won best costume.”

“Why?” you turn to face him. It wasn’t like you were expecting to truthfully. “I thought our costumes were great!”

“Of course it was.” Jimin snickers. “It’s us.” he says, and then blinks - because he actually said “us” instead of “me”. He was including you along with him - and you notice just as he does, a smirk forming onto your lips. “Tae would never let me win a contest. Even if it was rightfully won.”

You hum out a response. That was fair. It wasn’t like he needed the reward.

“This Hallowtine’s party was actually fun.” you place a hand onto Jimin’s naked chest. Your fingers tap softly. “I should thank Taehyung for inviting me.”

Jimin remains silent. He doesn’t tell you that Taehyung invited you because Jimin couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t say that to his friend, but he didn’t have to. Taehyung could see it for himself. 

“Are you staying here tonight?” you question once the silence settles. “I can take a lyft-”

“Dressed like that?” Jimin scoffs with a raised eyebrow. He raises to a seated position. “That sounds absurd.”

“Ah, so you do care.” you tease, batting your eyelashes at him. “And here I thought you were just pussy talking.”

Jimin feels his cheeks flush, but he wasn’t going to go back and forth with you now.

“We can stay here.” Jimin says with a glance. “Or, I can take you home.”

“Hm…it depends. If I go home, will you come?” you were being bold enough to ask. “The night isn’t over, Jim Jim. You’re still technically my bitch.”

Ungodly Hour Masterlist

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED: January 30, 2025.

→ NARRATED AUDIO:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: plausible deniability king hoseok, subtext, dropping slight innuendo with that voice, gentle teasing, double meaning, sexual tension

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

→ A/N: So. Listen. I was out there, freezing my ass off at the bus stop, cursing my life choices because why am I even going to the gym at ungodly hours??? And then—THEN—the bus just had the audacity to drive right past me. Love that. Amazing. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do: opened my notes app and started writing instead of using those 45 minutes to, idk, reconsider my entire existence. And thus, Off-Labels was born. This drabble? It’s about the kind of man who is dangerous in the most insidious way—intelligent, competent, and hiding behind a veneer of plausible deniability like it’s a damn art form. You know he knows what he’s doing to you. You know he’s aware of the effect he has. But can you prove it? No. Because he’s just so nice. So helpful. So unintentionally devastating to your nervous system. It’s honestly sick and twisted and exactly my type. Am I a menace? Absolutely. First installment in what might become a series because apparently I can't stop writing about competent men in medical settings using anatomical terms as foreplay. Will I be taking criticism? Absolutely not. ❤️‍🩹🩺

→ MINI SERIES: NEXT

PLAYLIST

You don’t believe in stories like in books.

Sure, you like to read them—disappear into them, let them pull you under like a riptide until you forget about deadlines and midterms and the existential dread of being a twenty-something who still doesn’t know what they’re doing.

But that’s all they are.

Stories.

Fantasies about tragic, fated loves and brooding billionaires and dangerous men with wings. You like them because they’re not real. Because it’s fun to pretend, for a little while, that you’re the kind of girl who’s got a winged fae warrior at her feet. Or a CEO husband who calls her darling in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows. Or—God forbid—her hot math teacher, who lets her stay after class for extra lessons.

Or your brother’s best friend’s secret hookup.

Not that you’re thinking about that one.

Not that it would even be your case.

You shift on the couch, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your brother’s old hoodie. It’s massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the faded fabric smelling like dust and detergent.

Perfect. The ideal uniform for an evening of doing absolutely nothing.

Your e-reader is dead, so you’ve resorted to flipping through some random paperback you found wedged under the coffee table, something with an aggressively shirtless man on the cover. You’re only half-paying attention, your eyes skimming over the words without really absorbing them.

Caleb should be home soon. Probably. He has class—or he says he has class, but you’re not entirely convinced. He’s in that phase of university where it’s mostly networking and group projects and going out more than actually studying.

Not that you care. He does his thing, you do yours.

A sharp knock at the door pulls you out of your haze.

You ignore it. Caleb has keys. If he forgot them, that’s his problem.

The knock comes again. Then the doorbell rings.

You groan, untangling yourself from the blanket and shuffling toward the door with all the grace of a sleep-deprived goblin. Your hair is a mess, your socks don’t match, and you’re fairly certain you have crumbs on your face from earlier. Good. Whoever’s on the other side can suffer.

Except—

It’s not Caleb.

It’s Hoseok.

Oh.

You freeze, hand still gripping the doorknob, brain buffering at the sight of him standing there, all easy confidence and warm eyes and—why does he always look so put together? It’s unfair. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, nothing special, but it fits him just right, and his hair is slightly tousled, like he just ran a hand through it, and—

Stop.

You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to act like a normal human person.

“Uh,” you say, which is a stellar start.

Hoseok smiles. “Hey.”

He has the kind of voice that makes people listen, rich and smooth, the kind that carries even when he’s speaking softly. Which he is now, like he knows you spook easily.

“Caleb’s not here,” you blurt out.

He tilts his head, amused. “Yeah, I figured.”

Right. Obviously. Because if Caleb were here, he’d be the one answering the door.

You scramble for something else to say, but your brain is blank, completely derailed by the fact that he’s here. In your doorway. Looking at you. And you must look insane—your hair sticking up in weird directions, drowning in a hoodie that is definitely not yours.

And he’s still smiling. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.

You clear your throat, gripping the edge of the door. “Um. Did you—need something?”

Hoseok shifts, rocking back on his heels. “I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by, see if Caleb was around.” A pause. “And you, too.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot.

You, too.

You, too.

You swallow. “Oh. Right. Cool. That’s—cool.”

His smile twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

You want to throw yourself into traffic.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, ever-polite, ever-easygoing.

You should say no. Caleb’s not here, and even though Hoseok is Caleb’s best friend—and a genuinely nice person, thoughtful and reliable and the kind of guy who remembers your favorite coffee order—something about being alone with him makes your stomach twist.

But saying no would be weird.

So you step back. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

He steps inside, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Or maybe you’re just too aware of him—his presence, the faint scent of clean laundry and something warmer, something mellow. He’s always been like this, always drawn your attention whether you wanted him to or not.

You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like he’s been here a hundred times before. And he has, technically, but not like this. Not without Caleb.

Hoseok glances at the book on the coffee table. “Good?”

You stare at it, momentarily forgetting what book it even is. “Uh. Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the cover. His smile turns amused.

Heat floods your face.

"Interesting choice.”

You freeze. A slow, creeping horror slithers up your spine. Because you didn’t even look at the book before picking it up—you just grabbed whatever you had lying around, assuming it was something boring, something safe—

And now Hoseok is holding a novel titled My Professor’s Secret Temptation.

Oh.

Oh, you actually might be sick.

You scramble for something—anything—to say, but the words wedge themselves somewhere between your throat and your rapidly spiraling embarrassment.

Hoseok flips the book over, scanning the back cover with a curious hum. “Didn’t take you for the forbidden romance type.”

You want the ground to open up. You want to disintegrate.

“I—I didn’t even read it!” you blurt out, a little too fast, a little too desperate. “I wasn’t paying attention, I just grabbed something random, and—and it’s not—”

Hoseok glances at you, amused but not in a mean way, just…interested? "Oh, yeah?”

You nod. Aggressively. “Yes.”

His mouth presses into something thoughtful, like he believes you, but there’s still a flicker of amusement in his expression, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this new information.

“Huh.” He flips through a few pages idly, head tilting. “He’s pretty bold, huh?”

Your stomach drops. “Who?”

“The professor.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing, incapable of forming a coherent thought.

Hoseok just nods, easy, unbothered. “Some of these lines are intense,” he muses, flipping another page. “Do real professors talk like this?”

You are going to die. Right here. On the floor.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

He hums again, like he’s genuinely considering it, then—just as casually as everything else—he looks up and says, “You think he’s hot?”

Your heart stops.

Not in a teasing way. Not in a mean way. Just…like it’s a normal question. Like this is just an easy, natural conversation between two people who absolutely do not need to be having this conversation.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Hoseok’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smirk, not a knowing smile—just quiet amusement, like this whole situation is genuinely kind of funny, and he doesn’t think it’s a big deal at all.

“Relax,” he says, closing the book with a soft thump. “I won’t tell Caleb.”

It’s so casual. So reassuring.

Like he really, really isn’t trying to mess with you.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Hoseok sets the book down with deliberate care, spine aligned parallel to the edge of the coffee table like he’s arranging museum artifacts. Your traitorous eyes track the flex of tendons in his wrist—medical resident hands, steady and precise, the kind that’ve probably held beating hearts in ORs. You bite the inside of your cheek until copper blooms.

He glances at the sofa.

You glance at the sofa.

Three cushions. Two throw pillows. Seventy-two inches of fabric that suddenly feels like the Grand Canyon between acceptable and catastrophic.

“Mind if I…?” He gestures to the spot beside your abandoned blanket nest, already moving before you nod.

The springs creak faintly as he sinks into the middle cushion, thighs spreading in that effortless way men do—knees wide, elbows propped, phone balanced on his lap. You sit next to him—two cushions away—and watch his thumb scroll through messages, the screen’s blue light catching the silver ring he always wears on his index finger. Surgical steel, he’d told you once when you’d asked. Sterile. Practical.

Practical.

Practical like the way his left knee now brushes the edge of your blanket. Practical like the faint cedar-and-disinfectant scent of his cologne. Practical like the half-inch of skin exposed when his hoodie rides up as he stretches his arms behind his head.

Don’t look.

You look.

Stop looking.

He shifts, a subtle roll of his hips that has no business being this distracting. The movement pulls the denim taut across his thighs, and you try—really, genuinely try—to keep your eyes anywhere else. The ceiling. The floor. The stack of medical textbooks by the TV. Anything but the way his thumb now absently traces the inner seam of his jeans.

“Told Caleb I’d wait,” he says, tilting his head toward you. The motion makes his throat work—Adam’s apple bobbing, chin catching gold in the lamplight. “Movie night. You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

Your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with felt. “I—I have… readings.”

“Readings.” His mouth shapes the word like it’s fascinating.

“For… neuroanatomy.” You gesture vaguely toward your backpack slumped by the TV stand, half-buried under a sweatshirt you’ve been using as a pillow. “Midterm next week.”

He hums, low and considering. “Limbic system?”

“Hippocampus. Amygdala. All the… emotional bits.”

“Ah.” His smile softens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “The parts that make you want to throw textbooks at walls.”

You blink. “You… remember?”

“Your first-year meltdown over the cranial nerves? Yeah.” He chuckles, warm and rasping. “You called them ‘twelve little traitors’ and threatened to switch to art history.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’d forgotten he’d been there that night—Caleb dragging him along for a pizza run, finding you knee-deep in flashcards and tears. Hoseok had quietly made tea while Caleb joked about selling your cadaver lab notes on eBay.

“Still think about it sometimes,” you mutter, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Art history sounds peaceful. No one dies in art history.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you’d miss this.”

“Miss what? The sleep deprivation? The existential dread?”

“The way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to memorize Brodmann areas.”

Your hands freeze.

He’s looking at you now—not the performative eye contact of someone making conversation, but the kind that pins you in place. Clinical. Observant. Like he’s cataloging your reaction.

“I don’t… scrunch,” you say weakly.

“You do.” His knee nudges the blanket again. Accidentally. Probably. “It’s cute.”

The air conditioner kicks on. You count the vents in the ceiling. Eight. Eight is a safe number. Eight is not the number of times you’ve imagined him saying that word in different contexts.

Cute.

Cute.

Cute.

Your lungs forget how to oxygenate.

Hoseok’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then sighs. “Caleb’s running late. Some study group thing.”

“Oh.”

“You hungry?”

“What?”

He’s already standing, rolling his shoulders in a stretch that pulls his hoodie taut across his chest. “I’ll make ramyeon. You like the kimchi kind, right?”

You stare.

He’s in your kitchen now, rummaging through cabinets with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Which he has—game nights, birthday parties, that one time Caleb got food poisoning and Hoseok stayed over to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

But this is different.

This is him pulling two bowls from the shelf you can’t reach without a step stool. This is him filling the kettle with exactly 500ml of water because he knows your stove runs hot. This is him glancing over his shoulder to ask, “Soft or firm noodles?” like it’s a question that matters.

“Soft,” you croak.

He nods, turning back to the counter. You watch his hands—capable, unhurried—tearing seasoning packets with his teeth. The steam fogs his glasses when he leans over the pot, and he pushes them up into his hair, revealing the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Bike accident, he’d said when you’d asked. Twelve years old. Thought he could jump the curb like X-Games.

You’d dreamed about that scar for weeks afterward.

“Here.” He sets the bowl in front of you, chopsticks balanced across the rim. “Careful, it’s hot.”

You murmur thanks, staring at the swirling red broth. He sits closer this time—one cushion away instead of two. His knee brushes yours when he leans forward to blow on his noodles.

Accident, you tell yourself. Always accidents.

The TV murmurs in the background, some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. Hoseok asks about your classes, and you answer in staccato sentences, hyper-aware of the way his sleeve brushes your arm when he reaches for the water glass.

“—and Dr. Park’s lectures are killing me,” you hear yourself say, chopsticks hovering over uneaten noodles. “She goes so fast, and the diagrams…”

“Want me to quiz you?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye—the same one he gets when Caleb challenges him to Mario Kart. “I handled multiple neuro cases last year. Could walk you through the basal ganglia.”

“You’re… busy.”

“Not really.” He sets his bowl aside, rolling up his sleeves. Your pulse thrums at the reveal of his forearms—dusting of dark hair, veins mapping paths you shouldn’t be tracing. “C’mon. Hit me with your worst.”

It’s a mistake.

You know it’s a mistake even as you fetch your notes, even as he pats the space beside him. Even as his shoulder presses against yours, radiating heat through three layers of fabric.

“Okay.” He scans your color-coded flashcards. “First question. What structure connects the hippocampus to the mammillary bodies?”

“F-fornix,” you stammer.

“Good.” His finger taps the next card. “Main neurotransmitter in the substantia nigra?”

“Dopamine.”

“And loss of dopamine here causes…”

“Parkinson’s.”

“Nice.” He shifts, knee pressing into yours. “Now point to your amygdala.”

You freeze. “What?”

“On your head. Show me where it is.”

“I—it’s—it’s medial temporal lobe, so…” You hover a hand near your right temple, acutely aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “Here? Ish?”

His chuckle vibrates through the couch. “Ish.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

You glare at him. He grins back, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and something in your chest cracks open.

“Medial,” he says softly, reaching over to adjust your hand. His fingers graze your wrist—brief, clinical, devastating. “Deeper. Protected.”

You stop breathing.

The documentary narrator drones on about bioluminescent jellyfish. Hoseok’s thumb brushes your pulse point.

Accident.

Always accidents.

Then his phone rings.

You jerk back like you’ve been shocked. Hoseok answers with a calm, “Yeah?” while you stare at your knees, pretending your entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting.

“Caleb’s downstairs,” he says, standing. “Forgot his keys again.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He pauses, head tilted. For a horrifying moment, you think he’ll call you out—on the shaking hands, the flushed cheeks, the way you’re clinging to a pillow like it’s a life raft.

But he just smiles. Gentle. Endless. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You collapse sideways onto the couch, pressing your face into the cushion that still holds the warmth of him. Somewhere in the hallway, the elevator dings. Laughter floats up from the parking lot.

Four years.

Four years of this.

Four years of almosts and maybes and don’t be stupid, he’s just being nice.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Caleb:

𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?? 𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚍. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You type no with trembling fingers.

The couch creaks as you curl into yourself, knees to chest, forehead pressed against the spot where his ring had left a faint indentation in the upholstery.

Deeper.

Protected.

Somewhere in your medial temporal lobe, dopamine fires for all the wrong reasons.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[bergandysam]

Kim Seokjin Fic Recs

‼️18+ minors DNI, if you choose to anyways, PLEASE be careful. try to heed our warnings, we have them for a reason‼️

More Recs Here

he’s insanely good looking your honour

[not in any particular order] [if any users would like me to remove their post from this list please let me know and i will do so immediately!]

thank you daddy @ktheist 19k

sugar daddy!seokjin, WHEEWWW, small angst, hella smut tho LOLL, 9 YEAR AGE GAP!, they’re both horny fucks,

fast lane @yminie 20.6k

racer!seokjin, enemies2lovers, angst, smut !!!!!short depictions of car accidents!!!!!, jin is a PLAYA, reader really hates his guts LOLL

cherry topper @kth1 17.6k

friends2lovers, longtime pining, college!au, reader works at his family’s candy shop :)) fluff, angst, SMUT, reader is dense as hell LOLL

every year @another-army-spot 15.6k

childhood bff2L, chef!seokjin, a yearly new year’s eve party!!, hard fluff, smutty angst, they both grew up hella rich.

final sleigh @floralseokjin 23.3k

coworkers, e2l, reader very much hates seokjin LOLLL, forced proximity fanfic 🤭🤭 smut, fluff(?), angst in Y/N is petty LMAO, it’s christmas!

stuck with you @taleasnewastime 29.6k

strangers2lovers, reader is grumpy :(, they’re stuck in a city they don’t want to be in, Jin is a raining ball of sunshine, angst, smut, fluff, angst. happy ending :)

MENTIONS OF DEATH!

small tuna fish @floralseokjin 17.1k

college!au, jin is a GOOD nice guy, he’s so jinny, FLUFF x10000, smut too LOL, jin is a cutie, he’s inexperienced, there’s a charity car wash too 🤪

warm this winter @jamaisjoons 51.6k

s2l, this was so cute, jk is such a dumbass, but it’s okay seokjin is here to save the day. fluff, angst, SMUT. it just smacks u in the fuckin face.

lost and found @taleasnewastime 21.2k

s2l, seokjin owns a silly lil shop cuz he’s a silly lil guy, reader was cheated on, fluff, angst, they’re so cute. jimin is there too! oneshot.

you guys don’t understand how fucking much i love this story. i’ve re-read it more times than i can count. i think about this Jin once a week

made up love song @floralseokjin series

dilf!seokjin, teacher!reader, arin is saur cute, angsty :(, but fluffy!!! n very smutty, lots of fluff with arin, seokjins ex >:(

turn back time @raplinesmoon 13.3k

seokjin accidentally fast forwards time, smut, angsty fluff, reader is a doctor, JIN POPS A SEMI 💀💀💀💀

sit. stay. @daechwitatamic 14k

dog owners!!!, they live in the same building, jin just wants to help MC, miscommunication :(, fluff, angst, smut, more fluff. literally. cuz dogs. i love this jinnie sooo much

the ikea test @yoon-bug 9.1k

they’re dating, hoseok was right 💀, reader gets upset with seokjin, jin saves the day!!, and then screws the HELL out of MC, so.. smut, fluff too :)

last november @kithtaehyung 24.7k 😭😭

god. exes2l, angst and um oh more angst, smut, all ends well, they’re on a holiday trip with tha gang.

ryen NEVER misses. masterpiece after masterpiece.

the platonic collection @joheunsaram mini series

FWB2L, MC is kinda… she’s kinda dense LOL, seokjin is a cutie, smut, fluff

off limits @floralseokjin series

brothers best friend!seokjin, they’re hiding :(, FWB2L, angst angst angst, yoongi gets puNCHED, smut, readers brother is overprotective, lil fluff

don’t go baking my heart @candlewaxandp0lar0ids 14.7k

i don’t think u understand i love this seokjin. JK is a cutie, S2L, jinnie owns a bakery and is the master of puns, kinda angsty, fluff, they’re also IDIOTS. lil smut

cupids on holiday @persphonesorchid 17k

cupid!seokjin, fluff, angst :(, smut, E2L?? ily jin. but i HATE U. but ily.

all i don’t want for christmas is you @minisugakoobies 23.7k

coworkers AU!, E2L, crack, fluff, smut, jin has a big… ego.. y’all. Y/N pisses me the hell off, but they’re SO CUTE 😭

glazed and dazed @floralseokjin 30.3k

um. PORNSTAR SEOKJIN. thank you that’s all, jk, seokjin ☹️, obviously smut, but they’re fluffy n cute i promise.

the devil wears armani @floralseokjin 65k series

WHEW this one is a doozy, devil!jin, jimin is there too, very much smut smut smut, angsty, fluffy, seokjin has a soft spot.

like i said at the end of my last fic rec post, if any of you have recommendations for me, please send them through!! my inbox is OPEN and i am always looking for more things to read!!! 🫶🫶

[pars-ley]

A new BTS Collab event hosted by myself and @anyamaris

Proof. The up and coming hot new music company born from the dreams of seven friends: the wealthy Kim Brothers- Seokjin, Namjoon and Taehyung along with their half-brother Jungkook, their cousin Jimin and two friends from school, Yoongi and Hoseok.

Each of them are very dedicated to their careers, and yet, there is something lacking in all of their personal lives. While they created something together as a team, every one of them will have to face their own trials when it comes to matters of the heart.

*Links will be added as they're posted. Individual posting dates TBD

Title: Loosen up

Author: @colormepurplex2

Pairing: CEO!Namjoon x Personal Assistant!Reader

Genre(s): CEO AU; boss/assistant; Angst; fluff; Smut

WC: TBD

Summary: Namjoon is uptight, strait-laced, and far too serious. He knows it, his business partners and family know it, and, as his personal assistant, you know it better than any of them. So, what do you do when he asks—no, *begs*—for you to help him loosen up a little?

Title: A pinch of pixie dust

Author: @remedyx

Pairing: CEO!Seokjin x Barista!Reader

Genre(s): Grumpy/Sunshine; Fluff; Comedy; Smut; Comfort

WC: TBD

Summary: Jin's life was structured around routine. He preferred it that way. A rigid businessman in public and private meets his match in a vivacious barista employed at the coffee shop he stops in at every morning. She flips his world on its axis and forces him to question everything he thought he wanted. But will he let her melt the ice around his heart and can love brew where it's least expected?

Title: Looking in

Author: @anyamaris

Pairing: CEO!Taehyung x Childhood Friend!Reader

Genre(s): Unrequited love; angst; smut

WC: TBD

Summary: Returning home after years at University, you’re eager to establish your own business and reconnect with your long time friends. Surprisingly, your childhood crush has developed into something more mature, but there’s just one catch. He’s in an arranged marriage with your best friend.

Title: Beautiful Mistakes

Author: @lo1k-diamonds

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi x Songwriter!Reader

Genre(s): Co-workers to lovers; Angst; Smut

WC: TBD

Summary: Yoongi wouldn't be caught dead meddling in people's lives, but once he sees you on that screen, he has to help you somehow. It's an impulse, a mistake. The kind that ruins everything for you. He can't undo it, but he can help you turn your life around, even if he can't tell you why.

Title: Rhythm reborn

Author: @moonleeai

Pairing: Lead Choreographer!Hoseok x Ex-girlfriend!Reader

Genre(s): Second chance AU; angst, smut, fluff

WC: TBD

Summary: You took a chance on love, but Hoseok’s relentless pursuit of success pulls you apart, leaving both of you tangled in loneliness. Yet, beneath the weight of pain and silence, a fragile hope flickers—a chance to rediscover the rhythm that connects the heart, offering a second chance at love.

Title: Promise

Author: @pars-ley

Pairing: Lead Lyricist!Jimin x Family Friend!Reader

Genre(s): Arranged marriage AU; love triangle; mutual pining; angst; fluff; smut

WC: TBD

Summary: Jimin has been a constant in your life ever since you can remember. He's the person you go to in times of need, the one you trust more than anyone and the one you fantasise about spending your life with. If you gave him the chance you know he'd jump at a life with you too. Sounds perfect, right? Just one problem…you're betrothed to his cousin.

Title: Who...

Author: @mrsparkjimin18

Pairing: Idol!Jungkook x Older!Reader

Genre(s): Forbidden love/taboo; age gap reader; Smut; Angst

WC: TBD

Summary: You never expected to see him again – not like this. No longer a little boy, but a man. And not just any man…the one you can’t seem to ignore. There’s a line between your fates. Drawn by time, by age, by everything you’re supposed to be. But this – whatever this is – feels like the kind of choice that changes everything. If you take one step closer, there may be no turning back…

[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | teaser

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, angst, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs, other chapter specific tags

word count: 1k

notes: right soo... this fic was not apart of the poll i put out BUT i did manage to finally write something so you can't say anything (writer's block has been kicking my ass lately, study break was just a result of my horniness loll). this is j a teaser so if we like this, i’ll prioritise it, if not, it’ll still get written, just a bit slower! enjoy reading my angels <333

ps. kiara is pronounced like tiara, just with a k

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

The road stretches out ahead, long and quiet, humming under the tires. You lean into the car door, forehead pressed against the glass, fingers mindlessly tugging at the threads on the hem of your shorts.

Summer air seeps through the half-cracked open window, warm and heavy with the scent of trees and sun-baked asphalt.

You should be excited. Everyone else is.

A full week away — just your group, no classes, no work shifts, no group projects hanging over anyone’s head for the first time in four years. A final trip before the “real world” starts to pull everyone in different directions.

But your stomach’s been tight since the moment you packed your bag. And now, with every mile you put between yourself and home, it just gets worse.

“You’re really quiet,” Kiara says, glancing at you from the driver’s seat. She’s got one hand on the wheel, the other flipping the volume knob down on the music. “Like... unusually quiet. Do I need to be concerned?”

You shake your head without looking at her. “Nah. Just tired.”

Kiara makes a sound like she doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t press, and you're grateful for it.

You glance over at her. She’s in an oversized T-shirt, dark brown hair falling in curls past her shoulders, sunglasses balanced on top of her head instead of over her eyes.

“I thought you’d be in full DJ mode by now,” you say, nodding toward her phone. “Where’s the summer playlist?”

She smirks. “I’m easing you into it. Jimin says my music tastes give him whiplash.”

“He has a point.”

She scoffs. “Please. Hoseok says my music’s amazing.”

“He says that about everything you do," you say with a smile.

She shrugs, casual. “He’s not wrong.”

It’s adorable how hopelessly smitten they are. Even after a year together, Hoseok still looks at Kiara like she hung the stars.

You remember when they finally got together, after years of dancing around it. Everyone in the friend group had seen it coming — everyone except them.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Kiara laughs, and you can’t help but join in. For a second, the knot in your chest loosens. Just a little.

"Speaking of Hoseok," you start, glancing over at her. “How come he's not coming with you?”

She sighs. “Shift at work. He tried to switch but his manager’s being a dick. He’ll drive up tomorrow morning.”

You nod. “That sucks.”

She hums in agreement, but you’re already half-lost in your thoughts.

As much as you feel bad for Hoseok, you're quietly grateful Kiara asked you to come with her. The idea of doing this drive alone — just you, a quiet car, and way too much time to sit with everything you haven’t let yourself feel — would’ve made the weight in your chest unbearable.

She hasn’t said much, but she’s always had good timing. Maybe she didn’t even realise how much you needed the company. Or maybe she did.

“Lucky me, I got upgraded,” you say lightly.

She grins. “Damn right you did.”

The playlist switches songs, something soft and nostalgic. You stare out the window again, at the lazy sway of trees and the occasional flicker of a passing car.

“I can’t believe we actually pulled this trip off,” Kiara says, after a beat. “Twelve people committing to anything at the same time? Miracle.”

You nod. “Taehyung’s been talking about it since first year.”

“Yeah, and threatening to disown us if anyone bailed.”

You huff out a small laugh.

Back when this trip was just an idea tossed around during late-night study sessions and half-finished group projects, you'd been genuinely excited — borderline giddy, even. The promise of a full week at a fancy resort with your closest friends had felt like the perfect reward after years of deadlines, breakdowns, and pulling all-nighters on cheap coffee and instant noodles.

It was one of those plans that didn’t feel real at first — the kind of thing you talk about just to survive the semester — but then slowly, it started taking shape. Rooms were booked. Deposits paid. Group chats flooded with outfit ideas and packing lists.

You remember counting down the months, then the weeks. You’d imagined bonfires and inside jokes, sunsets by the water, slow mornings in a warm bed.

Back then, this trip had felt like the light at the end of a very long tunnel. Something to look forward to. Something certain.

Now, you can barely keep the dread from crawling up your throat.

“You sure you’re good?” Kiara asks again, gentler this time.

You blink, pulled back to the present. “Yeah. Just... a lot on my mind.”

Again, she doesn’t push. Just gives you a side glance and says, “Well, don’t overthink it. We’ve got a whole week of sun, overpriced cocktails, and probably at least one group fight. You’ll be fine.”

You offer a small smile. “Yeah, you're right. I’ll be fine.”

But your stomach’s still a mess, and the name you’ve been avoiding thinking about drags itself right back to the front of your mind.

Jungkook.

You haven’t seen him in a month.

Not since it ended.

And in about an hour, you’re going to be standing under the same roof as him — spending an entire week in the same space, breathing the same air, pretending it doesn’t feel like your insides are still bruised from the last time you spoke.

A small, irrational part of you hopes he won’t show. That something will come up. That he’ll decide it’s not worth it.

But you know him. He’ll be there.

Of course he will.

Kiara says something — probably teasing, probably meant to distract you — and you laugh on instinct. Keep the smile on your face, even as dread pools low in your gut.

This was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime.

You glance out the window again, the road narrowing in the distance.

Now, a part of you can't stop looking for the nearest exit.

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taglist | click here to join: @thegreatdepressionme

[btsfests]

Daddy's Home Fest

There's no better time than when daddy is home.

DILF BTS is coming to a Tumblr near you Spring 2024!

♡ Title: Before, Now and After

♡ Pairing: Alpha Gang Boss!Yoongi x Omega Maid!Seokjin

♡ Rating: 18+

♡ Genre: gang au, dead dove, parent au, a/b/o | angst, fluff, smut

♡ Summary: As the leader of the infamous Bangtan, Yoongi is untouchable and lives life as he pleases. He thinks he has it all until the tall and broad shoulder omegan maid, Kim Seokjin walks into his office and makes Yoongi second guess what he wants in life.

by @sweetestofchaos

Daddy Yoongi and Daddy Seokjin came home June 2. Read Here

♡ Title: Daddy, Daughter, and Dewey Decimals

♡ Pairing: Single Dad!Namjoon x (f)reader

♡ Rating: 18+

♡ Genre: Parent AU, Fluff, Smut, Mutual Pining

♡ Summary: I adored the daddy and daughter duo that came to visit me every week at the library. Sunhee was cute and vivacious and her dad was every single woman's dream. A simple request, one late night, and a slip of the tongue revealing it wasn't just one-sided attraction.

by @remedyx

♡ Title: Dirty Laundry

♡ Pairing: Seokjin x f. reader

♡ Rating: 18+

♡ Genre: Slice of life, established married couple, PWP

♡ Summary: When you come across your daughter and Seokjin having a princess-themed tea party, you can't help but fall in love with your husband a little more. It helps that you find him absolutely ravishing in the little pink dress he wears too.

by @sailoryooons

♡ Title: Love Blooms

♡ Pairing: Jin x Hoseok

♡ Rating: MA

♡ Genre: Divorced, single father AU | angst, fluff, smut

♡ Summary: Summary: Divorced and lost, Jin grapples with self-discovery and single fatherhood. Then, sunshine arrives in the form of Hoseok, helping him explore his desires and build a found family. Their love faces challenges - ex-wife drama, societal disapproval - but together they prove love and acceptance can bloom even in unexpected gardens

by @downbad4yoongi

Daddy Hoseok and Daddy Seokjin came home April 26. Read here!

♡ Title: Lose You to Love Me

♡ Pairing: Yoongi x f! Reader

♡ Rating: 🔞

♡ Genre: Smut, Fluff, Angst

♡ Summary: Yoongi thought he had everything. The woman of his dreams whom he gave everything for. The sweetest Princess who became his whole world the minute she was born and a career he can say he's happy in but what happens when it all comes crumbling down when one small secret blows his marriage open?

by @jmvore

♡ Title: Off Limits

♡ Pairing: Female Reader x Seokjin

♡ Rating: 18+

♡ Genre: smut, porn with very little plot

♡ Summary: You are visiting your family over spring break and discover that the family you used to babysit for are separated. Does this mean Mister Kim is no longer off limits?

by @theharrowing

♡ Title: podcast

♡ Pairing: single father!Namjoon x f! reader

♡ Rating: 18+

♡ Genre: single father AU | fluff, angst, smut, slow burn

♡ Summary: You and Namjoon keep bumping into each other at multiple instances, as if destined to. In a world where past loves and current responsibilities intertwine, Namjoon navigates the complexities of single fatherhood, cherishing the moments with his daughter, Nari, while reflecting on lost love through his popular podcast, "A Loveless Lover." A chance encounter at a daycare center brings him face to face with you, sparking a connection rooted in compassion and shared moments of vulnerability. As their worlds collide, the possibility of new beginnings looms, challenging Namjoon and you to confront the past and consider the future with newfound hope.

by @hobipaint

♡ Title: sakura 🌸

♡ Pairing: king!yoongi x (f) reader

♡ Rating: 18+

♡ Genre: mature, fluff, angst, pining

♡ Summary: yoongi could never figure out how could a sakura tree bloom right on his son’s seventh birthday. logically, atleast, for his kingdom’s soil wasn't blessed enough for beautiful flora; however, when his inspection rounds reveal a trip totally unexpected, and in a crescendo of buried memories, his love for the tree gets as bright as the petals of the blossom.

by @liveyun

♡ Title: Shatter With Me

♡ Pairing: Model!Jungkook x Surrogate!f.Reader

♡ Rating: MA 18+

♡ Genre: Best Friend's Husband, Surrogacy AU | heavy angst, smut, mild fluff

♡ Summary: Your best friend, Jiyoon, and her husband, Jungkook, have faced years of hardship trying to start a family. In a last-ditch effort to have their dream life, they seek solace in surrogacy. Wanting to see your best friend smile, you offer to become the bright beacon at the end of the tunnel, giving them what they have always wanted. But what happens when you begin to shine your light on their darkness? Things aren’t always as they seem—happiness can be a façade, shattering under the lightest pressure.

by @colormepurplex2

Daddy Jungkook came home April 24. Read here!

♡ Title: Since Day One

♡ Pairing: teacher!jimin x teacher! f. reader

♡ rating: 18+

♡ Genre: enemies to lovers, coworker au, single father au

♡ Summary: Being a Pre-K teacher is no easy feat, but Jimin is always up for the challenge. However, on his first day on the job, he makes an enemy in the parking lot before he even sets foot inside the building. Looks like this school year won’t be all sunshine and rainbows after all.

by @jjungkookislife

Daddy Jimin came home April 6. Read here!

♡ Title: baby fangs

♡ Pairing: Jimin x Jungkook

♡ Rating: Explicit/18+

♡ Genre: Urban fantasy, vampires, strangers to lovers, angst, smut

♡ Summary: As a human, Jungkook thought life was meaningless. It isn’t until he dies that he finds something worth living for: the family he never had.

by @gimmethatagustd

[werezmastarbucks]

flowers over boys masterlist

Agust D!yoongi x f!army!reader slowburn, friends!bts x f!reader

summary: time and space travelling is hectic, fun and very often dangerous as you never know where you'll end up. it only gets more complicated (sometimes boring) because the only way to return to your timeline from an alien dimension is to die. this time you end up in Joseon, where king Min doesn't really appreciate your 21st century habits.

tags/warnings: time/space travel, isekai, reader is an army, bts Joseon AU, agust d, all bts are there, dark!Hoseok, inequality, humor, violence, hierarchical society, reader takes up work as a gardener, unserious reader, almost invincible reader - i was writing it for pure fun; everybody is a little sexist and classist because it's duh Joseon. not historically accurate, the reader almost literally ends up in the Daechwita music video. i was writing it to unload the stress of spring so. if it gets ridiculous, that was the design. unfinished for now, idk when i will complete it lol

music: made this playlist for another story i never wrote, but if it fits i sits

tangerine

black pines

pomegranates

bad seed

peaches

plucking of poison weeds

bloom

oriental lily

papaya

stuck on a tree

i am running out of plant themed titles

horseradish behaviour

warm shade of the crown

oilve branch

saplings

bamboo

broken bark

last straw

...