#jungkook

[jkwrites-m]

Welcome Home

Pairing: Jungkook x female reader

Genre: established relationship, fluff, smut

Word Count: 6.4k

Summary: He’s finally home. And Y/N is ready to love him for the rest of forever.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, cursing, kissing, emotional vulnerability, light confessions, multiple smut scenes, separation, military, crying, light anxiety, explicit: praise, fingering, body worship, breast play, oral (f. receiving), slight handjob, unprotected sex (this is fiction!),

A/N: in honor of our boys coming back 🫡 (& another time ending & crying from everyone’s lovely comments), here’s a lil something since I stayed up all night to write bc what’s sleep? 🫶 (i originally planned like 3k words but i got kinda carried away 🤭)

♡ MASTERLIST

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The clock ticked louder than it ever had before.

I’d vacuumed the living room twice. Rearranged the throw pillows six times. Lit two candles- one because it smelled like vanilla and safety, and the other because it was his favorite and smelled like expensive cologne and pine trees. My heart had been hammering against my ribs for the past hour, and now it had officially moved to my throat.

I was pacing.

Still in his oversized gray hoodie. Still barefoot. Still wearing the stupid socks with the tiny bunnies on them because they were his favorite and made him smile when he caught me dancing in them, and god, I just wanted him to smile again.

Eighteen months.

A year and a half of letters and FaceTime and countdowns and aching. The kind of ache that settled into your bones and made even the softest days feel sharp. And now, at last, it was over.

He was coming home.

Jeon Jungkook- my boyfriend, my best friend, my whole fucking world- was minutes away from walking through our door.

I felt like I was going to throw up. Or cry. Or both.

Probably both.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and winced. I looked soft, nervous, flushed. Eyes too bright, mouth slightly open like I was afraid to breathe.

The couch still had the dent from the last time he sat there, all those months ago, legs spread, hair a mess, tugging me onto his lap while pretending we had five more minutes. The plants had survived, shockingly. His bunny mug was still in the cabinet, a little dusty but sacred. His dog tags were tucked in the top drawer of my nightstand, hidden like a secret I never wanted to forget.

My phone buzzed.

Jungkook: On my way up now 💜

My lungs forgot how to work.

I backed up until I was pressed against the front door, fingers curled around the hem of his hoodie, grounding myself in the scent that still lingered no matter how long it had been washed.

A minute passed.

And then, I heard it.

The sound of keys.

The soft jingle of metal against metal.

The world stopped spinning.

The doorknob turned slowly, like a movie playing in slow motion. The click of the lock releasing. A pause. A shift in the air.

And then- he was there.

He stood there for a second like he wasn’t sure if this was real.

His uniform was neat but creased from travel. The duffel bag slipped off his shoulder and thudded to the floor, forgotten. His hair was shorter than when I last saw him, neatly buzzed on the sides, grown just enough on top to let a few strands curl slightly across his forehead. His eyes- those stupid, beautiful brown eyes met mine, and they were glassy.

My mouth opened, but no words came out. I just stared, like blinking might make him disappear.

He said nothing at first. Just looked at me like I was a miracle.

And then he smiled.

That lazy, crooked, I-love-you-so-much-I-can’t-stand-it smile.

“Hi,” he said softly, voice rough and low.

I didn’t remember crossing the room. I just knew I was in his arms.

I slammed into him with enough force that he stumbled back a step, and his arms snapped around me like steel. His breath hitched. My fingers dug into his back, holding him as close as possible, trying to pull him into me.

“Shit,” he whispered against my hair. “You’re real. You’re really here.”

“You’re here,” I breathed, shaking. “You’re actually here.”

And then we kissed.

Hard. Fast. Desperate.

He tasted like spearmint gum and tears and every single day I’d waited for him. Our mouths clashed, messy and urgent, and I whimpered when he cupped my face with both hands, thumbs stroking the apples of my cheeks like I might fade if he didn’t touch every inch of me.

When we finally broke apart, he pressed his forehead to mine, his voice cracking.

“I kept dreaming about this.”

I laughed through a sob. “I kept your mug on the top shelf. It’s dusty as hell, but it’s yours.”

He laughed, breathless, hugging me tighter. “That stupid bunny one?”

“Of course.”

He looked at me like I was made of stars. “God, I missed you.”

I swallowed hard. “I missed you so bad, Jungkook. It physically hurt.”

His nose brushed mine. “Don’t cry yet. You promised not to cry.”

I wiped at my cheeks, sniffling. “You promised not to make me cry in the first five minutes.”

“And yet here we are,” he said with a grin, stepping inside fully and kicking the door closed behind him.

The moment it clicked shut, something shifted.

The weight of the past eighteen months lifted just enough for us to breathe.

He bent down, gently picking up his duffel bag with one hand and keeping the other firmly around my waist, like letting go wasn’t an option. I guided him toward the living room, heart still pounding in my ears, his presence so overwhelming it felt like light filling up every corner of a long-empty room.

═══════

We sat on the couch in the same spot we always claimed.

He let out a long sigh and leaned back, pulling me onto his lap without hesitation. I curled into him like I’d never left, straddling his thighs, arms wrapped around his neck. His hands settled on my hips, thumbs rubbing slow, calming circles.

“Still fits,” he murmured, looking down at the way I curled into him.

“What, me?” I teased.

He smirked. “You. The hoodie. The weight of you in my arms. All of it.”

I flushed, brushing my fingers across his cheek. “You look… God, I forgot how good you look up close.”

“Yeah?” he said, eyebrows raised, cocky grin pulling at his lips.

I nodded, biting my lip. “Like you’re gonna kiss me stupid again.”

He didn’t answer with words. He leaned in and did exactly that.

His lips were warm and familiar.

The kind of kiss that melted through skin and settled in the marrow.

I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t think I could stop. His mouth moved against mine like he was relearning every curve, every sigh, every tiny sound I made when he tilted his head just a little bit more. His fingers pressed against the small of my back, pulling me closer until there was nothing left between us but heat and years of pent-up wanting.

When we finally broke for air, he was smiling.

That soft, smug, gorgeous smile I hadn’t seen in person in far too long.

“You’re seriously trying to kill me,” I murmured, brushing my thumb along his bottom lip.

His eyes sparkled. “You think I flew across the country, got discharged, and came home just to not kiss you stupid?”

I snorted, burying my face in his neck. “You smell like detergent and danger.”

“Danger?” he repeated with a laugh. “Baby, I’m tame now. Government-issued. Fully trained in discipline.”

I pulled back just enough to raise a brow. “Yeah? That right?”

He nodded solemnly. “Mmhm. Highly decorated. Wildness fully contained.”

I rolled my hips just slightly in his lap- barely there, just enough to see if he’d crack.

He did.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hands tightening on my hips. “Okay- maybe not that contained.”

“That’s what I thought,” I whispered, lips brushing against the corner of his jaw.

His head tilted back, exposing his throat, and I kissed the smooth skin there, letting my teeth graze just enough to make him shiver.

“Eighteen months,” he whispered. “Do you know how many times I imagined this exact moment?”

“How many?”

“Too many to count. Always you. Always this hoodie. Always the way you look when you’re about to get what you want.”

I grinned. “What makes you think I’m about to get what I want?”

His hands slid under the hem of the hoodie, fingers grazing my bare thighs.

“Because I’m about to give you everything.”

═══════

He stood with me in his arms like I weighed nothing, one arm hooked under my legs, the other around my back. I squealed, laughing into his shoulder as he carried me down the hallway like some lovesick soldier in a romantic drama.

“I can walk, you know,” I teased.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he said, voice low. “Let me carry you for a bit.”

I bit my lip, heart stuttering.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his foot and set me down gently on the mattress. For a moment, we just looked at each other. No words. No teasing.

Just us.

His eyes roamed my face like it was holy. Like he was mapping me out again. He slid his hand up my leg slowly, reverently, pausing at the edge of the hoodie.

“Still mine?” he asked, voice rough.

“Always,” I whispered.

His mouth crashed into mine again.

But this time, it was slower. Deeper. We kissed like we had time. Like we had forever.

And as his hands started tugging fabric, and mine fumbled with the buttons of his uniform, I felt it- that tiny pulse of something perfect. Something sacred.

He kissed down the column of my neck like it was the only way he remembered how to breathe.

Slow, lingering, lips dragging along my pulse point, a warm exhale every time his mouth hovered just above skin. My fingers were in his hair before I realized it, tugging slightly, needing to anchor myself in something because I felt like I was floating.

The hoodie was still on me.

I think he liked it that way for a minute- his oversized clothing wrapped around my body, bare legs curled in the sheets beneath me, looking up at him like he hung the damn stars.

“Kook,” I whispered, fingers brushing his jaw.

He looked up, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Take it off,” I said, voice smaller than I meant it to be. “Please.”

His expression softened.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t tug or yank or act like he’d been waiting eighteen months just to get me naked- even if we both knew that was true. Instead, he knelt on the bed, hands sliding slowly up my thighs and under the hoodie, pushing the fabric up inch by inch.

I raised my arms for him.

He peeled it off gently, reverently like unwrapping something precious.

I was bare underneath. Nothing but skin and nerves.

He let out a slow, shaky breath. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

My skin flushed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

His eyes drank me in like he was trying to memorize everything- the curve of my waist, the swell of my chest, the way I was already squirming under his gaze.

“You look like a dream,” he said, voice hoarse.

“And you look like mine,” I whispered back.

He leaned down, lips brushing the skin between my breasts, and I arched up into him on instinct.

Everything felt amplified. My body was hyper-aware of him. The way his fingertips skated along my hips, how he kissed across my ribs, how he made sure to linger in every spot that made me twitch or sigh or clutch the sheets.

“Still okay?” he asked, lips hovering above my belly.

“God, yes.”

“I want to go slow,” he murmured. “I don’t want to miss a single second.”

I reached for him, tugged gently on his shirt. “Then take this off and let me look at you.”

He sat up and pulled the dark green uniform shirt over his head, revealing tanned skin and inked muscle. My mouth dried instantly.

“You’ve been working out,” I said, biting my lip.

He smirked. “Had to keep busy.”

“Well, it paid off.”

I ran my hands down his chest, loving the way he shivered under my touch.

He lowered himself onto me, skin to skin now, heat meeting heat, and kissed me like he meant to make up for every night we’d lost.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he whispered, voice barely holding together.

“I do,” I breathed. “Because I felt it too.”

His hand slipped between us, and I gasped.

The real beginning was here.

And I was ready.

═══════

His fingers moved slowly- deliberate, trembling slightly, like the gravity of touching me again after so long was still settling in.

I opened for him instinctively, breath catching as he slid two fingers along my folds, testing, teasing, learning me all over again. His forehead pressed to mine, eyes never leaving mine, watching every twitch of my mouth as I whimpered under his touch.

The air between us was thick with anticipation, heavy with the weight of eighteen months apart.

“You’re soaked,” he breathed, his voice rough and low, as if the words were torn from him against his will.

“You’re late,” I whispered, a teasing edge to my tone, though my heart was pounding in my chest. I couldn’t help but smile, even as my body arched into his touch, craving more.

He let out a strangled laugh and kissed me again, lips claiming, hand steady as he slipped one finger inside me, and I gasped so loud he groaned, his breath hot against my skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, kissing down my throat. “I forgot how tight- how perfect- ”

“Don’t you dare stop,” I breathed, nails digging into his shoulder, holding him close. I needed him, needed this, after so long apart.

He didn’t.

A second finger joined the first, slower now, deliberate, as if he were mapping every inch of me. My hips bucked up into his hand without shame, without hesitation.

I wanted all of him. Now.

My hands fumbled at his waistband, and he didn’t stop me. In fact, he shifted just enough to help, pushing the last of his clothing off, bare now, hot and flushed and hard as hell. My mouth actually dropped open.

I looked down.

“Oh.”

His smirk was wicked, playful, the same one that had always made my heart skip a beat. “Something you missed?”

I bit my lip. “So much.”

And then I was on my back again, legs wrapped around his waist, his body hovering above mine like a question- waiting for the answer we both already knew. I could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, and my answer was already written in the way my body arched toward his.

“Still sure?” he whispered, forehead pressed to mine.

“Don’t make me beg,” I said softly, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside me.

His hips rolled forward.

We both gasped.

It was a stretch- the good kind. The perfect kind. Like being filled up with something that felt like love and breath and the sun all at once. He sank in slowly, carefully, kissing me through every inch, groaning against my mouth when he bottomed out.

We didn’t move at first.

Just stared at each other like the world had ended and we were all that was left. His eyes searched mine, full of questions and answers, of everything we hadn’t said in the months apart.

Then he started to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Deep.

Every thrust was measured, like he wasn’t just fucking me- he was remembering me. I clung to him, my legs wrapped tight around his waist, my hands digging into his back, mouth open with moans I couldn’t control. My breath stuttered in time with his hips, and I felt every inch of him, every memory, every moment we’d missed.

“God, I missed you,” he groaned.

“I never stopped wanting you,” I cried out, my voice breaking as tears welled in my eyes.

He kissed away the tears as they came- not rushed, not frantic. Just present. Every part of him was right there. No space left between us. No apologies. Just forgiveness and softness and heat and-

My orgasm hit me like a wave.

It stole my breath and made me cry out, body tightening around him in a way that made him curse beautifully into my neck. He didn’t stop moving. He kept going- rougher now, chasing his own high as he buried his face in my chest.

“I’m close,” he panted, his voice a raw whisper. “Fuck- I’m- ”

“Cum,” I whispered. “Come home to me.”

That did it.

He spilled into me with a guttural moan, shaking, holding me so tight I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Sticky. Sweaty. Tired. Home.

═══════

Later, he curled into me, head resting on my chest like it was the only pillow that ever made sense. One leg hooked over mine. One arm around my waist. He held me like I was the last tether holding him to earth- like if he let go, the world would tip again.

I couldn’t stop touching him.

My fingers carded through his hair, slow and steady. It was softer than I remembered. Freshly washed, warm from sweat, the ends damp and curling from the heat between us. I pressed a kiss to the crown of his head and inhaled deeply, committing the moment to memory.

He didn’t speak. But I knew he wasn’t asleep.

His breath hitched every time I stroked behind his ear. His thumb brushed back and forth across the skin just above my hip bone, like he was counting seconds. 

He was still here. Still present. Still grounding himself.

Every so often, he’d let out a long breath, not quite a sigh, more like a release. As if with each exhale, a little more of the weight he’d carried for eighteen months finally bled out of him.

“I love you,” I whispered, not even meaning to say it aloud.

But he hummed in response, soft and quiet, like his soul already knew.

And still, I held him.

I let my fingers explore gently. Tracing the curve of his shoulder, the line of his spine, the new ridges and hardness in his body that hadn’t been there before. He’d grown stronger. Quieter. Older, somehow. But this- the way he clung to me like I was his anchor, hadn’t changed at all.

Finally, his breathing began to slow.

His grip loosened, not in fear, but in peace. His face softened, lips parting slightly as sleep took him. I kissed his temple, felt the tiny twitch of his lashes against my chest.

I waited until he was fully still. Until the apartment around us felt like a cocoon, and the air between us had settled into something sacred.

Then I leaned in close. My lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath warming his skin.

“Welcome home,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

But the smile that tugged at his lips in sleep was enough.

═══════

When I woke up, the room was blue.

That soft, pre-dawn blue where everything looks like a painting. The blinds were tilted just enough for the city lights to bleed through, casting long shadows across the sheets tangled around our bodies. I hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

Jungkook was still draped over me, cheek pressed to my chest, breathing slow and even. His arm was slung lazily over my waist, fingers curled into the fabric of the sheet like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.

I could barely breathe, but not because of the weight.

Because of the peace.

I lay there, unmoving, eyes tracing the slope of his bare shoulder, the tiny freckles on his back, the edge of the tattoo that peeked out from beneath the covers. God, I missed those freckles. I missed the way he slept- completely uninhibited, one leg flung out, lips parted slightly like he’d been dreaming something soft.

He made this tiny sound when I brushed a hand down his spine. A low, sleepy murmur, almost like a cat stretching into touch. I smiled.

“I missed that noise,” I whispered, not really intending for him to hear.

But he shifted slightly, his voice thick and rough from sleep. “Missed you whispering in bed.”

My breath caught. I looked down, and sure enough, his eyes were barely open. 

His lips were pulled into a sleepy, lopsided smile.

“Good morning,” I said, brushing the hair from his forehead.

“Best one I’ve had in eighteen months.”

I felt my throat close a little. “You remember how to flirt, I see.”

“Hard to forget when you were in my dreams every damn night.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow and hovered above me, the sheet slipping slightly to reveal his chest. He leaned down and kissed my bare shoulder. Then my collarbone. Then the corner of my mouth.

“You smell the same,” he whispered.

“So do you.”

He smiled. “Must be fate.”

I laughed, pushing at his chest until he collapsed beside me with a groan, arm pulling me with him. I curled into his side, my hand resting over his heart.

“You okay?” he asked after a beat. “Really okay?”

I nodded against him. “I didn’t realize how not-okay I was until I could touch you again.”

He swallowed hard. “Same.”

We lay in silence for a moment, just listening to each other breathe. There was something sacred about the quiet. Something that didn’t need to be filled. Just held.

“I was scared,” he said quietly, voice so low I almost missed it.

My heart paused.

He was staring at the ceiling now, one arm still around me, his fingers drumming slowly against my hip. It was a nervous rhythm, soft and off-tempo. Like he was fighting the words.

“What were you scared of?” I asked, nuzzling closer, my nose brushing his jaw.

He hesitated, then turned to face me fully.

“That you’d move on,” he said. “That you’d realize you didn’t want to wait anymore. That someone else would come along and actually be there for you.”

I blinked at him.

“Jungkook.”

He looked down. “I know it’s dumb. You always reassured me. But every time I saw your face through a screen instead of in front of me, it hit me all over again. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t hold you when you cried. I couldn’t kiss you when you had a bad day. I couldn’t even send you a real fucking gift without jumping through a dozen approval hoops.”

“You sent me letters,” I whispered, voice thick.

“I wanted to send me. Not scraps of me. All of me.”

I cupped his face gently. His eyes were glassy again, lashes heavy with emotion.

“I never wanted anyone else,” I told him. “Not even for a second.”

He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t stay because I’m a good girlfriend,” I continued. “I stayed because you’re my person. You’re the one I see when I think of forever. There’s no timeline that could ever make me forget that.”

He leaned forward and kissed me- slow, deep, thankful. He kissed me like I’d just saved his life.

“I love you so much,” he whispered against my lips.

“I love you more.”

“Impossible.”

We fell back against the pillows, foreheads touching, breath shared. The silence between us wasn’t silence anymore. It was full. Of everything we’d said. And everything we didn’t need to.

After a few minutes, I rested my chin on his chest.

“I had my own fears,” I admitted.

He looked down at me. “Yeah?”

I nodded slowly. “That when you came back, you’d be… different. That maybe the version of you I remembered wouldn’t exist anymore. That I wouldn’t know how to fit next to you again.”

He traced a finger along my back. “Did it feel like that?”

“No,” I said. “It felt like breathing again.”

He pulled me tighter against him. “Then let’s never stop.”

My heart fluttered.

He kissed my forehead and whispered, “We can stay here all day, you know. Screw the outside world. No alarms. No phone calls. Just you, me, and this bed.”

“You’re speaking my language,” I murmured.

“I’ve always been fluent in you.”

I giggled, hiding my face against his chest. “That was so cheesy.”

He grinned. “I’ve been saving that line for weeks.”

═══════

Time slowed in the haze of post-reunion softness.

I couldn’t tell how long we’d been wrapped up in each other like that. Minutes? Hours? I didn’t care. The world outside our bedroom didn’t exist. It’s just the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional car below our window, and the steady thrum of Jungkook’s heartbeat beneath my cheek.

“I missed this,” I mumbled, eyes still closed.

He stroked my back gently. “What, cuddling naked in bed while I sweat like a furnace?”

I snorted. “No. Well, yes. But also this. Just being dumb and half-asleep and saying things like ‘I missed this.’”

His chest rumbled under me with quiet laughter. “I missed you being dumb and half-asleep.”

“Charming.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

We stayed there, giggling softly, like we were trying not to wake the memory of everything we’d been through. I traced lazy shapes on his chest, spelling out nonsense, occasionally drawing a heart or writing his name with my fingertip.

He hummed. “Whatcha writing?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Is it dirty?”

I grinned up at him. “What if it is?”

He leaned down, nudging my nose with his. “Then I’m obviously obligated to investigate.”

His mouth found mine again. Slow, sleepy, and deliciously unhurried. He kissed me like there was no rush. Like we had all the time in the world.

And for the first time in a long time, we did.

When we pulled apart, he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You wanna know what I missed the most?”

I nodded.

He smiled. “The way you look at me when you’re not saying anything. Just… like that. Like you already know I’m yours.”

I felt my eyes sting.

“And you are,” I whispered. “You always were.”

═══════

Eventually, our stomachs growled loud enough to interrupt the moment.

He groaned. “Okay. I love you, but I also love food.”

“You can have both,” I said. “You have me and leftover ramen in the fridge.”

He lit up like a little kid. “You kept the leftovers?”

I smirked. “I keep everything.”

He reached for his boxers, but I yanked him back by the waistband and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “I’m serious, though. Today’s just for us.”

“No calls. No errands. No makeup or clothes unless absolutely necessary.”

He saluted. “Roger that. I am officially yours for the day.”

“You’re mine every day.”

He kissed the tip of my nose. “Damn right I am.”

═══════

Jungkook made breakfast shirtless, and I decided I was never letting him leave the apartment again.

He wore nothing but those gray sweatpants and a sleepy grin, hair messy from bed, dog tags clinking softly as he moved around the kitchen like it was still his. Like no time had passed. Like his body didn’t just come home from the weight of eighteen months of structure and silence.

I sat on the counter in one of his old t-shirts (the black one with the tiny bleach stain near the hem) and watched him whisk eggs like it was the most mesmerizing thing in the world.

“I forgot how loud you are in the kitchen,” I teased, swinging my legs.

“I forgot how nosy you are,” he shot back with a grin, glancing over his shoulder.

I smiled, sipping my coffee. “Is it weird that this feels normal already?”

“Not weird. Perfect.”

He poured the eggs into the skillet and crossed the kitchen to stand between my legs. His hands rested on my thighs, his head dropping to my shoulder.

“I used to imagine this exact moment,” he said softly. “Waking up with you. Cooking for you. Holding you in a room that didn’t echo.”

My fingers threaded through his hair. “We’re here now.”

“I know.” His lips brushed my neck. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

═══════

We ate together at the counter. Laughing over slightly burnt toast, fighting over who got more juice, giggling when he leaned over just to kiss the corner of my mouth.

Every moment felt precious. Every touch mattered.

After breakfast, we curled up on the couch- me wrapped in a blanket, him lying between my legs, head on my chest like before. Our show played in the background, but we didn’t pay attention. We were too caught up in each other.

“I kept watching this without you,” I admitted.

He gasped dramatically. “You betrayed me.”

“I had to do something to feel close to you.”

He smiled, looking up at me. “You could’ve just written ‘Jungkook is sexy’ on all the mirrors.”

I snorted. “You assume I didn’t?”

He burst out laughing, hand sliding under the blanket to squeeze my knee. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We stayed that way until the sunlight shifted, the afternoon creeping across the walls. And still, neither of us moved.

He sighed deeply, hand stroking my hip under the blanket. “You know the hardest part?”

I tilted my head.

“It wasn’t the schedule. Or the drills. Or the cold nights. It was sleeping without you. Going to bed and waking up without you.”

I bent down and kissed his temple. “Well, you’re never doing that again.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ll hold you to that.”

═══════

Night fell slow and soft over the apartment, wrapping everything in gold. The city hummed outside the window, but inside, it was just us. Tangled limbs. Quiet breaths. Familiar touches.

We lay curled around each other in bed, the comforter kicked halfway down, skin against skin. I was spooned against his chest, his arm tucked tight around my waist, nose pressed to the back of my neck. I could feel him breathing me in.

And then his hand started moving.

Not hurried. Not rough. Just soft, slow strokes across my stomach. Fingertips tracing idle patterns, brushing under the hem of the shirt I’d borrowed from him again. 

“Kook,” I whispered, breath catching.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just nuzzled closer, pressed a warm kiss just below my ear.

“I can’t stop touching you,” he murmured, voice heavy with sleep and want. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze. His brown eyes, warm and heavy-lidded, held a vulnerability I wasn’t used to seeing. “It’s real,” I whispered, reaching down to lace our fingers together. 

His hand was calloused, a reminder of the life he’d lived without me for the past eighteen months, but his touch was gentle, as if he feared I might shatter.

He turned me gently onto my back, body sliding over mine in one smooth, fluid motion. His weight wasn’t oppressive; it was grounding, a reminder of his presence, of us. His lips found my collarbone, and I felt the low hum in his throat as he kissed lower, slower.

My body responded instinctively, arching slightly as his mouth trailed down, his tongue leaving a wet path that made me squirm beneath him.

“Need you one more time,” he said.

My breath hitched. “You just had me.”

“I know,” he whispered, forehead resting against mine. “But I want to feel it again. All of it. You. Us. This. Before sleep takes me.”

There was no room for teasing now, no space for jokes. Just heat and heartache and something deeper than either of us could put into words.

His lips found mine, and he kissed me like it was his final prayer, like he was pouring every unspoken word, every missed moment, into that single touch.

Hands exploring like every inch of me was sacred. 

He pushed my hair back, exposing the curve of my neck, and kissed every inch of newly revealed skin as if asking permission all over again. My shirt was peeled away slowly, his lips following the fabric as it slid off my shoulders. 

I shivered as his mouth found the sensitive skin of my breasts, his tongue tracing the outline of my nipples before taking one into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, until I gasped his name.

“Kook,” I breathed, my hands tangling in his black hair, pulling him closer.

He smiled against my skin, a cheeky grin that made my heart flutter. “You taste so good,” he murmured, his lips moving lower, his hands sliding down my body. 

He kissed my stomach, my hips, my thighs as his fingers hooked into the waistband of my pants. I lifted my hips, helping him slide them off, and he paused, his eyes drinking me in like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with awe.

I blushed, but the heat in my cheeks was nothing compared to the fire burning low in my belly. “Baby,” I whispered, urging him closer.

His lips found the junction of my thighs, his breath warm against my cunt. I gasped as his tongue pressed against me, slow and deliberate, tasting me like I was the sweetest thing he’d ever known. 

His hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as he explored, his tongue dipping and swirling, his mouth sucking gently, then harder, until I was moaning his name, my fingers clutching at the sheets.

“Fuuuck, Kook,” I groaned, my body arching off the bed. “Right there.”

He hummed his approval, his tongue pressing deeper, his fingers sliding between my folds, teasing the spot that made me see stars. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice muffled against my skin. “So fucking perfect.”

His praise sent a rush of heat through me, and I felt my walls clenching around his tongue, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. 

“Baby, please,” I begged, my body on the edge, teetering between pleasure and release.

He smiled against me, his lips curving into that cheeky grin I loved so much. “I got you baby,” he whispered, pulling back slightly, his tongue tracing lazy circles that made me whimper. “Come apart for me.”

His words were the push, and I felt my body respond, my muscles tightening, my breath hitching as he worked his magic. His tongue was relentless, his mouth devouring me, his fingers sliding inside me, stretching me, filling me, until I was a mess of moans and pleas, my body trembling on the brink.

“Kook, I- ”

He didn’t let me finish. His mouth closed over me, his tongue pressing hard against my clit, his fingers curling inside me, and I shattered. My back arched, my nails digging into his shoulders as my orgasm ripped through me, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me, leaving me breathless and boneless.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, my body still trembling as he kissed his way back up, his lips brushing against mine. “That was-“ 

“Not enough,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “But we’ll fix that.”

He shifted, his body moving over mine, his lips finding mine again, kissing me deeply, his tongue tangling with mine as he settled between my legs. I felt him, hard and thick, pressing against my thigh, and I reached down, wrapping my hand around him, stroking slowly, savoring the feel of him, the way he twitched in my grip.

“You’re so hard,” I murmured, my thumb brushing over the head, smearing the pre-cum that had leaked from him.

“All for you,” he replied, his voice a low growl. “Always.”

He kissed me again, his lips moving to my neck, my collarbone, his hands sliding down my body, teasing, touching, until I was squirming beneath him, needy and desperate for more. 

“I want you inside me,” I whispered, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

He kissed me like he was claiming me, his lips fierce and hungry, his hands gripping my hips as he positioned himself at my entrance. I felt him press against me, the head of his cock teasing my folds, and I gasped as he slid inside, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.

It felt different. More intense. Like our bodies remembered each other better than our minds ever could. There was no rush. No wild rhythm. Just slow, deep movements- hips rocking together in a perfect, quiet ache.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “You feel so good.”

I wrapped my legs tighter around him, urging him deeper, and he obliged, his hips rocking into mine, his thrusts slow and controlled, each one sending a jolt of pleasure through me. His eyes stayed locked on mine, his expression raw and open, as if he was laying his soul bare.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice a chant, a tether holding him to me. “So much.”

I kissed the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, my fingers tracing the scar near his shoulder, a reminder of the life he’d lived before me. 

“I’m yours,” I told him. “Always.”

His thrusts grew deeper, his hips moving in a rhythm that matched my own, our bodies moving as one, our breaths syncing, our hearts beating in time. 

The air was thick with the sound of our skin slapping together, our moans filling the room, our pleasure building, inexorable and undeniable.

“Kook,” I gasped, my body tightening around him, my walls clenching as I felt the familiar coil of pleasure building low in my belly. “I’m close.”

“Me too,” he groaned, his thrusts becoming more urgent, his hands gripping my hips tighter. “Cum with me, baby. Let go.”

My body shattered around him, my orgasm ripping through me, my cries echoing in the room as he followed, his own release spilling into me, his name on my lips as we came apart together, our bodies trembling, our breaths ragged, our hearts pounding.

He collapsed beside me, chest rising fast, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. I turned into him, pulling the blanket up over us. His hand found mine beneath it.

“I could stay here forever,” he mumbled, lips brushing my temple.

I smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I’d let you.”

And then, slowly, his body began to relax. His breathing slowed. His grip on my hand loosened just slightly as his eyes fluttered shut.

I looked at him. He’s so beautiful and unguarded in sleep.

My heart ached with how much I loved him.

I leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“No more waiting, baby. No more distance. You’re home… you always were.”

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♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 06/10/2025

[jung-koook]

oh my gosh he’s so gorgeous (cr. @taee)

[yooboobies]

truly a mirakool 🥺 | dedicated for @jung-koook

puppy-eyes tan (6/7)

{cr. 0613data}

[lovetales]

JIMIN & JUNGKOOK Military Discharge | 250611

[serinic]

GRADES DO MATTER | JJK

ONESHOT

Summary: You were always the grade-conscious type—where others would brush off a single mistake, you couldn't. One wrong answer was enough to haunt you, let alone a low mark on something you poured your heart into, like your essay. You mustered the courage to raise your concern, but your approach to Professor Jeon wasn’t exactly the best. And unfortunately for you, he wasn’t the kind of teacher to let things slide either.

pairing: professor jungkook x college student reader

warnings: unprotected sex, professor jk slapping y/n with reality, y/n thinks highly of herself, cold and strict jk

word count: 3.8k+

When you were a child, people would often tell your parents that you were destined to become a bright young woman—all because of your endless curiosity.

You asked questions so relentlessly, it could wear out even the most patient adult. And they were right. By the time you were barely in your teens, you had already collected a string of academic awards.

The most unforgettable one? The math quiz bee you joined when you were just ten. Two boys had bumped your shoulder before the contest, sneering and telling you to get lost.

You remembered clenching your fists, resisting the urge to retaliate—because you knew your mind was sharper than your fists would ever need to be.

The memory of their faces twisting into disbelief still lingered, especially when your name was announced as the winner. Just two mistakes—while the rest of them struggled.

You made sure to lock eyes with them as you walked up to the stage, proudly receiving your certificate and holding your trophy high. And, of course, you flipped your hair with just enough flair to make sure they never forgot who beat them.

Back in high school, you were practically at war with everyone—for the top spot. If it meant studying eight hours a day just to ace every exam, quiz, assignment, and seatwork, you didn’t hesitate.

You graduated as valedictorian, but even that didn’t satisfy you. It wasn’t enough—you craved more. You wanted recognition, not just from your classmates or teachers, but from the whole world.

You see, you didn’t study just because your parents expected it. You studied because you were obsessed. It consumed you. Your life revolved around grades, rankings, perfection. You didn’t care if people called you a nerd—honestly, you wore the label like a badge of honor.

There are two types of people in college: the brainy and the beauty. But thanks to your parents' blessed genes—and your relentless discipline—you had both. That’s what made you stand out.

They called you the Campus Queen and the Book Queen all at once. Boys (and even a few girls) tried to ask you out, but you always declined with a polite smile. You didn’t want distractions. Your mind was reserved solely for studying.

College was hell, and you couldn’t even argue with that. It was hell—especially when professors seemed to have a pact to assign every paper, project, and quiz all at once, sending every student into panic mode. But while others struggled to breathe, you thrived in the pressure.

No boyfriend? No problem. Your trusty dildo kept you company during those rare moments of need. That’s how far you were willing to go—grades came first, always. You would sacrifice anything, everything, just to chase those golden numbers.

You walked into the room with unwavering confidence, wearing a proud smile meant for no one in particular. As usual, you were the first to arrive. Punctuality was one of your many strengths—just like in academics, you were disciplined with time.

Every second, every minute, every hour mattered to you. You slid into your usual seat and pulled out a book from your bag. Without wasting a moment, you flipped to the page of today’s lesson and began reading ahead.

Advanced reading was one of your favorite habits. There was something deeply satisfying about answering every question before anyone else had the chance.

And on days when a classmate stumbled—palms sweaty, eyes darting in panic—you were more than happy to take the spotlight and answer in their place. It wasn’t arrogance; it was what you called ‘helping’.

Some admired you, but others despised you—and you were well aware of both. You assumed it was envy. After all, why wouldn’t they be?

You were intelligent and beautiful, the rare combination most could only dream of. But the truth was, your attitude was far from admirable.

You were the type of student who only cared about herself and her grades. If a classmate struggled to answer, you didn’t hesitate to snatch the opportunity—and the attention—for yourself.

When you did, disapproving stares followed you, and your instructors could only offer awkward scoffs, unsure whether to be impressed or uncomfortable. It wasn’t just your classmates who noticed your self-centered drive—your professors did too. Especially Mr. Jeon.

Your mind drifted into dreamland, lost in the fantasy of what was about to happen. You pictured Professor Jeon standing at the front of the class, calling your name to praise your outstanding essay.

Your classmates would erupt into applause as you stood and walked confidently toward him. You’d take your paper from his hand and beam with pride, eyes sparkling at the sight of a perfect mark scrawled in red ink.

But reality snapped back the moment students started to file into the room. Within minutes, the classroom was full—tense and silent, all awaiting the arrival of the cold, strict instructor.

The atmosphere shifted the second he stepped in. Even from across the room, you could feel the weight of his presence—sharp, disciplined, and commanding.

Every pair of eyes locked onto him, tracking his movements with caution. He strode to the desk, placed his leather bag down, and began pulling out his laptop and a thick stack of papers. Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted the red ink marking the pages.

This was it.

Professor Jeon grabbed the stack of papers and began flipping through them, eyes scanning each one with purpose—until he found that paper. With the rest in hand, he returned to the table and placed them down neatly.

He stepped into the center of the room, his gaze sweeping across every corner, surveying the students one by one. Then, his eyes locked with yours.

Your breath hitched. Was he looking at you? You glanced behind you to check if his focus might be on someone else—but your seat was the last in that row. No one was behind you.

You turned your attention back to the front—only to find that his eyes were no longer on you.

"Out of all the works submitted," he began, voice calm but firm, "one stood out the most. The choice of words was exceptional. The way the writer conveyed their imagination—they captured not just the mind, but the heart of the reader. This essay was astonishing.”

Each word sank deeper into your thoughts. Your heart pounded in anticipation, every beat louder than the last.

He was talking about yours. He had to be.

“Ms. Jang Arin, please come up to the front.”

Everyone, including you, turned toward the young woman whose mouth hung open in shock—and so did yours. You couldn’t believe what you just heard. That was supposed to be you.

Arin hesitantly made her way to the front, and to your surprise, Mr. Jeon offered her a slight smile—one of the rare times anyone had seen the strict professor display anything close to warmth.

You furrowed your brows. ‘No… that should’ve been me.’ That was one of the best essays you’d ever written. There was no way some random girl could’ve stolen the recognition that belonged to you.

You could feel the weight of the stares directed at you—your classmates waiting for your usual outburst, expecting the predictable moment when you would storm up and demand an explanation. But you didn’t give them that satisfaction.

Instead, you forced a smile and glanced back down at the book in front of you. Still, you could feel Mr. Jeon’s eyes lingering on you. You gulped and tightened your grip on the pages.

You weren’t going to make a scene—not yet. You’ll speak to him in his office later.

He began the lesson, but you couldn’t focus—not after what just happened. A mixture of humiliation and anger simmered inside you.

Your grip on the pen tightened, and your thoughts spiraled even further when you caught sight of Arin grinning to herself.

What the hell? Something’s not right.

Before you knew it, class was over in a snap. The room emptied out, but you remained in your seat, stunned. You slapped your forehead in frustration.

You hadn’t absorbed a single word of today’s lecture—your thoughts were too clouded by what had just been taken from you. Your recognition. Your moment.

No, you weren’t going to let this slide—especially if you were rigged.

You hastily grabbed your things and rushed out into the hallway. It had been buzzing with students earlier, but now it was nearly deserted—eerily quiet. That was until you heard soft giggles echoing from near the stairwell.

You stopped. Slowly and silently, you crept forward and peeked around the corner.

Your breath hitched.

There, just a few steps down, was Arin—giggling at something Professor Jeon had said. And him? He was smiling. Softly. Genuinely.

Your stomach twisted.

Your palm instantly flew to your mouth. ‘Aha! My gut was right—something is definitely off… or rather, something’s definitely going on between those two!’

Anger surged through your veins, quickly followed by the sting of betrayal.

Your moment—your dream—was stolen, all because someone decided to be a slut.

A sharp clatter made your heart stop. You looked down—your pen had slipped from your hand and hit the floor.

Your eyes widened. Shit. They must not see you!

“Who’s there?”

Mr. Jeon’s deep, commanding voice echoed through the corridor, sending chills down your spine. You heard footsteps approaching. Panic surged. Without thinking, you squeezed your eyes shut… and meowed.

Yes, meowed—like one of the college cats that roamed the campus.

A pause. Then—

“Oh, Professor. It’s just a cat!” Arin's voice chimed in, light and airy, before fading along with the footsteps. They were probably heading downstairs together.

Once you were sure the coast was clear, you stepped out of hiding and walked toward the spot where they had just been. You peered down the stairwell, jaw tight and fists clenched.

‘So the game’s on.’

They could play their little flirtations all they wanted—but you weren’t about to let either of them mess with your grades. Not now. Not ever.

After discovering what could be something more than just a student-teacher relationship between your shy classmate and the ever-strict Professor Jeon, you couldn't let it go.

Instead, you turned your attention toward them—observing from afar, collecting what evidence you could.

A week went by, and now, your study table was covered with printed photos you’d taken in secret. You sat in silence, eyes scanning each one, piecing together the story like a puzzle.

Photo 1: The two sat at a quiet café—Arin appeared to be reading something, while Professor Jeon casually sipped his coffee across from her.

Photo 2: In an empty corridor, just the two of them—laughing. Laughing. A rare expression from a man known for being cold and unreadable.

Photo 3: Arin, entering his office alone.

You only added the third photo because your so-called evidence was lacking—you needed something to fill the gaps, even if it wasn’t damning enough on its own. Still, you couldn’t help but smile proudly at the photos spread before you.

You weren’t planning to use them—at least, not unless things took a turn. You were only going to Professor Jeon’s office to raise your concern about the mark he gave you on the essay you poured your soul into.

But if he dared to brush you off or humiliate you again… well, you’d have no choice.

Now, you sat in your seat, silently counting the seconds for this period to end. These past few days, your mind was never where it should be.

It wandered aimlessly during lessons, tuning out every voice that tried to teach you. Even your classmates noticed—how your usual spark had dulled, how you weren't as relentless, as sharp, as insufferably perfect as before.

And you hated it. You hated how this situation affected you. You hated Arin’s quiet smile. You hated Professor Jeon’s unreadable face. Most of all, you hated that they were the reason you felt so... off.

If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t be distracted. You’d still be at the top—undeniable, untouchable.

Class was over, and before you knew it, you were already walking toward his office. Each step felt heavier than the last, the confidence you had earlier slowly unraveling with every inch closer to the door.

After all, you were about to face the Mr. Jeon Jungkook—the cold, strict, respected, and damn near perfect professor.

You raised your fist and knocked.

"Come in."

His voice, low and commanding, sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he was—sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on his laptop, fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys.

You hesitated for a moment, the door clicking shut behind you a little louder than you'd intended. Still, he didn’t look up.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard and the steady ticking of the clock above his shelf.

It felt like the silence was a test.

And you weren’t sure if you were passing or failing.

“I assume this isn’t about attendance,” he finally said, voice flat and devoid of emotion.

You cleared your throat. “It’s… about my essay grade.”

He stopped typing. His eyes slowly lifted to meet yours—sharp, unreadable. “Your essay,” he repeated, leaning back against his chair. “Right. The one that barely tapped into the prompt and read like a recycled daydream with no real depth.”

You flinched. “I worked hard on it. I just thought—”

“Thinking and writing are two different things,” he cut you off. “Effort doesn’t equal quality, Miss Y/N. You’re in college. Not kindergarten.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, the heat in your face rising. You tried to keep calm. “I know the grade is final, but I just wanted to understand why—”

“I’ve already told you why,” Jungkook said. “If you're looking for sympathy, try your classmates. I deal in facts. And the fact is, your work was mediocre.”

You paused, debating whether to say the next line.

“I just find it odd,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “how my classmate—who barely participates—somehow got a higher mark. A classmate I happened to see laughing with you in the hallway... quite comfortably.”

That finally got a reaction.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened as he stood up, walking around his desk. “Are you implying something, Miss Y/N?”

You held his gaze, fingers brushing the edge of your bag—where your phone, and the photos, waited.

“No, Professor. I’m just… asking questions.” He stopped in front of you, the space between you chilling. “Be very careful with the kind of questions you ask. Because once they’re out, there’s no taking them back.”

You swallowed hard but didn’t back down. The weight of the photos in your bag gave you a false sense of power—but even then, standing this close to Jungkook felt like walking a thin line over fire.

“I just think it’s… unfair,” you said, voice trembling slightly, “how someone who barely talks in class ends up with a near-perfect score. You may not realize how that looks to others.”

Jungkook's eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking. “Arin,” he said coldly. “You’re talking about Arin.”

You didn’t answer.

He exhaled through his nose. “Her essay stood out the most, which is why I chose it and she’s on academic probation. That ‘laughing in the hallway’ was me explaining her midterm options before she fails the course entirely. But I suppose when you’re obsessed with perfection, everything looks like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?”

His words hit harder than you expected. Still, you didn’t look away.

“I just want fairness,” you whispered.

“No,” Jungkook replied, stepping even closer, voice low and sharp. “You want control. That’s why you’re standing here instead of revising your work like a real student. Because deep down, you don’t care about learning. You care about appearances. Grades. Pride.” He walked back to his desk.

You felt your pride twist into something sharper—resentment.

“And what if I showed you something?” you said, slowly reaching into your bag. “Something that might make you reconsider.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change. “Are you really about to blackmail a professor?”

The air in the room dropped. You paused—his tone wasn’t angry, or surprised. It was calm. Calculated. Dangerous.

“I wouldn’t call it that…” you said carefully. “Just… offering context. For your judgment.”

Jungkook crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk. “Then show me. Let’s see what you think is enough to challenge my integrity.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t tolerate threats,” he added coldly.

Your hand hovered inside your bag. This was it.

Jungkook didn’t say a word right away. He simply stood there, eyes unreadable as they bore into yours. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, he slowly walked toward you, each step unhurried, measured—predatory.

You didn’t know what shifted. Maybe it was the heavy silence in the room. Maybe it was the way his gaze dragged across your face, lingering a little too long on your parted lips.

Or maybe it was the unresolved tension crackling in the air—anger, defiance, and something else neither of you wanted to name.

“You came here thinking you could play with fire,” Jungkook finally said, voice low. “Now you're in it.”

He stopped just in front of you. Too close. His eyes dropped to the envelope in your hand—the one holding the pictures—and then back to yours.

“You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died on your tongue. Your breath hitched as his hand slowly reached out—not to grab the envelope, but to brush a strand of hair away from your face. A touch too soft. Too deliberate.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmured, tone now quieter… darker. “Now you have it.”

He took one step closer. The envelope slipped from your fingers and hit the floor.

Jungkook crashed his lips onto yours as he pushed you against the nearest wall. You groaned when your back collided with the hard surface.

He slid your bag off your shoulder and immediately lifted your shirt, tugging down your bra before cupping your breast.

“Mhm,” you moaned as he gently massaged it, his tongue exploring your mouth. You started kissing him back—the kiss wasn’t slow; it was rough and desperate.

Jungkook broke the kiss and moved his lips to your neck, gently biting and leaving hickeys. His hand found the hem of your shirt, and he pulled it off, along with your bra.

He sucked your two nipples, switching back and forth. Your moans started to get loud, “Be quiet,” he said before placing his mouth back onto your breasts. You immediately clamped your lips shut.

You gasped when he cupped your clothed cunt, his eyes staring directly into yours. He slipped your pants and underwear down and carelessly tossed them onto the floor.

His gaze now fixed on your bare cunt, and every hair on your body stood on end at the realization—your professor was seeing you completely naked. The cold blast from the AC wasn’t helping either.

Mr. Jeon stared at your pussy for a full minute before kneeling down to its level, his fingers parting your folds. His tongue extended from his mouth to taste your cunt.

You moaned not only from the sensation of his warm tongue but also from the view. He began to pleasure you orally, his tongue moving in and out of your tight pussy.

Your sounds became more loud as he began to slide his fingers in, curling and twisting them within you.

You climaxed twice, and you were eager for more. You want Professor Jeon inside you at this moment. "Please, I want you inside me."

You pleaded with him, and he removed his pants and boxers, tossing them to the ground.

Jungkook wanted you to suck him, but he was equally eager to be inside your wet cunt. You nearly lost the ability to breathe when you noticed just how thick, how long and how furious his cock was. Pre-cum seeping from his tip.

He grasped your waist and urged you to jump. You quickly encircled his neck with your arms as your legs rested on his hips. You expected him to take you against the wall, but that wasn’t the case.

He moved to his desk while you clung to him like a koala. Jungkook pushed his chair aside, “Sit on my cock.” You freed your one arm and held his dick—applying his pre-cum along his shaft for lubrication.

You positioned his hard dick at your entrance and gradually lower yourself—taking him in inch by inch. You breathed sharply at the penetration; he was so deep inside you.

He held the edge of the table as you encircled his neck with your one arm again. Once confirming that both of you were well-positioned and supported by his hold on the table, he gradually pulled his hip back—half of his cock slipping out your eager cunt, before thrusting his hip back in forcefully.

Both of you moaned at his movements. Mr. Jeon started to thrust in and out while you gripped his body tighter. Lewd sounds filled his whole office.

“You always thought you were the smartest in the room. A little top-grade prodigy who couldn’t take a hit to her ego.” Jungkook glanced at you, expecting rage in your eyes, but all he saw was desire as you moaned in response.

“You couldn’t just accept a mark and move on like everyone else, could you?” He continued.

“No. You had to come in here with your little evidence, your little plan. Thought you were clever.”

“Let’s see how far your intelligence takes you now.” Professor Jeon was right here, slapping your face with reality while slamming his cock inside your cunt.

If you weren't in this position—him fucking you so good—you would probably slap him in the face, even if he was your professor.

Jungkook enjoys feeling your wet and tight pussy envelop his hard cock, and you can't help but moan—his dick feels way better than your dildo.

He plunged into you with a primal rhythm, you glanced at his expression—he was biting his bottom lip, his face was intensely concentrated on making you climax.

Your stomach tightens; you are close. Your hold on him tightens as his thrusts quicken when he realizes you’re about to orgasm.

You glimpsed stars upon cumming, only for your breath to be taken away when his thrusts intensified, aiming for his climax.

Professor Jeon collided his lips with yours as he cummed, both of you moaning intensely. A warm fluid filled your whole cunt as he thrust deeper inside you.

‘Was he trying to impregnate you?’

Your thought disappeared when you heard a knock on the door. Jungkook glanced at you and asked, “Did you lock the door?”

You swallowed hard and stared at him in fear—afraid of being caught fucking your cold and strict professor.

“No.”

[xtrataerrestrial]

whenever i think of a fanfic that has left a mark in me this is the one that comes to mind first— time to re read it fort the nth time i guess

idealizations concerning real life relations | jjk (m)

>>pairing:jungkook x reader / fuckboy!jk x hopeless romantic!oc

>>genre:s2l, fwb, smut, angst

>>word count: 40.9k besties i am so sorry

>>warnings: jk is so sweet, but also so evil lmao, oc lives in her little noggin, angsty fwb, drug and alcohol use, tattoos, multiple smut scenes that include: oral (m/f), fingering (f), light face slapping (with hand and cock??), praise, degradation, marking, dirty talk, so many creampies yum, multiple orgasms, kissing :(, cumming in pants :), probably more but i cant think of it, ok other stuff now, manipulation, infidelity, oc thinks jk is made of stars :(, jk thinks she is so pretty :(, misunderstandings, some fluff if you squint, brunette jk, blonde jk, n blue jk,  1 mentions of: howls moving castle, too many mentions of: stars, the color pink

>>notes: bruv i do not have anything to say for myself EXCPET that i worked v hard on her and i really hope u like it <3 beta: @birbdae​ tysm for dealing with this, she is long lmao >>> soundtrack

this is split up by seasons, so if 40k is a lot for one sitting, you can read one season at a time if that is easier :)

>>summary: jungkook loves to be loved, but he doesn’t love in return.

Keep reading

[sugar-petals]

the military pulled a full benjamin button on jungkook. you’d think army training is like harggh lets make a man out of this child but this dude out of all people (buff, silent, defiant, athletically invincible, most hyperambitious sassyman ever) is now 10 times as shy and looks like he’s about to go full no more dream wtf jungkook enlisted as the perfect soldier and came back pre-debut lmaoo

[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (1)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, idol au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, ghosting, young (teenage) pregnancy, mention of parental death, mention of absent parent, brief homelessness, shelters, unintentional parental neglect, resentment, anger, fighting, arguments, jk is an ass, depression, betrayal, heartbreak, cursing, struggle,, explicit: PRAISING, kissing, missionary, oral (f. & m. receiving), breastplay. 

Note: remember! bold is jk’s pov - regular text is y/n’s

A/N: happy father’s day! here’s part 1 of Daddy Kookie! i love this fic and hopefully you do too! part 1 was originally 15k but apparantly i hit a limit 🙄 enjoy! 🫶

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♡ next

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The summer air was thick, like it always was in late July. Sticky and slow, like time itself didn’t want to move. I sat on the old swing at the edge of the neighborhood park, the rusting chains and wood chips always got stuck in my sandals. My fingers twisted the hem of my dress, over and over, and I tried not to check my phone again.

But I did.

He was late.

Again.

Kookie: omw. don’t cry just yet lol

Y/N: shut up

Kookie: make me 😏

I rolled my eyes and bit back a smile, but my chest ached anyway.

This was the last night.

The last night before everything changed.

I heard his footsteps before I saw him. His sneakers slapping pavement, short breaths from running too hard. When I looked up, there he was. Jeon Jungkook, all sweat-damp hair and crooked grin, black T-shirt clinging to his chest, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder.

“Y/N!”

“You’re late,” I called out.

“I’m never late,” he panted, bending slightly as he reached me. “The world just hasn’t caught up with me yet.”

“You mean you stopped for bubble tea.”

He held out the cup proudly. “Mango with weird tapioca things. Just how you like it. Don’t say I don’t love you.”

God.

Love.

That word hit differently when you knew it might be the last time you’d hear it.

“I don’t need bubble tea to know that,” I murmured, fingers brushing his as I took it.

He smiled that soft, boyish smile- the one that had ruined me since I was thirteen.

“Come on. Let’s walk.”

═══════

We walked past all our usual places. The school where we shared our first kiss behind the gym building, the corner store that stayed open late just for us, the alley where he told me he wanted to be more than just another small-town kid.

The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.

“You packed everything?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He didn’t look at me. “Manager-hyung’s picking me up at 7 tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

“I still can’t believe it,” I whispered.

He glanced at me. “I know.”

“You’re really leaving.”

“I am.”

My throat burned. “What if… what if we don’t make it?”

His steps faltered, just for a second. “What?”

“What if Seoul changes you?” I stopped walking. “What if you forget about me?”

He turned to face me, forehead creasing. “Y/N…”

I hated how my voice trembled. “It happens, Jungkook. People grow apart. You’re gonna be around beautiful idols and trainees and fans, and I’ll just be here.”

“You won’t be just anything,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re everything to me.”

I wanted so badly to believe that.

“But what if-”

“I won’t forget you,” he cut in. “I couldn’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I’m promising it anyway.”

His arms wrapped around me. He always smelled like detergent and skin and something warm, something that felt like home. I buried my face in his chest, trying to freeze time. I didn’t want the night to end. I didn’t want this part of my life to end.

“I’m scared,” I admitted into his shirt.

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. “Because you’re mine. And no matter where I go, you’re still gonna be mine. Okay?”

I nodded, even though I didn’t really believe it.

“Come with me,” he said. “Someday. I’ll bring you out. You’ll see. We’ll be together again.”

I looked up at him. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

We didn’t go home after that.

Instead, he led me across town, through the short forest trail that led to the old abandoned greenhouse- the place we used to run to when we skipped class or fought with our parents or just wanted to disappear for a while. The glass was broken in places, the air smelled like earth, and the moonlight poured in through the jagged skylight above us.

He laid down the blanket. I took off my shoes. We said everything with our eyes before our mouths could catch up.

It happened slowly.

His hands on my skin like he was learning me all over again. My lips on his jaw, his throat, the space between his ribs where he always twitched when I kissed him. We undressed like we were unraveling something sacred. We moved like we had forever, even though we both knew better.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against my collarbone. “You don’t even know.”

I tried to memorize the weight of his words. The way he said my name, like it was his favorite song. I kissed him like he was the only boy I’d ever love.

Without breaking our embrace, I shifted, my hands moving to the waistband of his jeans. His breath hitched as I undid the button, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his lower abdomen. 

The "Y/N," he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and surrender. I looked up at him, my eyes sparkling with mischief, and he chuckled softly, his hands tangling in my hair.

"You’re going to be the death of me," he teased, but there was no real complaint in his tone.

I didn’t respond, instead sliding down his body, my lips trailing kisses along the way. His chest, his stomach, the trail of hair that led downward- I savored every inch of him, my touch deliberate and worshipful. 

When I reached the hem of his boxers, I paused, looking up at him through my lashes. His eyes were dark with desire, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You look so good," I murmured, my fingers hooking into the elastic band. 

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. I pulled them down slowly, revealing his thick, hard length. My mouth watered at the sight, and I leaned in, my tongue flicking over the tip.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his hands gripping the blanket tightly. 

I smiled against his skin, my lips wrapping around him, my tongue swirling and teasing. He tasted like salt and desire, and I moaned softly, the sound vibrating against him. His hands moved to my hair, guiding me gently, his praise washing over me like a wave.

"You’re incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with need. "So fucking beautiful."

I hummed in response, my mouth moving slower, deeper, my hands cradling his balls. His hips twitched, and he let out a sharp breath, his body tensing. 

"Baby, I- I don’t want to come yet," he managed, his voice strained. I pulled back slightly, my lips brushing against his sensitive skin.

With a gentle push, he flipped me onto my back, his eyes never leaving mine. His hands moved to my waist, sliding up to cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. I arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips. 

"You’re so perfect," he murmured, his lips trailing down my neck, my collarbone, his kisses leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

His hands moved lower, his fingers traced the lace of my panties, his touch feather-light, before slipping beneath the fabric. I gasped as he found my core, already wet and throbbing with need.

"You’re so ready for me," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. 

His fingers dipped inside me, slow and deliberate, his thumb pressing against my clit. I moaned, my hips bucking against his hand, my body already on the edge.

"Jungkook, please," I begged, my voice desperate.

He chuckled softly, his lips moving lower, kissing down my stomach, his beard scratching my skin in the most delightful way. 

"Impatient, aren’t we?" he teased, his breath ghosting over my sensitive flesh.

Before I could respond, his mouth was on me, his tongue pressing into my cunt, his fingers still moving inside me. I cried out, my hands tangling in his hair, my body arching off the blanket. He ate me out with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his tongue firm and insistent, his mouth devouring me. My breath came in short gasps, my body tightening as pleasure coiled low in my belly.

"Jungkook, I’m close," I panted, my voice shaky.

"Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice muffled against my skin. "Let me feel you fall apart."

His words sent me over the edge. My body shook as my orgasm ripped through me, my cries echoing in the greenhouse. He drank me in, his mouth relentless, his fingers still moving, milking every last drop of pleasure from me. When I finally came down, I was trembling, my body boneless and sated.

He looked up at me, his eyes dark with love and desire, his lips swollen from his efforts. 

"You’re so fucking beautiful when you come," he murmured, climbing up to hover over me. 

His eyes held mine, his expression intense, as he positioned himself at my entrance.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "So much."

I reached up, cupping his face, my thumb brushing over his cheek. "I love you too," I replied, my voice soft but steady.

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he slid inside me, filling me completely. I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body welcoming him like a missing piece. He moved with a rhythm that was both tender and urgent, his hips rocking into mine, his breath coming in short gasps.

"You feel so good," he groaned, his forehead pressing against mine. "So fucking perfect."

I wrapped my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. His hands moved to my hips, guiding our movements, his thrusts becoming more insistent. The blanket rustled beneath us, the only sound in the greenhouse aside from our ragged breaths and soft moans.

"Jungkook," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I’m close again."

"Me too," he admitted, his voice strained. "But I want to last, want to feel you come apart again."

His words sent a fresh wave of desire through me. I tightened around him, my body clenching, and he groaned, his pace quickening. 

"Fuck, baby, you’re going to make me lose it," he warned, his voice a rough whisper.

"Then lose it with me," I urged, my hands gripping his shoulders. "Together."

His thrusts became frantic, his body pouring into mine, his breath coming in sharp gasps. I met him with equal urgency, my hips rising to meet his, our bodies moving in perfect sync. The world narrowed to just the two of us, our hearts pounding, our breaths mingling, our bodies intertwined.

"Y/N," he groaned, his voice breaking. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

His words were my undoing. My body shattered around him, my orgasm crashing over me like a wave, my cries filling the greenhouse. He followed soon after, his hips stuttering, his body tensing as he came, his seed spilling deep inside me. 

"Baby," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his forehead pressing against mine. "I love you."

Afterwards, we just lay there, tangled together, breathing like we were still trying to catch up with what we’d done. I rested my hand over his heart and closed my eyes.

“I want this to last,” I whispered.

“It will.”

“You can’t promise that either.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But I’ll try.”

═══════

The sun came up too soon.

And the goodbye was worse than anything I imagined.

We stood at the train station platform, my fingers gripping his tightly like maybe I could anchor him here if I just held on hard enough.

His manager honked from the van. He glanced back, and I knew this was it.

“I’ll text you tonight,” he said. “And every night after that. Until you’re with me again.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too.”

The kiss was desperate. Rough. Shaky. Everything we didn’t say poured into it.

Then he was walking away.

And I was standing alone with warm tears streaking down my cheeks, mango bubble tea now melting in my hand, watching the boy I’d loved since middle school disappear into a dream that didn’t have room for me.

═══════

The first few days weren’t so bad.

He texted me every night, just like he promised.

Kookie: made it safe. dorm is small but nice. i miss you already. ❤️

Kookie: long practice today. i thought about you the whole time.❤️

Kookie: you’d laugh at how sore my legs are rn lol.

I’d fall asleep with my phone pressed to my chest, rereading his words until my eyes burned. I’d replay our last night together on a loop- his breath, his voice, his promises. I believed them. I really did.

But by the third week… something changed.

The texts started coming later. Sometimes not at all. I’d wake up to a half-hearted reply.

Kookie: sorry long day love you

No punctuation. No emojis. No “good night” kisses made of letters.

The first time I called him, it rang until voicemail. I remember pacing my bedroom, eyes fixed on the screen like maybe I could will it to light up with his face. Maybe I could make his voice come back through sheer force of want.

It didn’t.

I left a message.

Then another one.

And another.

By the fifth one, I just hung up without saying anything. My voice felt stupid anyway. Useless.

“I’m just tired,” he told me when I finally got a hold of him. “Training’s intense, no breaks, you know how it is.”

I nodded like I understood, but I didn’t. How could I?

“You still think about me?” I whispered.

“Of course,” he said, but his voice didn’t smile like it used to. “I just… I gotta focus right now. It’s only temporary, okay?”

Temporary.

That word haunted me.

═══════

Two months passed, and I could feel him slipping further and further away, like trying to hold onto water with my bare hands. Every time I reached, there was less of him.

And then…

He disappeared completely.

No texts. No calls. His name grayed out on my phone like a ghost I wasn’t allowed to summon anymore. I tried finding him on Instagram. Nothing. I tried calling again- straight to voicemail. I stared at my screen, at the message that wouldn’t deliver.

Blocked.

He blocked me.

I don’t remember the exact moment I realized it. I just remember dropping my phone onto the carpet and staring at it like it had betrayed me. Like he had reached out of it and slammed a door in my face.

It didn’t feel real.

I sat there on the floor for what felt like hours. My chest was tight, my throat raw from screaming into the silence of my room. My mom had died the year before, and my dad was never in the picture. I didn’t have anyone to run to, no one to sit me down and tell me it would be okay. No one to curse him out for me. I was just a girl. Alone. Heartbroken.

I wanted to hate him.

I tried to.

But I loved him more than I hated what he was doing to me.

And then, as if the universe hadn’t already chewed me up enough…

I noticed I missed my period.

Twice.

At first, I blamed the stress. The sleepless nights. The crying. The nothingness.

But deep down, I knew.

I bought the test alone. Shoved it into the bottom of my bag like it was a weapon I wasn’t ready to use. I waited until I was home, shaking hands and knees pressed to the bathroom tiles.

I cried the second the result showed.

Two pink lines.

Positive.

Pregnant.

Eighteen years old.

No family.

No boyfriend.

No plan.

I curled up on the bathroom floor, my arms wrapped around my stomach, and I sobbed until I felt sick. I kept whispering his name, like maybe he’d walk through the door and tell me it was a mistake, that he was still here, that we were still “we.”

I didn’t even know who he was anymore.

Still… I tried.

I called him one last time. I held the phone so tight my fingers went numb. It rang once. Twice. Then-

This number is unavailable.

I texted him again, even though I knew it was useless.

Y/N: please. I need to talk to you. this is important.

Not delivered.

I switched apps. Tried emailing. Messaging. Searching his schedule online. I was grasping at digital smoke.

I had no one left.

Even his parents never liked me. They were polite to my face, but always made it clear Jungkook had bigger things ahead. “You’re young,” his mom had once told me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t hold him back.”

I never wanted to.

I just wanted to stand beside him while he flew.

Instead, I was falling, alone.

I packed what little I had. Took a bus to the airport. I didn’t even leave a note behind. There was nothing left to say. Nothing left to hold onto. Nobody to even tell. Just me… and this tiny, silent thing growing inside of me.

My baby.

Our baby.

I didn’t know their name yet. I didn’t know anything. But I made a promise that night, curled up on a stained mattress in a cheap airport hotel far from everything I’d ever known:

I would protect them.

I would never let them feel like I did.

Unwanted.

Forgotten.

Blocked.

═══════

I arrived in the new city with a duffel bag, two hundred and twelve dollars, and a baby growing inside of me, 6,000 miles away from home. 

No plan. No apartment. No friends.

I stepped off the bus into the kind of summer heat that clung to your skin and made your clothes stick to you like regret. My phone was nearly dead, the screen cracked at the corner from how hard I’d thrown it across a motel wall two nights ago. I didn’t care. No one was calling anyway.

I sat on a bench at the edge of the terminal, one hand pressed over my stomach like I could already feel them there.

My baby.

They didn’t have a name yet, or a nursery, or a crib. They didn’t even have a dad anymore. All they had was me- and that was the scariest part of all. I didn’t feel like enough.

The first shelter I tried was full.

The second told me I needed a referral.

The third let me in. I shared a room with four other women, one of whom cried in her sleep and muttered something about her ex hurting her. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t tell them anything about me either. It was safer that way.

At night, I curled up on the bottom bunk and held my belly, whispering things I wasn’t sure they could hear yet.

“It’s just us, okay? I’ll figure it out. I swear.”

I found a job cleaning tables at a twenty-four-hour diner two blocks from the shelter. The manager was a woman in her forties with no patience for excuses, but she handed me a uniform and didn’t ask about my belly.

“You’re not showing yet,” she said, like that was a blessing.

I kept my head down. Worked the night shift. Saved every penny.

Eventually, I found a room to rent. It was in a basement Concrete floors, mold in the corners, no real windows. The shower only had cold water and the radiator made a noise like it was coughing up ghosts.

But it was mine.

I taped a picture of the city skyline to the wall and called it home.

I went to free clinics. I got checkups. I downloaded baby apps that told me how big she was each week. “This week, your baby is the size of a lemon.” I started drinking more water. I learned how to cook cheap meals with frozen vegetables and rice. I worked two jobs. I stopped checking social media. Stopped googling his name. Stopped looking for his face in crowds.

I stopped crying. Mostly.

There were still nights I’d wake up gasping, hand pressed to the place where he used to be. Still dreams where I heard his voice calling my name, the way he used to when he was late and running through the park.

But I didn’t answer those dreams anymore.

I just turned over and held my stomach tighter.

Months passed like smoke. Time blurred. The city didn’t care who I was. And maybe that was good. I could be anyone here. I could rewrite my life.

By the time I was seven months pregnant, I found a tiny apartment above a corner bakery. The floor creaked with every step. The walls were too thin. But the landlady was kind and let me paint the spare room a soft pastel yellow.

“This for a little one?” she asked one day.

I hesitated, then nodded.

“She’s lucky to have you,” she said.

No one had ever said that to me before.

I cried after she left.

═══════

Eun Ae.

That was the name that came to me one morning, soft and sudden like sunlight through a dusty window. It means grace with love.

She would be both.

The last month of pregnancy was the hardest. I didn’t have anyone to hold my hand. No baby shower. No prenatal classes. Just me, standing in line at a dollar store, buying diapers and bottles and a secondhand crib I found online.

I gave birth alone.

The nurse held my hand. She told me I was strong. That I was doing great. That my daughter was beautiful.

And she was.

God, she was.

Tiny, red-faced, wailing like she’d been waiting her whole life to meet me. When they laid her on my chest, I couldn’t stop crying. I whispered her name over and over, like maybe that would make it real.

“Eun Ae,” I said. “My Eun Ae.”

She looked nothing like me.

She had his eyes. His mouth. His hair.

She looked like every part of me that still wanted to believe in love and every part of me that remembered how much it hurt.

I pressed a kiss to her forehead and made another promise.

“You’ll never have to beg anyone to stay.”

═══════

The first night home with Eun Ae, I didn’t sleep at all.

She screamed the way newborns do- without rhythm, without reason, as if her tiny lungs couldn’t believe they were real. I sat in the corner of the room on a second-hand rocking chair, blinking through exhaustion and cradling her in my arms. My entire body ached. My stitches throbbed. My back felt broken.

But I rocked her anyway.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Over and over, whispering songs I only half-remembered from childhood. She didn’t care. She just needed a heartbeat.

I gave her mine.

The first few weeks were chaos.

Feeding every two hours. Diapers like clockwork. Sleepless nights. Leaking milk. Guilt every time I thought I wasn’t doing enough. Or worse- when I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

But then she’d curl her hand around my finger.

Or smile in her sleep.

And I’d remember that none of this was her fault.

I called her “my tiny storm.” Because that’s what she was: chaotic and wild, but somehow still beautiful.

═══════

I returned to work when she was six weeks old. The bakery downstairs hired me as a morning assistant. I wore Eun Ae in a wrap across my chest while I sliced bagels and filled coffee orders. No one complained. Most people tipped me extra.

“She must look just like her daddy,” one customer said one morning.

I froze.

Smiled too hard.

Changed the subject.

The truth was, I never said his name out loud anymore.

Not even to Eun Ae.

He had vanished so thoroughly that even the word “Jungkook” felt like a spell I couldn’t afford to speak.

But he was there- in her face, her laugh, her temper. She had his eyes. Big and dark and full of questions she couldn’t ask yet. She furrowed her brow like him. Pouted like him. And when she cried, she had this broken, breathy hiccup at the end, just like the way his voice cracked when he used to tell me goodbye.

She was her father’s daughter.

Even if he’d never meet her.

═══════

By the time she turned one, we’d found a rhythm.

I was back in school part-time. Community college courses at night while she slept in a donated crib beside my desk. I studied until my eyes burned, filling notebooks with marketing notes, dreaming of someday doing more than just surviving.

I wanted to build something for her.

She deserved that.

Every birthday, I bought a cupcake and lit one candle, even when she couldn’t understand it. I sang softly and held her hand and whispered promises into the night.

I kept a photo of him in my drawer.

The last one we ever took together. He was in his hoodie, arms around me, and I looked so… happy. I barely recognized myself.

I never showed it to her.

But I couldn’t throw it away either.

Sometimes I wondered if he knew.

If he felt it.

If, somewhere on some stage with flashing lights and screaming fans, his chest ever ached the way mine did.

I didn’t hate him anymore.

I just couldn’t afford to miss him.

Six years passed.

Eun Ae was smart. So smart. She talked early, walked early, and made up songs about things like cereal and socks and the moon. She loved animals, especially tigers. She called me “Mama” with this bright, sing-song voice that made strangers smile in grocery store aisles.

And still, no one knew about him.

I kept her away from the internet. I didn’t play their music. I never watched interviews or read the headlines.

It was better that way.

Cleaner.

═══════

Until one day, while organizing an event at the university concert hall where I worked as the assistant event coordinator, my supervisor slid a folder across the desk.

“Biggest show we’ve ever booked,” she said. “This one’s yours to coordinate.”

I opened the file.

And my entire body went still.

BTS. Three nights. Sold out.

I stared at the name in big, bold letters.

And below it, the list of members.

Jeon Jungkook.

The air rushed out of my lungs.

My supervisor didn’t notice. She was already rattling off logistics and budget numbers.

“Great exposure for us,” she said. “They’ll be here for four days total- day one for setup and press, then two shows. You’ll be their point of contact. Got it?”

I nodded, because what else could I do?

“Yes,” I said.

But inside, I was unraveling.

Seven years.

It had been seven years since he looked at me and said I was his forever.

Now he was coming back.

And he had no idea that his forever was already here.

Alive.

Walking.

Talking.

Waiting.

═══════

The day they arrived, I wore my best poker face.

I dressed in all black clean, simple, professional. My badge clipped to my belt. Hair up. Lips-red, pressed into a neutral line. I stood at the edge of the venue loading dock with my clipboard, reading the itinerary like it could anchor me.

It didn’t.

My heart was a riot in my chest.

I kept telling myself I could do this. That seven years was long enough to kill any feelings I once had. That I was over it. Over him.

But then the black vans pulled in, and I felt every nerve ending ignite.

I kept my eyes fixed on the roster list in my hand as the van doors slid open.

BTS spilled out like lightning in motion- laughing, stretching, waving at the crew. They looked like the versions of themselves I had seen in posters and screens from far away but never allowed myself to truly absorb.

Namjoon stepped out first, tall and calm. Then Jimin, soft smile already charming the camera crew nearby. Taehyung followed with a bored yawn and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

And then-

Jungkook.

He jumped down from the last van like it was nothing. Hoodie pulled over his head. Headphones around his neck. Black jeans, chunky boots, silver rings on his fingers. He looked older now. Sharper. His hair was longer, his jaw more defined, his tattoos visible beneath his sleeves.

But it was still him.

Still the boy who once whispered that I was his forever.

Still the boy who disappeared.

His eyes scanned the lot casually- and then locked on mine.

Time stopped.

His whole body froze.

For a moment, the chaos around us blurred. Managers shouting, equipment wheeling past, cables being dragged across the ground. I couldn’t hear anything. Just the thump of my heart. The blood in my ears.

And those damn eyes.

He took a hesitant step forward.

“Y/N…?”

His voice hit me like a sucker punch to the stomach.

I turned away before he could say anything else.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” one of the coordinators called. “Can you walk the manager through the setup list?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice too steady. “Right away.”

I didn’t look at him again.

I didn’t acknowledge the way the air had shifted around me. I didn’t let my expression crack, even as I felt his gaze burning into the back of my head like a secret trying to claw its way out.

I shook hands with BTS’s manager. Bowed politely to each member.

Taehyung smiled at me. “You’re the event coordinator?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m managing your team’s tech logistics while you’re here.”

“Cool,” he said. “You look familiar.”

I forced a smile. “I get that sometimes.”

Jungkook hadn’t moved.

He just stared.

I could feel him behind me- silent, motionless, stunned.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” the manager said again, “can we review the dressing room assignments?”

“Of course,” I replied. “Right this way.”

As I walked toward the venue entrance, clipboard in hand, I could hear Jungkook’s footsteps start and stop behind me like he didn’t know what to do. Like the weight of the past was catching up to him too fast to carry.

I didn’t let him catch up.

I stayed with the manager. I kept my tone clipped. Professional. Distant.

He didn’t deserve anything else.

═══════

That night, I put Eun Ae to bed and sat on the couch in silence.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I stared at the TV without watching it. The screen glowed, casting soft shadows across the living room. I could still hear his voice. That tentative, stunned way he said my name.

Y/N.

I hadn’t heard him say it in seven years.

I hadn’t wanted to hear it ever again.

And yet…

I had.

I brought my knees up to my chest and rested my chin there. The silence of the apartment buzzed in my ears. My phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark.

He hadn’t reached out.

Not that I expected him to.

But he had seen me.

Really seen me.

And tomorrow, we’d be back in the same building again-  for rehearsals, for the show, for more pretending.

I looked down the hall where my daughter slept soundly in her room. Her small night light flickered against the soft yellow walls. She didn’t know.

She didn’t know that her father had stood not twenty feet from her today.

She didn’t know that the boy who left me all those years ago… was back.

And I didn’t know what I was going to do about it.

═══════

I didn’t believe it was her at first.

It was like seeing a ghost- only sharper. More real. Like memory had morphed into skin and bones right in front of me. She wasn’t a thought anymore. She was standing there, alive, breathing, clipboard in hand.

Y/N.

After all these years. After everything.

My heart stopped when our eyes met.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t even flinch.

She looked right through me.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The rest of the world faded into static as she turned away and walked past me like I was no one.

I didn’t know what to do.

So I did nothing.

I stayed quiet through sound check. Missed two cues. Forgot lyrics I’ve known for years. My hands shook on the mic. Jimin kept shooting me glances. Namjoon gave me a look like, we’ll talk later.

I couldn’t focus.

Because there she was- just feet away, giving stage directions to the crew, typing something on her phone, hair tied up, face calm.

She was even more beautiful now.

Older. Stronger. Softer in the eyes but sharper in the jaw. The kind of beautiful that made you regret ever looking away.

After rehearsal, we went back to the hotel.

Dinner was quiet until Taehyung broke it.

“So…” he said, glancing at me. “You okay?”

I didn’t answer.

Jimin raised a brow. “You’ve been weird all day.”

“Like, weirder than usual,” Hoseok added.

Jin leaned in. “What happened at the venue?”

Namjoon sat back. “That woman- the coordinator. You knew her, didn’t you?”

I stared down at my plate. My appetite was gone.

“Her name’s Y/N,” I said softly.

Yoongi’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

“No fucking way,” he said.

They all froze.

Jimin’s jaw dropped. “That Y/N?”

“From Busan?” Jin added.

“The one from… before you left?” Taehyung asked carefully.

I nodded.

“Holy shit,” Hoseok breathed. “She’s here? She’s working the tour?”

“I didn’t know,” I said quickly. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“She looked… fine,” Namjoon said slowly. “Like, completely put together.”

“She’s not fine,” I murmured. “I can tell.”

Yoongi crossed his arms. “Well, what did you expect? You ghosted her, man.”

“I didn’t-”

“You blocked her,” he cut in. “You changed your number. You dropped off the face of the Earth to her.”

“I panicked!” I snapped. “I didn’t know what I was doing. Everything was moving too fast, the training, the company, the rules. They didn’t want me in a relationship, especially not one that serious. I didn’t know how to tell her. So I didn’t.”

“You emotionally cheated on her dude,” Taehyung said, not unkindly. “And then what? You blocked her?”

“I thought…” I exhaled. “I thought she’d be better off.”

“No one’s better off being abandoned,” Jimin said flatly.

I gritted my teeth. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did,” Jin said.

I didn’t say anything.

There was nothing left to say.

Silence stretched across the table.

Then Namjoon asked quietly, “Do you still love her?”

The words caught me by surprise.

But the answer came easy.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Yes, I still loved her.

Even now.

Even after all this time.

Even after everything.

“She looked right through me,” I said, more to myself than to them. “Like I didn’t exist.”

“Maybe to her,” Yoongi said, “you don’t.”

Those words hit harder than I expected.

I left the table first.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed for what felt like hours.

I scrolled through old photos. Scrolled through pain. Tried to find her number in my blocked contacts. Unblocked it.

I stared at her name like it would bring her back.

Jungkook: Y/N. Can we talk? Please.

Sent.

Three seconds later:

Not delivered.

I tried again.

Same result.

Her number was gone.

Or changed.

Or… both.

I dropped my phone onto the nightstand and buried my face in my hands.

Seven years.

And I still loved her like I was eighteen and scared and stupid.

Now?

Now I was twenty-five.

Still scared.

Still stupid.

But I wasn’t running this time.

Tomorrow, I’d find her.

Tomorrow, I’d try again.

Because I had to.

Because maybe I couldn’t fix the past…

But I could fight for the future.

═══════

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of little feet sprinting down the hallway.

“Mamaaaaa!”

Before I could sit up, Eun Ae launched herself onto the bed like a missile. Her tiny body landed across my stomach with an “oomph,” and she laughed like she was the funniest person alive.

“You’re heavy,” I groaned.

“I’m growing,” she declared proudly, scooting up until her nose was pressed against mine. “You said if I eat all my strawberries I’ll grow big. I ate three yesterday.”

“Three strawberries, huh?” I mumbled, still half-asleep. “Better call the Olympics.”

She giggled again and flopped next to me, tangling her legs in the sheets.

I stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath.

It was a new day.

The day after seeing him.

And somehow, the world hadn’t ended.

I glanced at the clock. 6:43 a.m.

Too early. Always too early.

But I was used to it. Motherhood didn’t care about sleep.

“What’s today?” Eun Ae asked, her voice soft now. “Is it a school day?”

“Nope,” I said. “School’s closed for the teacher training day, remember?”

Her eyes lit up. “So I get to go to work with you?”

I hesitated.

Technically, no. Technically, she wasn’t allowed backstage. Technically, I was supposed to find childcare.

But my sitter canceled last minute. And I didn’t have family to call. No backup plan.

And this morning wasn’t just a setup day for any show.

It was BTS’s first rehearsal.

Jungkook’s first rehearsal.

My stomach turned.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. “You’re coming with me.”

“Yay! Can I wear the sparkly pants?”

“Maybe not sparkly, baby. Let’s go for comfy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Boring.”

“Functional.”

“Boring,” she repeated dramatically.

We argued for five more minutes before I managed to get her into soft leggings and a hoodie. I packed her a lunch- pb&j, apple slices, string cheese, a juice box- and stuffed her favorite drawing notebook and markers into her backpack.

═══════

By the time we got to the venue, I had mentally rehearsed every scenario in which she might accidentally wander into rehearsal. And every possible excuse I could use to explain why she looked so much like one of the men on stage.

I didn’t let my brain go there.

Instead, I signed us in, clipped her a visitor badge, and made a little “kid corner” backstage with a blanket and her supplies.

“You stay right here,” I told her, crouching in front of her. “No running. No exploring. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, but her smile was mischievous. “What if a famous person talks to me?”

“Then you smile and say hi. And you don’t tell them your life story, got it?”

She crossed her arms. “You never let me do anything fun.”

“You drew on the toaster last week.”

“I was decorating it!”

“Stay. Here. Please.”

“Fiiiiiine.”

I kissed her forehead and stood up just as the crew radio crackled to life.

“Band arriving in 10. Sound check team on deck.”

My chest squeezed.

It was happening again.

I checked the stage layout, ran over the day’s order, made sure tech had their mics and cue sheets ready. I moved like a machine.

Anything to avoid thinking.

But then I saw him.

Out of the corner of my eye.

He entered with the group, dressed in joggers and a white tee, hair tied back, a calm focus on his face. He looked… unshakable. Like he belonged here. Like he didn’t have seven years of silence hanging between us like an invisible wall.

Jimin saw me first and waved politely. Taehyung gave a half-bow. Namjoon offered a quick nod.

Jungkook… slowed.

But he didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

I stayed behind the crew as the members took the stage and warmed up.

I didn’t see Eun Ae sneak away until it was too late.

“Mama, look- !”

She ran directly onto the stage, arms wide, like it was the playground.

My heart dropped out of my chest.

��Eun Ae!”

Every member of BTS stopped.

Music cut. Mics echoed. Heads turned.

She stood center-stage, grinning, completely oblivious to the silence she’d caused.

Jungkook turned.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And everything inside him changed.

I saw it happen in real-time.

His eyes went wide. His body locked up. His mouth parted, and then shut again. He stared like she was a ghost. A hallucination. Like his brain was trying to catch up with something his heart already knew.

Eun Ae spun in a circle and shouted, “Hi! I’m Eun Ae! This place is so BIG!”

Namjoon chuckled awkwardly. “Hello, Eun Ae.”

One of the techs looked at me like do you want us to stop her?

But I was frozen.

Because Jungkook hadn’t moved.

He just stared.

And I knew, without him saying a single word-

He recognized her.

He knew.

═══════

I managed to get her off the stage before the silence crushed us all.

Eun Ae didn’t understand, of course. She just laughed when I scooped her up into my arms and whispered too sharply into her ear.

“You can’t run out there like that, baby.”

“But I wanted to see!”

“You can’t.”

Her little face folded into confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” I whispered, my voice catching. “No, sweet girl. You’re fine. It’s me. I just- I wasn’t ready.”

I carried her backstage as quickly as I could, ignoring the weight of all their eyes.

Especially his.

I dropped her back onto her blanket, handed her a snack, and told one of the interns to keep an eye on her while I stepped outside for “fresh air.”

It was a lie.

I just needed to breathe.

The service hallway was dim and cold and smelled like industrial cleaner. My footsteps echoed along the concrete as I pressed a hand to my chest and leaned against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut.

I couldn’t cry.

Not here.

Not when he might-

“Y/N.”

His voice hit me like a gust of wind, and I flinched.

I turned slowly.

And there he was.

Jungkook stood at the other end of the corridor like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come closer. His hands were at his sides, fingers twitching. His brows were drawn, his mouth parted, but no words came out fast enough.

“You’re really here,” he said finally, almost in disbelief. “It’s you.”

I didn’t move.

He stepped closer.

I took a step back.

He stopped.

“Don’t,” I said. “Not here. I’m working.”

“I-” He swallowed. “I didn’t know you were in this city. I didn’t know you worked here. I didn’t know-”

“Yeah, Jungkook,” I snapped, my voice too loud, too raw. “You don’t know anything.”

He winced like I’d slapped him.

“I deserve that,” he whispered.

“You deserve a hell of a lot more than that.”

Silence swelled between us.

He looked like he wanted to run and stay and scream and cry all at once. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted back toward the door like he half-expected someone to interrupt this moment- or save him from it.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I laughed.

It was sharp and bitter and ugly. “You blocked me.”

“I know.”

“I tried to call you. I begged you to talk to me.”

“I know.”

“You disappeared. You walked away like I didn’t matter.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend himself.

He just stood there, mouth trembling, eyes wet.

“I was scared,” he said finally. “I didn’t know how to handle any of it. I was young and selfish and… stupid.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

I stared at him for a long moment.

There was a time when I would’ve given anything just to hear his voice again. Now I just wanted him gone. I didn’t want to unravel here, in this hallway, in this job I fought to earn, while my daughter waited in the next room with her coloring book and juice box.

“I can’t do this right now,” I said, my voice low.

“Y/N-”

“I’m at work.”

He took a shaky breath. “Can we talk later? Please. Just… later. Whenever you’re ready.”

I didn’t say yes.

I didn’t say no.

I just stared.

And then I turned and walked away.

Because I knew if I stayed, if I looked at him one second longer, I’d break in a way I couldn’t afford to.

Not here.

Not now.

Not with her so close.

═══════

I didn’t sleep that night.

I laid there with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the air conditioner hummed like static in the corner. I could still feel his voice on my skin. Still see his face when he realized.

When he knew.

I hated that he looked heartbroken.

Like he had the right.

He didn’t get to be the victim in this story.

Morning came fast.

I got Eun Ae dressed in her favorite hoodie, tied her hair back with a rainbow scrunchie, packed her snacks, and kissed her forehead before handing her off to my night sitter. She clung to me a little longer than usual, her tiny hands fisting the fabric of my sleeve.

“Are you okay, Mama?”

“Of course,” I lied with a smile. “I’m just tired.”

She looked like she didn’t believe me, but she nodded anyway.

═══════

At the venue, I kept my head down and my steps quick. I met with the stage managers. Double-checked the lighting schedule. Confirmed the camera angles. BTS was set to perform the first of three sold-out shows tonight, and it had to be flawless.

I didn’t have time for ghosts.

But of course, he found me again.

After the final stage tech test, I was checking headset frequencies backstage when he walked in from the far corridor. Alone this time. Hoodie up. Head down.

I saw him before he saw me.

I slipped behind a crew cart and took the long way around the scaffolding, heart pounding in my chest like I was seventeen again.

I wasn’t ready.

Not for another talk.

Not for his eyes.

Not for the way my body still reacted to his with heat and tension and this deep ache of things never healed.

The first fans started trickling in. The venue buzzed with electricity. Excitement in the air like a current. BTS prepped for the show. Hair and makeup. Wardrobe. Rehearsal cues.

And I stayed invisible.

Until I couldn’t.

Just before the house lights dimmed, I ran into Jimin.

He was alone, drinking water near the monitor station. When he spotted me, he gave a small, tentative smile.

“Hey,” he said.

I nodded politely. “Hi.”

He looked like he wanted to say more.

“He’s a mess,” he said instead.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Jungkook,” he clarified. “He hasn’t slept. Barely talked. He’s… not okay.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that.

Was I supposed to care?

Jimin’s eyes softened. “He knows he fucked up. He’s never forgiven himself.”

“That makes two of us,” I said quietly.

He hesitated. “He didn’t even stay with that girl. The one he- after you. It didn’t even last a month. He couldn’t look at her without thinking about what he lost.”

I closed my eyes. “It doesn’t change what he did.”

“I know,” Jimin said gently. “But maybe it explains it.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the lights cut out before I could.

Cue time.

Showtime.

BTS took the stage and the world screamed.

The entire arena lit up like a galaxy.

And for two hours, I focused only on the logistics. The transitions. The audience flow. The safety of the crew. I spoke into the headset, gave instructions, moved like a storm on autopilot.

But I still saw him.

On stage.

Sweating, shining, dancing, singing.

He looked like he belonged up there.

Like he was born for this.

Like everything he left me for had bloomed exactly the way he dreamed.

But then his eyes found me in the wings.

And they broke.

I looked away.

After the encore, while the cheers still echoed, he stepped off stage and tried to approach.

I turned and walked in the other direction.

═══════

I didn’t plan to say yes.

When I walked into the venue the next morning, I had every intention of ignoring him again. Of slipping past with my badge and my fake smile and my shoulders squared like I couldn’t still feel him watching me.

But then he was there.

Waiting by the staff entrance with a hood over his head and both hands deep in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t say anything. Just looked up when I passed.

And softly, like it wasn’t a plea:

“Please. Just one hour.”

I kept walking.

But by the time I reached the control booth, I’d already decided.

An hour.

That’s all he was getting.

I didn’t owe him more.

I texted my sitter and arranged a little extra time that morning. I found a café across the street from the venue. Quiet. Tucked between a record shop and a florist. The kind of place no one would think to look.

He was already there when I arrived.

Sitting in the corner booth, black hoodie pulled low, fingers tapping the edge of a coffee cup like he was trying not to shake.

I didn’t say hi.

Just sat down across from him and folded my arms.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Finally, he looked up.

“Thanks for coming.”

I stared. “Start talking.”

He flinched like the words hit.

“I messed up,” he said. “That’s the bottom line. I fucking ruined everything.”

“You did.”

“I was scared,” he went on. “The company told me I couldn’t be in a relationship. I didn’t know how to balance you and the dream I was chasing and- ”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t make this about your dream.”

He swallowed hard. “I thought maybe if I let you go, you’d move on and be happy. I didn’t want to drag you into it- into this world, the chaos, the distance.”

“So instead you dragged me through abandonment.”

His throat worked. “I know.”

“And then you blocked me.”

“I know.”

“While I was trying to tell you I was pregnant.”

That landed like a punch.

He blinked. “What?”

“I called you. I texted. I tried everything. You’d already cut me out of your life. So I moved.”

“You… you were pregnant?”

“I am a mother.”

He looked like he couldn’t breathe.

“I have a daughter,” I said. “She’s six. She’s bright and smart and stubborn and beautiful. She likes animals and cereal and drawing on walls. She’s yours.”

He gripped the edge of the table like he needed something to keep from falling apart.

“She…” His voice broke. “She’s mine?”

“Biologically, yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I tried. You made it impossible.”

His eyes filled with tears he tried to blink back.

“I missed everything,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I said. “You did.”

I looked away. My throat burned. My chest was tight with everything I’d kept locked away for so long.

“I haven’t been with anyone,” I added. “Not once. I haven’t had time to fall in love. Or heal. I’ve been in school, working, raising her, paying bills. Alone. While you…” I gestured toward him. “Got to live the life you wanted.”

He closed his eyes. A tear slipped free.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said.

I didn’t respond.

“I think about you every single day.”

Still, I said nothing.

“I dream about you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

He looked up again, broken open. “I want to be in her life. I want to meet her. Be her dad.”

I paused.

“You don’t get to come in just because it’s convenient now,” I said. “You shattered me. You left a crater behind that I’m still crawling out of. And I won’t let you break her the way you broke me.”

That made him flinch harder than anything I’d said yet.

“I understand,” he said softly. “But please… just one chance. Let me meet her. Just once.”

I sighed.

The silence stretched again, taut and heavy.

“She has a playdate this afternoon,” I said. “But tomorrow morning? I’m free.”

His eyes lit up.

“I’ll bring her to the zoo,” I said. “You can meet her. As a family friend.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I stood up, ignoring the tremble in his voice.

“I’m not doing this for you, Jungkook. I’m doing it for her.”

Then I walked out before he could say anything else.

═══════

♡ next

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 06/15/2025

[jung-koook]

jungkook’s little spin 🥹 (cr. @taee)

[giegiemon]

this is me and jungkook the moment he got back from military btw!!!!

jeon jungkook - the boy is mine

warnings ; this is porn. that’s all there is to it. reader is PINING, reader’s bff is a cunt, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f recieving), dirty talk, spit play kinda, jk worshipping you, someone walks in on yall..

prompt ; in which your best friend needs to be taught a lesson on who your crush belongs to.

a/n ; i mean, this is absolute whore behavior on my end and i have no words. beware this is long AS A MOTHERFUCKER. and so much plot. enjoy. also this is college!jk and reader so WOO (also loosely based on the boy is mine - arianaaaa)

Some people were just meant to be in the background.

Or, at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself for quite some time now.

You were the kind of person who blended into the background, voice barely rising above a whisper when spoken to, presence often slipping unnoticed into corners of rooms. Some days were spent in Yonsei University’s prestigious library, buried in books, worlds that didn’t require attention, where the characters spoke louder than you dare would. It wasn’t that you minded, though — you were content to remain in the quiet… well, as long as your best friend, Seo-yeon, shone like a star in the midst of it all.

Nevertheless, there were times when her shine cast a shadow, and that light felt a little too harsh. You didn’t mind when Seo-yeon needed a shoulder to lean on, but lately it seemed like all she did was lean — never giving anything in return. And you tried to brush it off, scolding your brain it’s just the pressure of her rich father but deep down, you could not shake the feeling that Seo-yeon’s warmth was only reserved for someone else.

And that someone was your best friend since you were 10, Jeon Jungkook.

You get it. Who wouldn’t? Hottest guy at school, richest parents, biggest heart… and from the rumor mill, his heart wasn’t the only thing that was big.

It’s always just been you and him.

Jungkook and [Y/N], [Y/N] and Jungkook.

Best friends since grade school, partners in crime on the playground. Really, they were setting you up for failure by having your best friend be someone who had a revolving door of women in his life. Even back then, he somehow garnered more attention than an average adult. It was just who he was. You accepted that.

But then, somewhere along the timeline of convoluted wreckage your life, you two grew up. Grew closer, somehow. The lines of your life intertwined, never straying too far apart.

So, it was really no surprise to you when you woke up one day and realized you were madly, deeply, irrevocably, disgustingly, head over heels in love with him.

You had convinced yourself, over and over, that Jungkook knew. How could he not?

It was like this: you had seen a kiss in a television show when you were 11. Pondered what it felt like to do such a thing.

It had been a fleeting moment, so innocent — just a brush of lips under the old oak tree in the park when you were 12, surrounded by the laughter of friends and the warmth of summer. But in that brief, stolen instant, something shifted inside you, a chemical reaction. The memory of that first kiss, so pure and untainted, lingered in the air, like a secret only you two shared.

You caught the glint in his eyes afterward, the way he looked at you as if seeing you for the first time, and ever since… well, ever since then, you’ve been his.

When Seo-yeon casually mentioned over drinks one night that Jungkook was sooooo cute and she was thinking of going for it, well, you should’ve been shocked, but how could you be?

She knew exactly what she wanted, and she wasn’t afraid to take it, even if it meant stepping on the quiet spaces you had carved out for yourself. It stung, of course, the idea that she could waltz in and claim something you had quietly held onto for years.

But deep down, you knew the truth. You knew you would never go for it, not really — not with the unspoken barrier between you two, that kiss from ages ago still lingering in the air, in your blood.

And yet, Seo-yeon’s confidence in taking what she wanted, without hesitation or doubt, only reminded you of how much you were willing to give up, just to keep the peace. That’s who she was.

And you? Well, you were the one who always let her take.

All that to say, this is why you’re standing with your spine pressed into the cold wall, eyes burning holes into Seo-yeon’s back, fingers digging into your red solo cup, heart thumping, as you watched her flirt with Jungkook.

It was supposed to be a fun night. Key word: supposed. Jungkook’s best friend, Jimin, had invited everyone to his house for a ‘get-together.’ You should’ve known when you got the invite it would be a party, another chance for you to be a wallflower.

And wallflower you are, assuming your post, drinking whatever concoction Jimin’s roommate had created.

It is a tragedy.

The music swirls around you, yet you’re caught in the gravity of Seo-yeon and Jungkook’s orbit. Every glance, every word that passes between them felt like a blade to your chest. Her laughter rings out, effortless and bright, and you watch as she leans in closer to Jungkook, her fingers grazing his arm in a way that made the air between them shimmer with something unspoken.

You could feel the tension coiling inside you, a painful knot you didn’t know how to undo.

And before you do anything rash (or well, not that you will, but the thought of it) you hear a familiar voice that calms you down in the slightest.

“Boo.”

You instantly know it’s Taehyung, Jungkook’s other close friend who you’ve somehow managed to also become buddy-buddy with. You kinda had to, just to prove to Jungkook you can make other friends beside Seo-yeon. Tsk.

You lightly smile at him, but you refuse to take your eyes off Jungkook and Seo-yeon, as if you turn away for a second, they may leave you in the dust.

“You know… You’ve been staring at them like you’re waiting for them to start a new Netflix series or something.” He whispers near your ear, as if it’s some massive secret that no one could possibly guess.

You blink, startled, “I’m not staring,” you mumble, but Taehyung only raises an eyebrow.

“Sure you’re not. You're practically giving them a live commentary in your head, huh?

You scoff. “I don’t care if they talk. Honestly, I want them to get together. I mean, why not? It’s what she wants.”

His elbow lightly digs into your side, making you slap him away with ease, “Oh, really? Is that what you want? You’re not fooling anyone. You’re practically trying to will them together while simultaneously wanting to rip your hair out.”

“Why would you think I don’t want them to get together?” You roll your eyes.

You know exactly why. It may have to do with the fact that besides your diary, Seo-yeon and yourself, Taehyung also knows about your little infatuation (which, and you remind yourself, only happened because you got quite drunk with him at the bar and admitted it two months ago.)

You don’t see it, but he rolls his eyes again. “You are the worst liar I know.”

“I’m not lying,” you insist.

He raises his arms up in defeat, “Fine, if lying is the route we’re taking, at least just tell Seo-Yeon to go home. Seriously, who even invited her?"

You finally remove your eyes off Jungkook and Seo-yeon to face Taehyung, who definitely looks drunker than you think he sounds. “I’m not doing that. And plus, she’s my best friend.”

He snorts, “Really? The same best friend who’s currently talking to the boy she knows you’re in love with?”

Taehyung continues, probably, and you can only assume, because he got you to tear your eyes away from them and their incessant giggles. Really, what is so damn funny? “You’re practically turning into an accessory to the decor. Please go take him away from her. He already adores you.”

Jungkook did adore you — there was no doubt about that. When you both got accepted into the same university, he immediately integrated you into every friend group, every hangout.

But that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

The temptation to rip Seo-yeon away, to somehow be the one he turned to, was enough as it is — but the fear of being seen, of finally stepping off the wall and making yourself known, keeps you frozen.

Taehyung throws his hands up in mock defeat. "Alright, alright, I give up. Do whatever you want, missy. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You look up at him, swirling your drink that’s been boiled down to just ice. “Warn me about what?”

“Don’t let this be one of those things you look back on and regret, thinking you should've acted before it was too late.”

You know Taehyung is right, though admitting it felt like admitting defeat. You think back to those moments with Jungkook — the way his high fives always lasted a second longer than they should, or how his fingers brush against your shoulder in the most casual way, as if it wasn’t just a touch, but something that had meaning beneath it. There were those weird moments too, when his gaze would linger, his eyes soft, as though he was on the edge of something he couldn't quite grasp.

Deep down, there was that small, quiet part of you that wondered if he ever felt the same — if he ever wondered, like you did, whether you two could be more than just friends.

"Wow, when did you get so deep? You sound like one of those motivational speakers who talks about following your dreams and embracing the moment,” It’s your turn to roll your eyes, playfully pushing his shoulder.

He shoots you a knowing look. "Hey, I’m just trying to save you from becoming the wise old lady at the bar telling stories about how you ‘almost’ told Jungkook you liked him when you were young and full of hope."

“Well, thank you for the life lesson.” You look down at your cup, a heinous purple color now that the ice has completely melted. “I’ll stick to my alcohol for now.”

He saunters off, weaseling his way through the hoard of people to bully his next victim, you suppose. You are a little tipsy, you won’t lie.

With a sigh, you turn your head back to Seo-yeon and Jungkook.

…Where the fuck are they?

Now it’s time to panic.

You push through a few random guys and girls, silently saying excuse me basically to no one but yourself. Vision gets hazy, but you can’t tell if it’s tears or the punch.

Heart flutters, skips a beat. Thank god. There he is, pouring himself a cup at the drink table that’s been set up in the dining room. No Seo-yeon in sight. You assume you have 5 seconds before she comes back from wherever she is to trap him once more.

You waltz up to the drink table, trying to act casual, but your heart skips when you see Jungkook standing there, grinning like he knows exactly what’s going on in your head. He waves you over with that signature carefree smile, his bunny teeth poking out. “Well, well, look who finally decided to show up. Were you hiding from me or just avoiding everyone?”

Your hands are suddenly unsure of where to go as you fiddle with your cup. “I wasn’t hiding! Just��� you know, blending in with the background. Like I do.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, his smirk turning into something a little more teasing. “Blending in? You? You’re like, the least subtle person here. You stand out more than the punch bowl.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You joke as you lean over him to pour yourself another cup of punch.

He laughs, leaning closer as if he was about to share a secret. “Okay, but seriously, where have you been? Where’s your head at? I know, I know I said get-together… but it’s definitely a party.”

“Tsk, tsk. You little player,” You sip your drink, looking up into his doe eyes. God, he’s just so…

Your curiosity gets the best of you. “So, uh... what’s the deal with Seo-yeon? You two talking about something important, or is she just... I don’t know, using you for your impeccable taste in drinks?”

The jealousy tugging at your chest makes it harder than you expect to sound casual.

A small chuckle escapes him. “Seo-yeon? Nah, she’s just, uh, talking my ear off about some random stuff. Nothing exciting.”

He shrugs like it was nothing, his tone so nonchalant it almost makes you second-guess why it bothered you in the first place. “Honestly, I don’t even know half of what she’s saying. I’m just nodding and pretending to be interested.”

You blink, surprised that anyone could be bored at anything she had to say. “Wait, really? You’re just... pretending?”

“Yep,” Jungkook grins, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s a skill I’ve perfected over the years. Maybe you should teach me how to do it with more people, though. I’m still not great at pretending to listen to people who don’t bring snacks.”

You laugh, a bit of the tension in your chest easing. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But seriously, you’re not fooling anyone. You’re way too nice to actually ignore people."

He shrugs his broad shoulders, something you’ve come to notice as he’s grown older. “Possibly, but—“

Your breath hitches when Seo-yeon reappears, her presence as loud and effortless as a storm breaking the quiet.

With a smile that’s all too practiced, she glides over, her eyes immediately locking with Jungkook’s, as if the space between them had always been empty, waiting for her to fill it.

“Hey, Jungkook,” she purrs, fingers brushing against his arm as she leans in a little too close, a flirtatious glimmer dancing in her eyes. “Still owe me that drink, remember?”

Jungkook’s smile widens, completely unphased by her proximity. His fingers wrap around the cup and he hands it to her, their hands brushing lightly, “Of course,” he says, his voice soft, full of that gentle affection that makes you want to stick a fork in your eye.

You feel the familiar nerves rise in your chest, the uncertainty pressing down on you like a weight you couldn’t shake. The scene before you is too much, and you find yourself backing away instinctively, eyes flickering toward the exit.

You just need to escape, even for a second. But before you can take another step, Jungkook’s voice cuts through the hum of the room, “Hey, do you wanna go play darts? Jimin has not shut up about it and I want to test out my skills.”

And he does it again. Digs you deeper and deeper into that dream of yours.

You take another sip out of your cup, locking eyes with Seo-yeon, who, for once in her life, looks nervous. See, if you weren’t 3 drinks deep, and you weren’t so desperate to remove her away from him, you would’ve went back to your post on the wall.

But Taehyung’s words linger in your brain like a broken record.

“You know, actually, I need to steal Seo-yeon away for a quick minute,” You reach out, grip onto her arm like it’s your lifeline. You’re almost certain you draw your fingernails in a little too deep to her skin.

“Huh?” Her eyes widen, blinking a few times.

You drag her through the crowd, pulling her to the opposite side of the room with a swiftness that leaves Jungkook utterly baffled. He has stopped questioning yours and Seo-yeon’s friendship altogether.

Your nerves buzz with the alcohol in your system, and before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out. "Why are you flirting with Jungkook?"

There it was, out in the open. Lingering in the air like a cloud of smoke.

Seo-yeon blinks in surprise, eyebrows rising as if you had just grown another head. “What are you talking about?” she replies with that same airy sweetness, but the underlying edge is unmistakable. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Friendly?” You scoff, feeling the alcohol’s warmth pushing your boldness forward. “It’s like you’re auditioning for a role in Jungkook’s life or something. You're so obvious.”

Seo-yeon laughs dismissively. “I didn’t realize you cared so much, [Y/N]. Wow, look at you. Finally standing up for yourself. Guess it only took a little bit of liquid courage, huh?”

She tilts her head, voice teasing. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

All you see is red, and you’re kinda imagining what her head would look like ripped out of its socket.

She keeps pushing, keeps pressure testing, keeps dragging the knife through you. “Whatever. If you want to make this a thing, go ahead. But don’t act like I’ve been the one playing games.”

“You know what?” It’s a rhetorical question, turning back to you with a slight tilt of her head. “If you’re not going to make a move, I’m all in on Jungkook. You’ve had your chance. It’s not my fault you can’t get out of your own head.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and something in you snaps. The rage bubbles up from deep inside you — something you’d never shown Seo-yeon before. She wasn’t allowed to take this from you too.

"Is that it, then?" You bite back, the question trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "You think you can just take everything from me because I'm not bold enough for you? You think you can just waltz in and claim him like he's some kind of prize because you know I won’t fight you for him? That’s not how this works, Seo-yeon."

Seo-yeon opens her mouth to respond, but you’re not finished. “No. I’m done letting you walk all over me. I care, Seo-Yeon. I care about him."

And now you can’t stop it, this word vomit that has plagued you; it keeps tumbling out, slurred but filled with an undeniable intensity.

You don’t care anymore. The alcohol has loosened every restraint, every last thread of caution. "You’ve known. You’ve known I loved him this whole damn time. You’ve always known, and you’ve always taken from me—always—like you could just have whatever you wanted. I’m done pretending I’m okay with it.”

The silence between you two feels like a storm brewing, and you, a tad too drunk to fully grasp what you’re saying, but not so drunk that you don’t know it was the truth.

Seo-yeon’s lips curl into a sly smile, eyes flicking to the side before meeting yours again. "Well, you know what they say…the best girl always wins, right?"

You’ve already ruined the friendship, put the nail in the coffin and sent her floating down the river. You grip your red solo cup so roughly you think it might break, “You think you're the best girl? Maybe it's time someone showed you that I’m done being second place. I’m done being the girl who just watches. I’m going to fight for him. You’ve had your turn, Seo-yeon.”

Seo-yeon’s eyes widen just a fraction, but she quickly regains her composure, laughing lightly. “Oh, really? You’re going to fight for him now? How cute.”

Your jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “Yeah. I am.”

And you are certain if only Taehyung could hear you now, he would throw another party just for you having this conversation. You storm away, leave her in the dust to settle on its own. A part of your resolve breaks a little realizing that your own college best friend since day one of freshman year, was not the person you thought she was. But that’s not what really matters to you.

The night drags on, clusters of people fading in and out of the party. You don’t necessarily pay attention; you’re too busy feeling like a World War III hero after your triumph. You laugh with Taehyung in the corner, even flirt with a few people. Anything to take your mind off Seo-yeon desperately throwing herself at Jungkook, but you know better than to look.

Jimin, ever the instigator, suddenly stands up with a grin that spreads across his face like he holds the world’s most mischievous secret. "Alright," he begins, his voice teasing as he looks around at the gathered circle of about 20 leftover wranglers. "Truth or dare, anyone?"

You break your conversation with Taehyung, hesitating for a brief moment, heart thudding louder than the music. Normally, you would’ve stayed out of it — content to sit on the edge and observe. But tonight, something inside you whispers that this was the moment to stop being the quiet one.

A laugh bellows out from someone in the group. “Really, Jimin? Truth or dare? We’re in our twenties, not twelve.”

Jimin just shrugs, the playful gleam in his eyes still dancing. “Don’t care. It’s fun.” As if daring was the only thing that could make the night memorable.

As the silly little game begins, you can’t help but notice the way Seo-yeon scrambles to sit next to Jungkook, her movements almost too eager. She slides onto the floor beside him, her hand brushing his casually, but it doesn’t escape your notice.

It doesn’t help that Jungkook, who had been laughing and talking with the others, now seems to have caught sight of the silence that stretched between you and your friend. His gaze flickers toward you for a split second, brow furrowed slightly. There’s concern in his eyes, like he could sense the shift, the distance between you two, the fact that you hadn’t exchanged a word since the heated conversation.

And for a moment, you swear he looks... worried. It’s only a glance, but it sends a ripple of uncertainty through you.

The game kicks off with such chaotic energy that there’s immediate regret of your decision to join.

Shirts come off, beers chugged, some over-the-clothes fondling. Laughter and teasing echo around the room, but you can’t seem to join in. Your nerves twist inside you, coiling tighter with every round. Every time your eyes flick toward Jungkook, your heart skips, and you can feel your emotions swirling— confusion, desire, hurt — but the fear of being exposed keeps you frozen.

Seo-yeon, on the other hand, is all confidence, sitting smugly in her chair with a knowing smile, like she already knows she’d be the center of attention. Like she knows, deep down, you won’t stand a chance.

Then, Jimin’s voice breaks through your fog of thoughts, full of mischief. "Alright," he says, eyes dancing as he turns toward Seo-yeon and Jungkook. "I dare you two to kiss for five seconds."

You might as well have just shot yourself right in the face.

Your breath catches in your throat. Your pulse thunders in your ears as you watch your (ex) best friend’s eyes light up with the thrill of the challenge. It was as if it’s too easy for her — too perfect an opportunity to pass up.

Without hesitation, she leans toward Jungkook, her lips finding his effortlessly. The room seems to quiet for a moment, and then it’s the silence that feels louder than anything.

But what makes your stomach twist isn’t just the kiss itself — it’s the way Seo-yeon’s gaze glances toward you just before their lips meet. The seconds stretch, and you can barely breathe, and your heart could very well break right then and there.

The kiss is over before you can even process the feeling of it, but the knot in your chest remains, heavy and tight, long after Seo-yeon pulls away. Jungkook looks over at you, so briefly you almost don’t catch it.

Your mind races, but you struggle to push the images from your head, the lingering feeling of Seo-yeon’s smug gaze before the kiss. You take another sip, the burn of it helping to cloud the pain you don’t want to face. The weight of it sits like a stone in your chest.

Taehyung’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. “[Y/N], truth or dare?” he asks as he leans into you.

Jimin shoots him a playful glare, almost about to protest, but Taehyung’s quick, silencing him with a dramatic “Shh.” The room shuts up slightly, all eyes on you as you hesitate for a fraction of a second. You’re still reeling, but the alcohol buzz emboldens you — makes you feel more confident than you had all night.

"Dare.” You don’t know where this sudden boldness was coming from, but you couldn’t back down now.

Taehyung’s grin widens, “Alright then,” he says, tapping his fingers against his drink. “I dare you to go into the closet with Jungkook for five minutes.”

The room goes quiet. So quiet that if someone dropped a pack of 1,000 pins, every single one would shatter your eardrums.

You feel the weight of the dare pressing in on your chest, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from Jungkook’s pointed gaze.

Was this a joke? Was it real? Seo-yeon’s first to break the ice, who snorts in disbelief. “Are we in fifth grade or something?”

Jungkook, who had been the definition of ‘quiet as a mouse’, his drink in hand, suddenly takes a sip. To your surprise, he looks completely unbothered, almost... eager? “Who cares?” he says with a shrug, as if the whole situation is nothing more than a harmless, impulsive decision.

You freeze for a moment. You don’t know whether to laugh, cry or throw up. But there’s not much protesting to be done because before you get a chance to speak, Taehyung is up on his feet pushing the two of you in the direction of the musty little closet.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the world outside the closet fades into nothing. Inside, the air is thick, the kind of tension that clings to the walls.

You stand like a statue. You can feel the heat of his presence even without touching him, the rhythm of his breath matching your own, as if your hearts beat in sync, caught in the same web of uncertainty. The dim light from the party barely reaches, leaving you in a space of shadows and soft, anxious breaths.

For what feels like an eternity, neither of you speak. The awkwardness hums between you like a steady pulse. You’ve known him forever but… you can feel your nerves twisting tighter and tighter, and the alcohol buzz makes it hard to think clearly, each thought slipping away just as quickly as it comes.

Jungkook finally breaks the silence, a nervous chuckle escaping him, his top teeth playing with his lip ring. "This is… um, definitely not how I expected this to go.”

You try to force a laugh, but it comes out shaky, and you immediately regret it. “Yeah, not exactly the closet of my dreams,” you joke, though your voice trembles in a way you hope he won’t call out.

And then, just like that, Jungkook’s gaze meets yours again, but this time, there’s something different in his eyes. It’s like someone ripped your best friend away from you and replaced with someone who might actually.. never mind.

He’s pressed into you, your height difference showing as his head tilts down to look at you. His lips part, like he’s debating saying something.

With a surprising gentleness, he speaks. “This is going to be so random but… do you remember our kiss?” he asks, tone low, as if the question itself carried a weight he wasn’t sure how to handle.

The memories come rushing back unbidden — a flash of two 12 year olds, awkward and innocent, caught in a moment that now seems so impossibly far away. The brush of lips, a first kiss that neither of you truly understood.

But the way he looks at you now, like the past and present were colliding in this closet, makes everything feel much more real. You can feel the heat rise in your cheeks, pulse quickening. He remembers.

“O-Of course I remember,” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, heart fluttering in your chest as the memory of the kiss resurfaces in vivid detail.

Jungkook holds your gaze, eyes dark and searching, as if he, too, was standing on the precipice of a realization. There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches between. And then, almost in a breath, he tries again, “My mom brought it up the other day. I didn’t know she watched my kissing virginity get taken away.”

“Oh,” you laugh. There is, quite literally, nothing funny about this. In fact, this will go on your list of Top 10 Most Embarrassing Moments (and you’ve guessed it—it’s number one.)

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he confesses, his gaze never leaving yours.

The confession hits you like a sudden gust of wind. He’s thought about it? Like the way you have, maybe, possibly? Like writing in your diary about him everyday since then? Like dreaming about kissing him again every time you’re even remotely close to him?

“So…” he starts, breaking the silence, his voice carrying an underlying curiosity. “The last time you kissed someone... was it anything like that?"

Those stupid two bunny teeth poke out in a cheeky smile as he teases you about something that should be so trivial, yet is not.

Your eyes widen at the sudden question. You don’t know whether to laugh or squirm. You can feel the warmth creep into your cheeks, and you quickly look away, focusing on the clutter in the corner of the closet to avoid meeting his gaze.

“I… What?” You stammer. "What kind of question is that?"

Jungkook chuckles softly, leaning casually against the wall. "Well, I’m just curious. You know, if it was anything like the kiss we shared all those years ago," he teases.

You roll your eyes, trying to deflect the attention. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I haven’t kissed anyone in forever. In fact…” You trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence without sounding ridiculous. “You know that. Last time was that random dude at that party last month.”

Jungkook’s smile returns, but it’s gentler now, as if he was trying to make you feel better. “So.. What was the last kiss that actually meant something?” he asks tentatively.

You know damn well you can’t answer that without revealing too much. The truth is, there hasn’t been a kiss that meant anything — not since you were 12. But you can’t say that to him. Not yet.

“Long, long time,” You exhale.

For a moment, you swear there’s a glimmer of hope behind his welcoming eyes.

“Maybe I just haven’t found the right guy,” you say, keeping your voice steady as you try to joke your way out of it.

Jungkook laughs softly, shaking his head. "Must be hard to find someone who’s good enough to even compare to the 'best kiss ever' from when you were twelve.”

The thump thump in your chest intensifies. "Damn, you really remember that kiss, huh?"

Jungkook just smirks, his big eyes glimmering. "Of course I do. How could I forget?"

And, there’s something that switches in the air, something that makes you realize you’re not as delusional as you think. You’re thinking back to every single time he’s given you that hope to hold onto, every time he’s kept the dream alive. You meet his eyes, look into them, feel like you’re peering into his soul.

He steps a little closer, lowering his voice, a sudden seriousness in his tone. “And now… I kind of wish I could kiss you again. See if it feels the same.”

Either you are incredibly drunk, or he has lost his mind.

Your thoughts swirl in a haze of alcohol and overwhelming emotions. You blink, breath caught in your throat, trying to process.

He wants to kiss you again? What is this? What the fuck is happening?

Your voice comes out shaky, betraying the fear that had lodged itself in your chest. “Where is this coming from, Jungkook?”

Jungkook’s expression falters for a brief moment, as if he hadn’t expected you to be so open. He takes a step even closer, searching your face with an intensity that makes your knees feel like jell-o. His voice is more sincere, as if trying to reassure you, or maybe even himself. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.. I mean we’ve been best friends for years.”

“I-I, maybe, who cares?” You repeat his words from earlier. “You’re drunk, Kook. We’ve been drinking for hours.”

“I’m not joking,” he says, "I wouldn’t joke about something like that."

Your breath hitches as he reaches out, hand gently brushing against yours, as if waiting for you to decide. You can feel the pulse of his touch, and with it, all the years of longing, all the secret emotions you’d kept hidden, pressing down on your chest.

It’s too much. Too much to process, too much to understand.

You’ve always been the one in love with him. Not the other way around.

Just as the words hang in the air, just as you swear he’s about to lean in and finally press his lips against yours, the quiet, intimate space you’d created shatters in an instant. The closet door suddenly flings open with a loud crash, and for a heartbeat, your world spins.

The sudden burst of light floods the small room, blinding you for a second before you recognize the faces of your friends, all grinning mischievously. Taehyung, the little shit, leans against the doorframe with a smug smirk on his face. Jimin, with his usual playful grin, stands next to him.

And then there’s Seo-yeon, leaning casually against the wall, her lips curled in a knowing smile.

You quickly step back, face burning as your eyes flick between them all, still trying to process what had just happened. Jungkook’s at a standstill beside you, face flushed as he runs a hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed.

“Well, well,” Taehyung mock pouts, raising an eyebrow. “Look at that. The closet’s really the place to be, huh?”

“Didn’t take you two long,” Jimin adds with a chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest. “I knew this was going to be good.”

You feel the blood rush to your face, and you can barely look at Jungkook. Your heart is still hammering, a mixture of humiliation and confusion swirling in your chest. You open your mouth to say something—anything—but words catch in your throat.

Jungkook clears his throat, taking a small step forward. “It’s not like that. We were just talking.”

“Oh, talking, huh?” Taehyung grins wider, obviously not buying it.

Your head is still spinning. The echoes of the teasing, the laughter, and the flirtation are still reverberating in your mind. You can feel the alcohol mixing with the tension that had been building up all night, and it’s just… too much to handle.

Your thoughts are a jumble — your best friend, Jungkook, the kiss that almost happened, everything is falling apart in a whirlwind of emotions.

The game seems to fizzle out after a few more rounds, yet you’re still sat there, hoping to make sense of it all.

The clock slowly ticks by, bodies still trickling in and out of the house despite how late it’s getting. And you probably should make an effort to talk to Jungkook, to fight for him, to stand up on your words to Seo-yeon.

But that’s not the case.

And so there you stand, attached to the wall yet again.

Except this time, Jungkook is peeling you off of it. He’s had enough ‘juice’ at this point to know better, to care less if he makes a fool of himself.

He makes his way toward you, his expression tight. “Can we talk?” he asks urgently. You open your mouth to protest, but before you can say anything, he’s already guiding you through the crowd, clutching your hand in his.

As you walk up the stairs, you look down at the people left over from the night, and you catch a second of a glance from Seo-yeon.

The loud music and chatter from downstairs fade as you make your way up to the quiet of the second floor. When you reach an empty bedroom, he closes the door behind you softly.

You both stand there for a moment. The fact that he’s still facing the door has you sweating through your blouse. You twiddle with your thumbs, setting your cup down.

Jungkook finally turns to face you. He takes a step forward, breath shaky. "[Y/N].. Am I crazy?”

“What do you mean?” You gulp, pressing your back into the nearby bedside table.

“Is there something here I’m missing with us.. are we good? Like, I haven’t spoken to you all night, Seo-yeon is shoving herself down my throat, and you know I hate her. And then… that stupid fucking closet has my head spinning. So, talk to me.”

You can’t believe this is happening — can’t believe he’s saying this out loud.

Without thinking, you whisper almost inaudibly, "You don’t know?"

Jungkook’s brow furrows, and he takes another small step closer, “What?”

Your heart pounds harder now, hands trembling slightly at your sides. You take a breath, then let it out slowly.

Your voice is barely a whisper, but the words feel like they had been stuck in your throat for years. Which they have, but that’s no one’s business but your own. “You had to have known I’ve been in love with you.”

Out in the open, hanging, lingering. The words dissipate into the air. You start to wonder what magic potion’s been put in this drink that has had you ending many friendships tonight.

Jungkook freezes, eyes widening. He stares at you for a long moment, disbelief flooding his features. “I didn’t… I didn’t know. If I had known...”

“If I knew…” he begins again, voice strained, almost as if he’s fighting to keep his composure.

“I would have...” He swallows hard, stepping closer to you until he’s only inches away, breath warm against your skin. “... I would have kissed you. A long time ago.”

You feel your chest tighten, the intensity of his gaze locking you in place. The air is thick with everything that had been building between you, allegedly, for years.

Jungkook’s hand twitches at his side, as if he’s fighting himself, unsure of whether to make the move or not. His gaze flickers between your lips and your eyes, a tortured look on his face. “Was it not obvious when I let you kiss me when we were 12?” he whispers.

Everything inside you screams for him to close the distance, for him to finally kiss you when you’re older. But the fear, the uncertainty, still lingers. “Jungkook...” you mutter, voice trembling.

Somehow, he always knows just what you want to say.

“I know,” he says softly, his face inches from yours now. "I know."

“It wasn’t obvious, you know,” you begin. The fire from earlier that raged when you snapped on Seo-yeon begins to reignite, to push itself to the forefront and grow as bright and red as could be.

How could he expect you to know? He had dated so many girls, so many people that weren’t you, that you had just started to normalize the fade you did into the background. It’s honestly insulting for him to think otherwise. “You dated like 10 girls after that kiss when we were younger.”

“You dated someone too,” He points out. True, but.. you only did it because he did. Which is surprising to no one.

“Yeah, but I was always there. I was always by your side, every breakup, every tear shed, hoping and praying you’d finally pick me. But there’s not a good way to say, hey I know we’ve been best friends for years but I’m in love with you. I didn’t, I don’t want to lose you,” You want to break eye contact, look away and start crying into your shirt. But you don’t. You hold your ground.

His face softens, another cautious step towards you. “You’re not going to lose me.”

He’s so close now you can feel the nerves, the heat radiating off his body. You can smell that stupid cologne he got last Christmas from his parents. You can see his silver chain glisten under the light bedroom lamp.

And then it’s just word vomit galore.

“Well, if you don’t feel the exact same, then yeah, I will lose you. For the record, Seo-yeon knows I’ve been in love with you. God, she is such a little bitch. You know I finally ended it with her tonight. She’s insane. But whatever, my point is that if you’re not also in love with me, I’m done, I’m going to move to the U.S and become a monk. This is humiliating—“

You nor him get to hear the ending of that sentence, because before you know it, his warm hands are cupping your cheeks and pulling you into him, and he’s kissing you.

It feels like this: you’re 12 again, under that white oak tree on the playground, your mothers watching a few feet away with a knowing smile on their face.

Your heart quickens up its pace, tries to catch up to what is happening. But there’s no use. You’re a goner.

The moment Jungkook’s lips meet yours, the world seems to fall away. There’s no party inside, no city stretching beyond the university — just him. Just this.

His kiss is slow at first, testing, as if savoring the feeling of finally closing the space that’s been pulling you together for so long. His fingers, warm against your cool skin, tilt your face up to him, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your breath halt.

You respond instinctively, pressing closer, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like an anchor.

You had always wondered what it would be like to kiss him when you were older (especially after he got that stupid little lip ring that had you using your vibrator more often than you liked to admit.)

Jungkook exhales against your lips, his hand sliding from your jaw to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his thumb brushed circles against your skin — it all leaves you dizzy.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, each passing second making it harder to think, to focus on anything but the way his lips move against yours. He tastes faintly of liquor, of something intoxicating yet familiar, something that makes you want to drown in him completely.

“I shouldn’t have waited this long," he murmurs, almost regretful. “It’s better than it was when we were 12.”

You let out a breathy laugh, hands still fisting his shirt. "Then don’t wait anymore."

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he leans in again, this time slower, as if committing every second to memory. His lips brush yours once, twice—enough to make your knees weak—before he kisses you fully again. His tongue pokes through, and a soft whimper leaves your mouth at the contact.

Jungkook’s second kiss is different — he’s more certain. The hesitation that had lingered before was gone, now replaced by something more urgent, more consuming. His fingers tighten at your waist as he pulled you closer, his lips parting against yours.

You meet him eagerly, hands sliding up his chest, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt. He groans softly against your mouth, a sound that sends warmth pooling in your stomach.

His tongue brushes against yours, coaxing you, before he presses in more insistently, hand cradling your jaw as if he couldn’t bear to let go. He moves down to wrap a gentle hand around your neck.

Why the fuck is your childhood best friend choking you — more importantly, why is it the best thing you’ve ever felt?

Your breath hitches as his grip on you tightens, body pressing against yours as he held you firm to the bedside table.

"Tell me to stop," he pauses against your lips, but his hands never leave your body, fingers skimming the curve of your waist.

You shake your head. "I don’t want you to."

That’s all he needs.

In one swift motion, his hands slide to your thighs, lifting you with ease. A surprised gasp leaves your lips, but you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carries you across the room. His lips never leave yours.

He reaches the edge of the bed, lowering you onto the plush mattress without breaking contact. His body hovers over yours, propped up on his forearms, his dark eyes searching yours.

"You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he admits, edged with impatience.

You let out a soft laugh, running your fingers through his hair, your own breath coming just as fast. "Then why did we wait?"

Jungkook exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Because I knew, once I had you like this… I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it."

His words send a thrill through you, but before you can respond, he kisses you again. His hands trace gentle patterns against your skin, grounding you, making you feel every ounce of emotion behind his touch.

His fingers move deftly, swiftly, but there’s a bit of anxiety behind his touch. He kisses down your neck, to your collarbone… pushing aside your shirt to your shoulder. His knee digs into your thigh, and you feel fuzzy from how much he was touching you everywhere. You let out small whimpers, eager for him to continue, to know what it feels like to be one of his girls.

He looks down at you, eyes dark. If he wasn’t your best friend, you would’ve been scared.

His fingers ghost down your chest, to your stomach, playing with the hem of your shirt, asking for permission. He doesn’t have to, because you’re propping yourself up and taking it off for him, just leaving your bra out on display. He pauses, takes a moment for himself, realizes he isn’t in a dream when he reaches out and touches one of your tits. It’s like he’s a prepubescent little boy again who has never seen these before.

“God, you’re perfect,” he mumbles, feeling you through your bra. He moves the bra aside a little, sees the hard nipple poking through and removes your entire bra, one hand. He peels off his shirt, revealing his toned abdomen underneath and that tattoo sleeve he started working on two years ago.

You don’t know when you became such a withering mess underneath his touch but you’re glued down to the bed, imprinted on the mattress.

Jimin will have to come peel you off tomorrow morning.

“Touch me again,” you whisper out, low enough for him to hear and for his cock to twitch in his pants.

He looks back up at you, taking his attention away from your chest. There’s a shift, a change of massive proportions in the air. You know he’s experienced. Everyone knows it. He’s had countless girlfriends, hookups with other friends… you’ve heard the rumors spread like wildfire.

When he speaks, his voice sounds almost pensive. “Has anybody ever made you cum?”

The sound you make is much too close to a whimper for your own comfort. Involuntarily, you feel a flutter down there, and you realize faintly just how wet you really are, all from some stupid kisses.

You don’t need to look at him to know that he’s noticed your reaction.

“I—uh,” You’re utterly and totally speechless.

The answer is no.

None of your boyfriends ever figured it out truly. It’s not like they were studs in the bedroom. So, you would fake it, kiss them goodnight, and go finger yourself in the bathroom to get off. You somehow have a very strong intuition you won’t need to do that with Jungkook. “No, not really.”

His gaze becomes darker, pauses and thinks of his next move. He pushes you back onto the mattress, making room for himself to painstakingly move in between your legs. Jungkook lifts your skirt up, revealing your lacy pink panties that have a wet spot engrained right in the middle. “Fucking hell, you’re soaked,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

He looks back at you. “Do you want me to make you cum?”

He can’t be serious. The blood rushes from your face down to your toes.

“P-please,” You whimper, tugging your bottom lip underneath your top lip. “Please, Kook.”

“I can’t believe no one’s ever appreciated this pussy,” You can’t tell if he’s speaking mostly to himself as he takes off your skirt fully, letting it fall on the floor with a soft thump. “You are so beautiful, [Y/N]. I’ve been dreaming about this for months, years.”

You just nod in response, since that’s all you can muster as he drags the pink underwear off your thighs, down your ankles, off your being. You want him to make you cum, want him to be the reason you feel immense pleasure.

He’s still babbling to himself, something about how he’s going to wreck you tonight and all that, and then you feel his tongue flatten out on you, making a circular motion on your clit.

Your pornographic moan can probably be heard across the entire campus. Your whole body jolts alive, eyes squeezed so, so tight as he works his tongue repeatedly over your clit, lapping up every ounce of your wetness he can.

Your hand reaches out to grasp at something, anything, clutching his hair and holding his head as his tongue rolls around in between your clit and your entrance. His nose bumps against your clit as your hips began to rock up and down, your body aching for more, anything he can provide, you would take it.

“Jungkook,” You breathe out, followed by a string of profanities and moans. He seems to be pleased by your reaction, arms wrapping around your thighs and pulling your legs around his head, practically suffocating himself with you.

“F-fuck, how are y-you so good at this?” Your back arches off the mattresss, vision blurry as he continues his assault on your clit. He’s so lost in it, so deep in it, he could barely respond.

He pulls away for a second, looking up at you with his big eyes, lips glossy and covered in your slick. You watch as he gathers some saliva in his mouth, spitting it onto your clit and letting his tattooed fingers rub your bundle of nerves.

“Oh my god.” That elicits another expressive string of words, your chest heaving as you teeter closer and closer to that edge.

You still can’t believe this is happening; your best friend of over a decade, eating you out like you were a five-course meal.

He envelops his lips around your delicate bud and pulls, and you can hardly contain yourself, fingers darting to his locks, the sheets, your abdomen. You can't sit still, can't halt the convulsions, losing all sense of self over your own body. Every which way, on him and off him, thoughts in turmoil and emotions in chaos and sensations askew, and you can't fathom how nobody's ever subjected you to this before, and how have you managed to live without the sensation of Jungkook's lips on your pussy.

His fingers replace his mouth again, this time, splitting you open with two fingers that glide right in with how overly soaked you are. “Gonna make you cum so good, princess,” he says. “Gonna make you forget any of those assholes before me.”

He has to realize that won’t take much convincing. You’ve already forgotten what any other man looks like.

As his lips reconnect with your burning core, all inhibitions vanish. He darts his tongue in and out, in and out, in and… your eyes roll back in ecstasy, your legs straining to offer him greater access, even to the point of discomfort when your muscles protest, but you crave him closer, and you're drowning in longing, aching with it.

The only anchors keeping you grounded are his hands, the one hand that has wandered from your clit to fondle your tit, the other that is now relentlessly pumping in and out of you.

He's cautious, nearly tender, but it's futile; you're soaked, allowing him continuous entry of his fingers without any struggle, devoid of any tension in your muscles. You're incapable of tightening up even if you wanted to.

“I-I, fuck, Kook, I’m gonna cum,” You whine out in a tone that’s half begging, half delirium. You’re not even sure your body’s in control of itself anymore, you just wriggle and thrash around as he works you to finish.

“Yeah?” He speaks against your clit, breath fanning against you. His fingers continue to pump in and out of you, his other hand rubbing incessant circles on your clit. It was all too much, far, far, too much. “Fuck, I want you to cum for me. Want to taste you, taste what I’ve been missing all these years.”

It engulfs you completely, resonating within your core, your toes, and your fingertips. It propels you off the bed, leaning forward, fingers clutching his hair, legs quivering uncontrollably, screaming his name over and over like a prayer.

It seems to go on for hours, his fingers penetrating you through it, his tongue caressing, and all thoughts dissipate under the onslaught of that blinding, electrifying pleasure.

Jungkook persists, relentless, until you thrust his head away with vigor, overwhelmed by the sensation to the point of pain erupting like tiny needles.

You have absolutely no idea how any girl ever let him get away, but you make a mental note that he will never leave your sight.

He leans over you, hovering over your shaking body. His head bows down, pressing a kiss on your lips, and you taste yourself for the first time. It’s a mix of him and you, salty and sweet and warm and dirty. You want it, again and again and again..

But you want him to feel good too. Want to do right by him, make him yours officially, have him scream out your name.

You pull away from his kiss, wiggling yourself out from under him. With a surprising amount of strength you muster up, you flip the two of you; you’re straddling him, thighs locked on either side of his toned abs. His eyebrows raise, lips still slick and swollen with your juices and saliva and you’re pretty certain you’ll have a stroke if you keep looking at him.

You’re still dripping onto his bare chest, abs now covered in you as well. Probably the second hottest thing you’ve seen so far.

You lean down, kissing him, fighting for some sort of reprieve. You kiss down his jaw, his neck, and his little whimpers send you to a different planet.

He’s just so vocal, and now you can’t get enough.

“Let me ride you,” you say.

He deadpans. Was he hearing that right?

“Please,” you plead. “I just… I want to make you feel good, Kookie. Like you did for me. Wanna make you happy.”

He smirks, rubbing his warm hands against your thighs, “I’m already happy just like this.”

And he’s right — his cock is rock-hard and honestly, he hasn’t ever been like this before with any of his past girls. It’s because it’s you, the girl he calls his best friend who used to be the quiet, shy one, who is now asking him to let her ride his cock.

“Pleaseeee..” you moan, shuffling your body downwards so your clit is directly above his Calvin Klein boxers, grinding on him slowly like this is a middle school party. You don’t even know when he had taken off his jeans from earlier, you assume it was during the time his face was buried in your cunt.

He plays around with his lip ring, his nervous tic. “Fuck, yeah, baby just go for it. Show me how you ride your best friend.”

You pull back to finally get rid of his boxers, to finally see what’s underneath, if the rumors rang true.

You look down at his cock, splayed across his lower abdomen, open your mouth to speak and… pause.

“Jungkook,” you begin, eyes widened, half horror and half excitement, “I-you’re so… big.”

And the moment you say the words, you regret them. His ego is about to inflate to the size of Jimin’s entire house. He looks up at you through hooded eyes, licking his lips, “Yeah? You gonna take it, baby?”

The pet name makes you shudder. “I-I can try,” You stutter. “I’ve never been with someone this big before.”

He chuckles, his hands coming around to rest on your hips, rubbing circles with the pads of his thumb. You know very well he knows how many guys you’ve been with, how many people you’ve fucked, but never their dick size. Didn’t really come up. But, this… well, this was going to be a challenge.

“It’s okay, baby,” he coaxes, “How about you be a good girl for me and start off slow?”

You want to be his good girl more than anything in the entire world.

You can’t even answer, can’t do anything, because he begins to align his cock to your sopping entrance, pushing inside of you.

It’s excruciating, it’s slow, it’s almost impossible to understand how he’s splitting you in half. Jungkook’s head falls back, face scrunched up in pleasure, jaw hanging open.

The slide feels almost endless, like you’ll never reach the hilt of his cock. There’s an endless cycle of Jungkook’s voice spilling endless praise for you taking him so well, that he’s almost all inside, that you already look so full, that he’s never letting you go.

And then finally, when you’re about to tap out and let him get on top, you feel your clit pressed against his pubic bone and your body feels so entirely filled.

You both let out a simultaneous moan; one that you’re certain everyone downstairs heard and is getting ready to come upstairs and bang pots and pans at the door.

“I…” Your body gives out a little, and you lean backwards on your palms, giving him a better view of how irresistible you look with his cock so deep inside of you.

“Fuck, baby.” His hand travels to your clit, rubbing circles, “So damn tight, huh? No one’s fucked you like this in a while.”

All you can do is nod.

The sounds are obscene. His cock plunging into your wetness with each bounce of your knees, the headboard slamming against the walls, your own whimpers, Jungkook’s groans.

You know they can hear you. And you don’t care. Not one bit. In fact, you want it.

You fall forward a little, gripping onto his chest and dig your fingernails into him. You can’t even think, breathe, can’t remember the last time something has ever felt this ethereal.

Your head lulls backwards, fingernails so deep in his skin you’re leaving bruises. Jungkook grips onto your hips, pads of his thumbs imprinting themselves on your skin. You’re certain he must be pussy drunk or something, because the only things leaving his mouth are blabbers, “… fuck, you are so tight and wet.. fucking beautiful, my best girl so good, need you so bad, always..”

Your hips continue to undulate wildly, and you don’t even know where the confidence is coming from but you feel like some fucking goddess riding this man into oblivion.

And you recognize it, he’s so close, his face is contorted, chest heaving, eyes squeezed so tight, committing the feeling of you riding him to memory..

But you never get to see that orgasm (yet) because you hear the door swing open. Jungkook sits up, eyes wide, looking between you and your intruder. But you’re too in deep, too into it to stop, too close, too needy… who gives a fuck if Taehyung or even Jimin sees?

He looks back at you, face flushed with an expression you can’t recognize. You toss your head back, and then learn pretty quickly why he looks like that.

You catch a glimpse of Seo-yeon’s black hair, and when you turn your body, you see her figure standing there in the doorway, watching, observing, a tiny (and you have to look hard) smirk on her face.

“Are you going t-to get the fuck out or what?” Jungkook tries to sound tough, but he’s coming undone closer and closer by the second.

And you don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the fact you’re fucking your best friend, maybe it’s the fact you’re still a little drunk off the punch, maybe you’re just a different person than three hours ago, but you turn back to Jungkook and go, “Let her stay and watch. Let her see how good I fuck you. Let her know you’re fucking mine.”

You can’t see it, but she blinks at the doorway, jaw unhinged and a gulp of saliva slithering like molasses down her throat. “Fuck, baby, you’re going to make me cum,” Jungkook whines out.

“Yeah, you want to cum?” You lean back, giving him full access to your pussy and the way his cock is coated with your juices, dripping onto his abdomen, making a mess everywhere. “Tell her you’re mine. Now.”

You don’t even know if she’s still there, you just want him to say it. Even if it’s just for you.

But, he looks back at her, looks back at her petite frame in the doorway, then back at you. “I’m yours. I’m fucking yours, baby. Forever.”

“Good boy,” You lean your body back into him, press a kiss into his sweaty cheek. You then turn back around to handle her, and it almost makes you want to laugh how she’s now frozen to the wall like you once were. “Now close the fucking door behind you while I finish him off.”

The door slams behind her, but you barely notice or care.

He’s an absolute wreck, singing praises to you and you’re all yeah yeah yeah please please please I’m so close, and he comes undone so fiercely he’s struggling to keep it together, to not collapse. He coats your walls, and you clench around him as you barrel through what might be the most insane orgasm of your life.

There’s a moment where black washes over your vision, jaw ripping open trying to scream his name, or anything remotely in the dictionary, and you’re just putty on top of him as your body shakes and convulses trying to come down.

You fall into him, on top of him rather, hearts struggling to get back to its normal rhythm. He doesn’t want to move, can’t imagine going anywhere in that moment.

You finally move over to his side, nestling into him and you’re positive there’ll be a mold of your body on him tomorrow. He wraps his arm around you, tugging in as close as he possibly could.

For a while, you just lay there like that. You welcome the silence, no longer letting it scare you.

“You know, your mom and mine were plotting on us.”

He’s the first to break through your thoughts. You giggle, tracing circles on his chest, listening to his heart thump thump thump against his ribcage as he keeps talking. “I’ve always loved you. I know that. Well, ever since you gave me that Spider Man plushie when we were 11.”

You can’t deny the shit-eating grin that appears on your face. You’re not about to tell him you fell in love with him before that, probably when he gave you a Hello Kitty bandaid for one of your ‘ouchies’. “Is that so?” You tease.

Into your hair, Jungkook whispers, “Always been mine.”

There’s a wave of something that crashes over you, something you feel deep within you. He’s mine, you think to yourself. And you feel the sudden urge to blink tears away.

You lay there, peacefully, silently, in absolute bliss…

“Ugh, Jungkook! Right there! So fucking good!”

“[Y/N], keep going! Your pussy feels so good! Ahhhh!”

“Jimin! Taehyung!” Jungkook roars, reaching up one arm for the pillow on the bed and flinging it at the door, other arm still wrapped loosely around your shoulders.

“Hey, man! You can’t get mad at me! You just had sex in my fucking bed. You’re doing my laundry for six months!” Jimin’s voice cracks at the realization of you two… in his bed… with god knows what juices splattered. He shudders even imagining it.

“He’s got a point,” Jungkook sighs, running his hand over his face.

You laugh a little, then he does too, and you feel the vibration against your body. There’s only him, only now. And as Jungkook pulls you closer, tucking you into the warmth of his arms, you realize it was supposed to be this easy.

You pulled yourself off the wall. And for the first time, it didn’t feel scary. It felt like you belonged.

masterlist + request

[serinic]

Inkfluence (05) | JJK

pairing: politician jungkook x journalist reader

warnings: unprotected sex and mention of deaths

word count: 1.5k

As vile as it sounds, politics has decayed into a ruthless game—where truth is treason, and those who pursue it are silenced, buried beneath the crushing weight of power. You entered the game with eyes wide open, fully aware there may be no escape. But it turned far more sinister when its master took a strange interest in a mere pawn—you.

Jungkook crashed his lips onto yours. The kiss was slow and passionate, making you wonder if this was the same Jungkook you thought you knew. His tongue slipped into your mouth, exploring like he owned every inch of it.

You deepened the kiss without even realizing it, your tongues twirling and dancing together. But it didn’t take long before the kiss turned desperate—like he hadn’t touched you in years.

Jungkook lifted your shirt, tugged down your bra, and cupped your right breast, massaging it with skilled hands. A moan escaped your lips as his touch worked its magic on you.

Jungkook broke the kiss to take off your shirt and bra. He kissed you briefly before moving his mouth to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, where he gently pecked the slightly fresh scar he had made.

His lips then found your breast—he began sucking on your left nipple while pinching the other. You hissed at the warm sensation. He continued to suck before switching sides, thinking they both deserved equal attention.

After a few minutes, his hands slid your pants and underwear down your legs, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. Jungkook admired your cunt, unable to take his eyes off it. It looked so appetizing that he didn’t think twice before diving in.

You gasped the moment he started sucking your womanhood, every hair on your skin standing on end at the sudden sensation. He rubbed your clit in slow circles while his tongue lapped at your folds, earning a loud moan from you.

He spread you open and bit his lower lip when he saw how tight you were. Your entrance looked so small, he couldn’t resist slowly sliding a finger inside. You hissed at the intrusion—it was just one finger, yet you already felt the sting. What more if it was his cock?

Jungkook looked at you, your eyes widening in surprise as he gently pushed his finger all the way in. He held still for a moment before slowly pulling out, glancing down at the faint trace of blood.

He grabbed a tissue from the table and carefully wiped both his hand and between your thighs. Then, with more care this time, he slid his finger in again.

A soft moan escaped your lips as he began moving with more rhythm, his other hand joining to intensify the sensation. His movements grew faster, his lips now tracing slow, teasing kisses along your body.

You gripped the sheets tightly, your breaths growing quicker. Just when you felt a wave building inside you, Jungkook pulled away, standing up with a dark, unreadable look in his eyes.

You groaned at the sudden emptiness and glanced at him, “Why did you stop?” you said out of breath. Jungkook didn't respond and just took off his clothes except for his boxers.

You can see how hard he was by just looking at the bulge. “Come here,” he demanded, eyes darkly looking at yours. You quickly understood his intention and knelt in front of him; you took out his cock from his boxer.

Jungkook closed his eyes and groaned when you licked the tip of his cock. You teasingly licked until Jungkook opened his eyes and grabbed your hair, signaling you to not play. You slowly swallowed his dick inch by inch, his tip already touching the back of your throat.

Tears formed in your eyes as he started thrusting; he was too fast, and you were gagging at his cock. You tapped his thigh to signal him to stop, but he was too lost in the sensation. Jungkook slammed his hip; your lips were touching his balls, showing how deep he was inside your mouth.

Jungkook's thrusts grew sloppier, slower—until he finally released into your mouth. He pulled back slightly, his dark eyes locking with yours. “Swallow it,” he said, voice husky. You immediately gulped down the liquid.

Without a word, he lifted you effortlessly and laid you gently onto the bed. His lips met yours once again, the kiss was deep. For what felt like three whole minutes, you melted into each other—until you finally pulled away, breathless.

“I need you inside me. Now.” You stressed the last word, your voice thick with desperation. It wasn’t a request. It was a need—urgent, undeniable, and burning through every inch of you.

Jungkook flashed a sultry smile upon hearing your words, his cock hitting your slick cunt. He then aligned it and gradually pushed into your aching hole, you inhaled sharply and glanced down. It was merely his tip but the pain was unbearable. Jungkook tried to move, but you gripped his arm,

“It won't fit, damn it! It hur-” Jungkook interrupted you with a kiss and swiftly thrust his dick deep inside you. You screamed from the intense thrust, clutching Jungkook tightly.

It hurts so much that it seemed as if your body was being ripped apart, and you were certain that you bled once more.

After several minutes, the discomfort gradually eased, but it was still present. Jungkook remained still until you instructed him that he could move now. Jungkook gently withdrew, his entire shaft covered in your blood, then he pushed in once more, and both of you let out moans.

His motions were limited due to your tightness, your pussy enclosed his cock. Jungkook began to quicken his movements when he noticed that you were now comfortable. Both of you were a whiny disaster, particularly you.

Jungkook pushed into you with a primal rhythm, thrusting his cock inside you over and over—you believe your walls might be sore now.

Jungkook stopped and spun you around, your ass lifted in the air. He tugged at your hair and started to thrust once more,

“Ah, Jungkook!” You're close, and Jungkook sensed it; he swiftly thrust in and out of you until you reached your climax—rolling your eyes. Jungkook released his hold on your hair and put his hand on your waist, both hands firmly gripping your waist tightly, and it would likely leave bruises.

Jungkook continued to thrust into you with an instinctual rhythm, striving for his peak until his tempo faltered and he released inside you. Both of you groaned at his release. His body collapsed on your back, both breathing heavily from the intensity of the sex.

For a few more minutes, you both stayed there until Jungkook pulled out of you; he looked at your hole—dripping, a blend of both your and his cum with a hint of your blood.

Jungkook stood up and carried your body. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he walked you toward the wall. You felt your back touch the cold surface. Jungkook positioned himself at your entrance.

“We’re not done yet, sweetheart,” he said, pecking your lips before slamming into you again.

Jungkook woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. He quickly answered it, carefully sliding his arm out from under your head so he wouldn't wake you. Walking toward the large window, he noticed the afternoon sunlight filling the room.

The two of you had been intimate until sunrise—he’d lost count of how many times he made you reach your climax. It had been a long, exhausting night.

“Mayor, we’re just waiting for your order.”

Jungkook glanced at your sleeping figure and smiled softly—you looked like an angel. Then, turning his gaze back to the window, a dark grin tugged at his lips.

“Do it,” he said.

He ended the call without another word, walked back to the bed, wrapped his arms around your body, and drifted back to sleep.

.....

You woke up with your body aching painfully, especially between your legs. Your face flushed as memories of last night came rushing back.

You glanced to your side, but Jungkook was nowhere in sight.

Sitting up, you noticed him on the sofa, intently watching something on the TV. You tried to stand, wrapping the sheets around your body—your legs still shaky from the night before. Slowly, you made your way toward him. Jungkook was too focused to even notice your presence.

You turned your eyes to the screen—and froze. The news made your breath hitch.

“J&A Mall bombed in the middle of the day.” Your eyes widened at the text on the screen.

“The event that was supposed to be fun ended in tragedy. Several well-known individuals were killed in the bombing.”

Your knees nearly gave out when the list of victims appeared, but you managed to hold onto the edge of the sofa. Familiar names flashed across the screen—names you had once said you wanted gone.

Then you saw the last name.

Kim Jiwoo.

Your breath caught in your throat. Jiwoo was on the list—dead. A loud gasp escaped your lips as your eyes remained glued to the screen.

Jungkook walked over and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. He leaned down and whispered into your ear, “The job’s done, sweetheart.”

He gently wiped the tears rolling down your cheeks. You were speechless. Your mind swirled in chaos. Guilt clawed at your conscience—but beneath it, buried deep where you didn’t want to look, was something darker: satisfaction.

Jungkook kissed your lips softly. “Let’s take a bath. I still have a speech to give. Come with me.”

He led you toward the bathroom. You took one last glance at the screen before stepping in.

He influenced the ink that once upheld justice; now it serves a darker purpose—writing vengeance in strokes of blood.

Inkfluence - 06/14/25

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

Taglist: @kokoandkookie @delulutofr @somehowukook @cdllevantae @magicalnachocreator @minimoninini @heyyymin @chimchoom @labbbaaa @namtits69 @polnaraffsrack @mar-lo-pap @iveivory @softhaes @bangtans-momma @bjoriis @aririrjhvxc @mageprincess7

[97linelover]

I wonder - Jeon Jungkook

summary: doing your sick friend a favour, which means helping out at jhopes concert does not prepare you for one person.

Jeon Jungkook.

The two of you had a hook up the night before he left for the military.

And now he’s back.

pairing: idol jungkook x reader

genre: smut, they re obssesed with each other, they’re just cute, jungkooks new tattoo is a huge topic

author's note: after yesterday’s concert I can’t stop thinking about it.

Y/N adjusted the last lighting filter backstage, fingers slightly trembling—not from stress, but from caffeine and five hours of sleep spread over two days.

The buzz of the concert crew was everywhere: stylists shouting, dancers stretching, cables tangling under hurried steps. She had been pulled in last minute, a favor to an old friend in the makeup team who had caught the flu the night before.

She didn’t expect this.

Not Goyang.

Not the massive J-Hope solo show.

And definitely not him.

But life never asked her opinion.

“Y/N, can you take the next artist?” someone called.

She nodded, wiping her hands on a towel as she turned to face her new client—and nearly dropped the brush in her hand.

Jeon Jungkook.

He stood just inside the dressing room door, black hoodie pulled halfway down, his dark eyes already locked on her like he’d been expecting her all along.

She froze.

He didn’t smile right away. Instead, his eyes moved over her face like he was trying to remember every detail he’d forgotten during his time away. Like nothing had changed.

Like it hadn’t been almost two years since that night.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Y/N swallowed hard. “Hey.”

A beat of silence.

Jungkook stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him. The noise of the crew disappeared instantly, and all that remained was the echo of her pulse in her ears.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, voice warm but unreadable.

“Neither did I,” she replied, fighting the urge to cross her arms. “I’m just filling in for someone. Temporary.”

He nodded. “I’m just… guesting for one night. Hobi-hyung wanted to surprise the fans. You know him.”

She nodded too, too quickly. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Another pause.

The air was thick now—not awkward, just heavy. Like the room hadn’t caught up with the past yet.

They both remembered that night.

The hotel.

The way his fingers had lingered on her skin like he didn’t want to forget her before he left for the military.

The silence afterward.

No messages. No explanations.

Just two people pretending it never happened.

“You look… good,” Jungkook finally said, breaking the silence.

Y/N looked up sharply. “You too. Bulked up a little, huh?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mandatory army diet. Lots of push-ups. Not much else to do.”

She smiled, and for a second it felt normal again. Easy. Dangerous.

“I guess I should do your makeup,” she said, finally turning back to the mirror and picking up a sponge, grateful for something to do with her hands.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess you should.”

He sat down slowly in the chair, knees brushing hers as he turned to face her. The air shifted again—tighter now. As her fingers touched his skin, her heart betrayed her with a thud.

He was real. Warm. Close.

Jungkook’s voice came low, near a whisper. “Did you ever think about that night?”

She froze again, her hand stilling on his cheek. She met his gaze in the mirror.

God.

His eyes were unreadable, but soft.

Y/N swallowed. “Did you?

“I never stopped.”

____________

Flashback

The moment their lips met, it was like months of tension detonated all at once.

Jungkook’s hands were in her hair, on her back, gripping her waist like he was scared she’d disappear if he let go. Y/N couldn’t think—didn’t want to. His mouth tasted like whiskey and something sweet, like danger in disguise.

He pressed her back into the private room’s couch, their breathing tangled and uneven. His voice came rough against her neck:

“I should stop.”

“Then stop,” she whispered, her fingers already undoing the buttons of his shirt.

But he didn’t.

He kissed her harder. Slower. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of her.

Clothes came off in pieces, pulled and dropped without grace. His skin was warm, the body beneath the shirts and choreography harder now, shaped by army prep and stress and want. He looked down at her with dark, hooded eyes, chest rising and falling.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said again, as if trying to remind himself.

“Then give me tonight,” she whispered.

He did.

And it wasn’t rushed or careless

It was everything he couldn’t say out loud.

The way he held her face in his hands as he moved against her.

The way he whispered her name like it was something holy.

The way his fingers found hers and held on.

They moved together in waves—soft at first, then desperate, louder. No music playing, but still in rhythm. His lips didn’t leave hers unless it was to breathe against her throat or whisper things that made her eyes close with heat:

“You drive me crazy.”

“I thought about this so many times.”

“You feel like… home.”

He came undone with her name on his lips, forehead pressed to hers, as if letting go of something he didn’t want to admit he’d been holding in far too long.

Afterward, the silence wrapped around them like a blanket. The kind that comes only when everything’s been said without speaking.

He pulled her close.

They didn’t talk much.

Just slow breathing. Fingers tracing bare skin. Her face tucked against his chest, heartbeats still out of sync.

And then, sometime before sunrise, she must have drifted off.

The Morning After

6:37 a.m.

Y/N woke alone.

The bed beside her was cold. The spot where Jungkook had been—empty, except for a faint scent of cologne and regret.

No note. No message. No voice.

Just silence.

Her phone was quiet too. Nothing from him. Nothing from anyone.

As if it hadn’t happened.

As if she hadn’t happened.

He was gone.

_____________

The makeup brush trembled slightly between Y/N’s fingers.

His hoodie was now off. He wore a sleeveless black shirt, and time had only sharpened what was already unfairly perfect. His jawline was more defined. His features stronger. His collarbones peeked just enough to make her pulse skip.

His hair was slightly tousled, freshly washed. His eyes—still that dark brown that had once looked down at her in a hotel bed, right before vanishing—were watching her again now.

Too carefully.

Too quietly.

“Look up,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He did. Slowly.

Her fingers touched his cheek as she blended concealer along the soft curve beneath his eye. His skin was warm under her touch. Familiar. Way too familiar.

Why does this feel like a dream I forgot I had?

She tried to focus. Concealer. Powder. Eyeliner. Keep it professional.

But his eyes never left hers. Not even once.

“Still the best hands in the business,” Jungkook murmured, his voice low, deep, intimate. Too intimate.

She didn’t look up. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said. “You’re shaking though.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m not,” she lied, brushing highlight across his cheekbone.

“You are,” he said again, softer. “Is it because of me?”

She pulled back, just enough to create space. Not enough to break the moment.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, barely able to meet his gaze.

His expression shifted—something between guilt and hunger flickering behind his eyes.

“Because I thought I could walk in here and act like nothing happened,” he said. “But I can’t.”

Y/N inhaled sharply and set the brush down on the table behind her. She crossed her arms and finally let herself look at him without filters or pretending.

“You left,” she said. “No text. No call. Not even a goodbye.”

His jaw tightened. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, his eyes suddenly full of something raw.

“I know,” he said. “And I hate myself for it.”

Her heart twisted.

Damn him.

Even now—especially now—he still made her heart ache in the worst way.

“I waited,” she whispered. “I told myself you’d say something. Anything.”

He stood up.

And just like that, they were too close again.

His chest almost touched hers, and his voice came low, trembling.

“I wanted to. Every day. I wrote a hundred messages and deleted all of them. Because I didn’t know what I had the right to say after what I did.

Y/N’s eyes searched his, trying to find the lie. But there was only truth—and regret.

And something else.

Still burning. Still there.

“I’m not the same person,” he said.

She let herself whisper back: “Neither am I.”

His hand reached up. Hovered near her cheek. Didn’t touch.

Not yet.

“I never forgot you,” he said, voice rough. “Not one day.”

Y/N closed her eyes. Her heart was a war zone. And he was standing right in the middle.

Y/N took a small step back. Enough for air to return. Enough for her thoughts to line up like soldiers.

In the corner of her eye, she saw movement—two stylists walking past, a camera assistant adjusting lighting nearby. The pre-show chaos was picking up again.

They weren’t alone anymore.

She cleared her throat and reached for the compact powder, flipping it open like nothing had just happened

“You should sit back down,” she said flatly.

Jungkook didn’t move at first. His brows furrowed just slightly, as if he couldn’t quite process the sudden shift.

“I mean it,” she added, firmer this time. “We’re not having this conversation. Not here. Not now.”

He slowly sat back in the chair, confusion and something like disappointment tightening his jaw.

“You were just—” he started.

“Doing my job,” she interrupted sharply, not letting him finish.

A moment of silence stretched between them.

Y/N didn’t look at him. She focused on the powder, dabbing it gently along the curve of his jaw. The same jaw she’d kissed. The same skin her fingers had once traced in the dark.

But now, her hands were steady. Cold. Careful.

“I’m here as crew,” she said, voice low but firm. “Not someone from your past.”

He let out a quiet breath, like the words hit harder than he expected.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t get to decide what this is, Jungkook. Not anymore.”

His gaze was on her now, intense and unreadable.

“You’re being cold,” he said quietly.

She met his eyes then—just for a second—and something behind her chest pulled tight.

“I’m being professional,” she corrected

He leaned forward slightly again, this time slower, like testing her boundary.

“You don’t have to pretend like it meant nothing,” he said.

Y/N smiled—tight and tired. “I’m not pretending. I’m surviving.”

His lips parted, as if to argue, but she was already turning away, reaching for the setting spray. She sprayed once, twice, then grabbed a tissue and gently patted the corners of his mouth.

“There. All done,” she said.

He didn’t move.

She stepped back again, this time fully. Crossing her arms. Setting the barrier.

“You should head to the stage for final checks. J-Hope’s going on in ten.”

Jungkook stood slowly. She could see the struggle in his posture, like he was carrying something he’d never planned to carry again.

But he didn’t say anything else.

Just nodded.

And walked away.

Leaving her standing there, heart pounding, hands clenched behind her back—wishing he had stayed

… and terrified that he still might.

The hallway leading to the stage was dim and humming with nervous energy. Crew members moved with purpose, headsets crackling, lights being tested for the final sequence.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her brush belt, keeping her face neutral—even though her chest was anything but.

“Y/N,” someone called from across the comms. “You’re needed at position three. Final touch-up for Jungkook. He’s getting mic’d now.”

Of course.

Of course.

She grabbed her compact and a brush, forced her shoulders back, and walked toward the waiting area near the stage wings.

And then she saw him.

Jungkook stood under a warm prep light, a mic technician adjusting the pack clipped to the back of his jeans. His baggy denim hung low on his hips, tucked perfectly into black leather boots. The white tank top clung to him just enough to reveal the lines of his torso—still lean, still strong, still infuriatingly beautiful.

But it was the jacket that caught the light.

Black denim, dusted with dark glitter, shimmering faintly as he moved. A single silver chain looped at the collar, catching like a secret.

He looked like someone carved out of memory and stage lights.

Unreachable. Untouchable.

Until he turned—and saw her.

His eyes locked on hers immediately. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… present.

Like he’d been waiting.

Y/N didn’t pause. She walked up to him, pro to the bone, brush already in hand.

“Mic okay?” she asked, eyes focused on his face—not his lips. Not the way his collarbone peeked out when he moved.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just a little tight. But I’ll survive.”

She nodded and stepped closer. With one hand, she steadied his jaw. With the other, she dabbed around the corner of his eye, smoothing the faint crease where the concealer had shifted.

Jungkook’s voice came low—just for her.

“You always do this thing with your lips when you’re concentrating.”

Y/N didn’t react.

“You’re doing it now,” he added, his voice dipping even lower.

“Stop talking,” she said softly. “Or I’ll poke your eye out.”

He smiled, just a little. “You’d never hurt me.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes sharp. “Don’t test that theory.”

He held her gaze for a beat, the tension between them wrapped tight as guitar strings. Then—softly, almost too quiet for her to hear—he said:

“You never said I looked good.”

Y/N hesitated, brush frozen near his cheekbone.

Then she leaned in, lips inches from his ear, and whispered

“You know you do.”

And just like that, she stepped back.

Professional.

Controlled.

Even though inside, her chest was on fire.

“Five minutes to stage,” someone called from the hall.

Y/N gave him a last once-over and nodded.

“You’re good to go.”

He didn’t move right away.

But she did.

She turned and walked away—before she could say something stupid. Before she could let him see the way her hand shook once she was out of his sight.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he was still beautiful.

It was that some part of her still wanted him to pull her back.

From the side of the stage, Y/N stood just behind the curtain, half-shielded by lighting equipment and crew bodies, watching the crowd explode in screams.

Goyang was shaking.

The fans were on fire, voices echoing off the walls, arms raised, phones lit up like stars. It was the kind of energy that pulsed through your bones. And out there, under the lights, stood J-Hope and Jungkook—both drenched in sweat, charisma, and power.

She couldn’t help it.

A small smile crept onto her face.

They looked happy.

They looked whole.

Even after everything—time, distance, silence—watching Jungkook on stage felt… right. Like a missing piece snapping back into place, even if only for a moment.

The crowd roared louder as the intro to “I Wonder” began. J-Hope tossed an arm over Jungkook’s shoulders, both of them laughing between lyrics as they danced, light on their feet, feeding off each other like they never left.

Y/N clapped softly with the others in the wings, pride warming her chest.

And then—

The beat shifted.

A murmur of recognition swept through the crowd.

“Seven.”

Jungkook stepped forward alone now, breath still heavy, lips parted, eyes scanning the sea of fans like they were his to command.

The tank top was clinging to him now. His arms were slick from sweat, veins rising along his forearms. And as he reached up to adjust the mic wire behind his neck, the shirt lifted—just enough.

That’s when she saw it.

The tattoo.

Faint under the collar, but there—dark ink curling from his shoulder, creeping across his collarbone toward his chest.

Near her, she heard two stylists whisper:

“He extended it while he was in the army.”

“It goes all the way across now—shoulder to chest.”

“God, he got so hot.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

She didn’t mean to think it.

Didn’t want to.

But the image came anyway—

⸻

Flashback – That Night, That Tattoo

He hovered above her in the dark, breath warm against her collarbone. The room was barely lit by the streetlight outside, just enough to see the edges of his body—solid and real and hers, for that night.

Her lips trailed down his neck, slow and greedy.

And there it was.

The tattoo.

Back then, it ended just at the top of his shoulder, sharp black lines flowing like smoke across his skin.

Y/N kissed it.

First softly. Then again, with more hunger. Her tongue traced one of the lines, and she felt him shiver above her.

“You like it?” he asked, voice rough.

“I’d get lost in it if you let me,” she whispered back.

His laugh came low against her skin. “You already are.“

⸻

Present

Y/N blinked hard, yanked back into the now by the thunder of applause as Jungkook hit the final chorus of Seven. He moved like he’d never left the stage, hips rolling, voice pure honey, the fans eating up every second.

And all she could think was—

God, I want to see that tattoo again.

I want to see all of him again

She clenched her hands behind her back.

No.

Not tonight. Not like this.

But even as she tried to look away, her eyes found him again.

And this time, his gaze flicked—straight to her.

Just for a heartbeat.

Just long enough to let her know:

He saw her.

He always did.

He grabbed a water bottle from the cooler, downed half of it in seconds, then bent forward with his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

That performance was a rush.

But the real jolt hadn’t been the lights or the fans.

It had been her.

He’d seen her.

Just off-stage. Watching.

Eyes locked on him for those final seconds of Seven.

And then it was over.

Now she was gone again.

“Yo, good job, man,” one of the dancers clapped him on the back. “You killed it.”

He nodded, still breathing heavy, eyes scanning the hallway.

A few feet down, past the tech crates and bottled waters, he finally spotted her—kneeling next to Hobi, calmly patting his forehead with a towel, checking his skin for shine, brushing powder over his temples.

Y/N.

Focused. Grounded. Not looking at him.

J-Hope laughed, still glowing from the performance. “I swear, Y/N, I don’t know how you don’t get bored fixing my sweaty face every ten minutes.”

She smiled, that soft little grin Jungkook knew too well. “It’s my job to make sure you keep looking good. Even when you’re dying inside.”

“Damn, harsh!” Hobi chuckled.

Jungkook stood there, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt, unsure what to do with himself.

She hadn’t even glanced his way.

Not once.

Was she really that good at pretending now?

He took a step closer, then stopped.

She was still crouched in front of Hobi, saying something quietly, reaching into her makeup pouch for something.

She used to do that for me, too…

That same look. That same care.

And now I’m just… background noise?

His throat tightened.

J-Hope caught his eye first and smiled. “Yo, JK! You good?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, straightening up. “Still breathing.”

Y/N didn’t react.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t flinch.

She just kept dabbing a clean sponge across Hobi’s cheek like she hadn’t just watched Jungkook set the entire arena on fire minutes ago.

He almost wanted to laugh.

Or curse.

Or say her name just to make her look at him.

But instead, he just stood there—sweat cooling on his skin, heart thudding, suddenly unsure whether the stage had been the hardest part of the night… or if this was.

„Hey, heads up—Jungkook’s doing a quick change. New hair touch-up needed in ten.”

The voice came through Y/N’s headset like any other cue. Routine. Professional. Just another task.

She gave a quiet “alright,” already preparing the setting spray and hair serum. But her stomach still turned.

Another outfit.

Another moment alone.

Stay focused.

She wiped down the table, replaced the brushes, adjusted the combs.

And waited.

Minutes later, the hallway rustled. Footsteps. Laughter

And then—him.

Jungkook walked in with a soft smirk and new energy. His old outfit gone, replaced by a light blue denim jacket, slightly oversized, sleeves rolled once at the forearms. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt, fitted just enough to hug the new strength in his frame.

The matching light-wash jeans sat low on his hips.

Effortless. Warm.

Dangerous.

And of course, he didn’t speak.

Just walked straight toward the styling chair like this was normal.

It wasn’t.

Y/N’s hands froze at the edge of the table. Then she grabbed the comb.

“Sit,” she said softly.

He did.

The air thickened immediately.

She ran her fingers gently through his hair—softer now after sweat and stage heat. She spritzed water, then used the comb to part the strands, brushing them back from his forehead. His skin was still warm. His pulse visible at the side of his neck.

And then—his scent hit her.

Clean. Light. Like fabric softener and something deeper.

Masculine. Familiar.

Don’t remember.

Don’t go back there—

But her body betrayed her.

⸻

Flashback – The Way He Looked at Her

That night, she’d been straddling him on the bed, knees sinking into cheap hotel sheets, her fingers tangled in his hair.

He was shirtless.

His breath hot against her collarbone.

And his hair—longer then—was all over her hands.

“Don’t stop,” he’d whispered, eyes locked on hers. “I want you to touch all of me.”

And she had.

Her palms had slid into his hair as she kissed him deeper, rougher, harder. His jacket had already been thrown somewhere across the room, and her nails had scraped down his scalp as he moaned her name.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he’d said into her skin.

And she had believed him

⸻

Present

Y/N blinked back to reality, her chest rising slightly too fast.

Jungkook was still sitting there, eyes closed, head slightly tilted back as she ran her fingers through his hair. Too close. Too intimate.

“You were incredible,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

He turned his head slightly toward her voice, surprised.

“You watched?”

“I work here, don’t I?” she muttered, brushing through the front strands slowly.

He smiled again. “Still… thanks. I saw you. Side stage.”

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Her fingers slipped into his hair again, lifting gently, separating strands, smoothing texture. His hair was soft, like silk between her fingers. Familiar.

Too familiar.

“You always do it like this,” he said quietly, voice low and steady. “Gentle. You always take your time.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, but there was no venom in it.

He chuckled, deep and soft.

“I missed this.”

Y/N’s hand stilled for half a second

⸻

Flashback – That Hotel Room, That Night

Jungkook’s lips were on her throat, hot and hungry. The room was dim, but her skin was lit with fire.

His denim jacket was the first to go — she had peeled it off his shoulders, breathless from the kiss, from the way he was looking at her. Like he needed her more than air.

He’d laid her back against the sheets, one knee between her thighs, arms on either side of her head.

“Say stop,” he whispered, voice rough with want. “Say it and I will.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she pulled him in harder, fingernails raking up his back through the thin white shirt.

Her hands were in his hair — gripping, pulling.

He let out a low sound, almost a growl, and kissed her deeper

Her name fell from his lips over and over again as her mouth explored his skin like a map.

“You’re driving me insane,” he groaned against her ear.

“Good,” she whispered. “Now don’t stop.”

⸻

Present –

Her breath hitched as she adjusted his parting, her fingers trembling just barely. The brush moved, but her thoughts didn’t.

She could feel his hands still. His mouth.

She could still taste his skin.

Jungkook glanced up, sensing the shift

“You okay?” he asked again, voice gentler now.

She snapped out of it. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” His tone wasn’t teasing anymore. It was real. Worried.

Her hand froze again, just above his forehead.

And for a second—just a second—she let her fingers drift through his hair like she used to. Slow. Careful. Tender.

Like she didn’t want to forget the shape of him.

Then she stepped back. Hard.

“You’re good,” she said. “Done.”

Jungkook stood slowly, turning to face her, eyes darker now

But she was already moving, cleaning brushes, placing bottles in their trays like she hadn’t just relived his body on hers.

He didn’t say a word.

He just stood there.

Watching her like he wanted to say everything—

But maybe still didn’t know how.

The stage lights dimmed for a moment, then burst back to life in waves of purple and blue.

The crowd roared, anticipation thick in the air.

J-Hope stepped forward, confident and radiant, a wide smile lighting up his face. Jungkook followed close behind, eyes sparkling with an electric mix of focus and joy. Behind them, Jin took his place, steady and graceful, a quiet strength anchoring the moment.

The beat dropped — smooth, hypnotic — as the opening chords of “Jamais Vu” filled the arena.

Jungkook moved effortlessly, every step syncing perfectly with the rhythm. His voice blended seamlessly with J-Hope and Jin’s, weaving together in perfect harmony.

The energy between the three was magnetic, like they shared a secret only they knew — a story told through movement and melody.

Jungkook’s smile never faded. It was a beam of pure light that reached every corner of the venue.

When he hit the high notes, the crowd erupted, voices joining his in a chorus of adoration.

Side stage, Y/N watched quietly, her breath catching as she saw him shine—not just as an idol or performer, but as someone alive and free.

In that moment, all the distance, the silence, and the unspoken words melted away

Jungkook was glowing.

And she couldn’t look away.

After the last echoes of the performance faded, Y/N moved efficiently through the backstage area, gathering her tools and tidying up the makeup station. The buzz of the crew was still low but fading as everyone prepared for the next set.

Her hands worked on autopilot, but her mind wasn’t focused on the task. It kept drifting—back to the stage, to Jungkook’s radiant smile, to the way his eyes caught hers.

Once everything was packed, she slipped out of the main room, heading toward the quieter corridors backstage.

She paused outside a door, hearing soft rustling inside.

The familiar scent—clean linen and something uniquely Jungkook—filtered through the crack.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.

There he was, pulling off his jacket, the soft denim falling from his shoulders. The room was dimly lit, shadows casting long lines across his frame.

He looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” she replied, voice steady even though her heart was anything but.

For a moment, they just stood there, the space between them thick with everything unsaid.

The door clicked softly behind Y/N as she stepped into the small dressing room. The air was thick with the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with the faint musk of sweat from the stage — intoxicating and familiar.

Jungkook stood by the mirror, slipping off his shirt, the muscles of his back flexing with each movement. His eyes met hers in the dim light, dark and smoldering.

“Did you watch the whole performance?” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

Y/N nodded, her breath catching. “Of course.”

He took a step closer, the space between them shrinking until it was nothing but electric tension

“Why do you keep avoiding me?” he asked, voice husky.

She looked away, heart pounding. “I’m trying to be professional.”

He chuckled softly, a sound full of promise and challenge. “We both know that’s not the whole truth.”

Her eyes met his again, and for the first time in a long time, the walls between them began to crumble.

Without thinking, her fingers brushed against his arm — a spark jolting through both of them.

Jungkook’s hand reached out, covering hers, warm and steady.

The room seemed to pulse around them as the heat built, unspoken but undeniable.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “do you want this? Or are you just afraid to admit it?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, lips parted — caught between restraint and desire.

And in that charged silence, everything changed.

Her eyes found his again, wide and vulnerable, the walls she’d built around herself beginning to crumble in the face of his unwavering stare.

Before she could stop herself, her fingers brushed against his forearm—a hesitant, tentative touch—but the electricity that sparked between them was anything but small.

Jungkook’s hand rose slowly, covering hers. His skin was warm, steadying, grounding. His fingers laced with hers effortlessly, like they’d been meant to fit together all along.

The room seemed to pulse with unspoken words and unsaid promises. The air thickened, charged with tension so palpable it was almost unbearable.

Her breath hitched. Her lips parted, words caught somewhere between restraint and desire. Her heart hammered like a drum, threatening to drown out everything else.

The space between them was charged with longing and fear and something deeper—something neither wanted to name but both could feel burning bright.

She could smell him, see the faintest sheen of sweat on his skin, feel the steady beat of his pulse beneath her palm.

For a moment, nothing else existed except the two of them, suspended in time, teetering on the edge of what was and what could be.

And then—

Her lips trembled as she finally whispered, “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Jungkook’s thumb brushed soothing circles over her hand. “Then maybe we’ll take it slow,” he said softly, voice full of promise and patience.

He leaned in just a fraction, close enough that she could feel his warm breath against her cheek.

“Whatever you want, I’m here,” he said.

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the heat, the promise, the aching tension wash over her.

When she opened them again, the vulnerability was still there—but so was the spark.

Because maybe, just maybe, they were ready to stop running from what had always been there.

The space between them collapsed as Jungkook’s hand tightened slightly around hers, his touch sending a jolt straight through her.

His eyes never left hers, dark and burning with a hunger she hadn’t dared to admit she felt too.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered there, warm and sure, tracing a path down her jawline, following the curve of her neck.

Y/N’s breath hitched, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more.

Without warning, he closed the tiny distance left between them, lips capturing hers in a kiss that was soft at first — exploratory — then deepening in an instant, fierce and desperate

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the heat between them exploded.

Jungkook’s body pressed against hers, every inch charged with the electricity of months of silence and unanswered questions.

She tasted him — salt and something sweeter, raw and real — and forgot everything except the way he made her feel alive, wanted.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The room grew smaller, hotter.

Clothes became obstacles to be shed, buttons undone with trembling fingers, skin meeting skin in a blaze of heat.

He paused just long enough to whisper against her lips, “I never stopped wanting you.”

And then he kissed her like he meant it—like the night they lost to time never happened

Every touch, every gasp, every moan spoke louder than words.

This was their moment.

Unstoppable, undeniable.

The heat between them was rising, breaths mingling, hearts racing—every second felt like a stolen dream.

But then, a sharp knock echoed at the door.

Jungkook’s eyes snapped open, alert and tense.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling back just enough to listen.

From the hallway came a voice—urgent, calling his name.

“They’re looking for you.”

His gaze flicked to Y/N, a mix of frustration and regret flashing in his eyes.

“Stay here. I’ll be back,” he whispered, his hand briefly squeezing hers before he slipped toward the door.

Y/N barely had time to process before the door cracked open and he was gone, disappearing into the corridor like smoke.

Her heart pounded loud in the sudden silence.

She looked around desperately, spotting the small storage closet just behind the door.

Without thinking, she ducked inside, pulling the door quietly shut behind her.

Inside, cramped and dim, she held her breath, waiting.

Every sound from the hallway made her pulse quicken—her mind swirling with what-ifs and the ache of unfinished moments.

Outside, Jungkook’s footsteps faded down the hall.

And Y/N was left alone in the shadows, the heat between them simmering, waiting for a chance to ignite again.

The moment Jungkook’s footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the chaos backstage, the room seemed to exhale with a sudden stillness. The air, heavy and charged just seconds ago, now felt impossibly quiet.

Y/N lowered herself onto a nearby chair, the adrenaline coursing through her veins slowly retreating. Her hands trembled slightly as she began to gather her scattered makeup brushes and palettes, packing them carefully back into her worn kit. Each item felt heavier than usual, burdened by the weight of the memories she was trying not to dwell on.

Her mind flicked back to Jungkook’s touch—the way his fingers lingered on her skin, the heat of his breath against her neck, the softness of his lips that had ignited a fire she thought had been extinguished months ago. The thought made her pulse race again, leaving her both exhilarated and conflicted.

“Hey, Y/N.”

The soft voice startled her. She looked up to see J-Hope stepping into the room, his ever-present smile gentle but sincere. His eyes held something deeper tonight—an understanding that went beyond the usual crew-member-to-artist banter.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he continued, closing the distance between them. “You really saved us tonight. The whole team’s been talking about how amazing your work was.”

Y/N forced a small smile, trying to appear composed. “It was nothing. Just doing my job.”

But J-Hope shook his head slightly. “No, seriously. You stepped in last minute, and the boys really appreciated it. We’d love to have you join us for dinner—just us, the members. It would be nice to spend some time together, outside all this.”

The invitation hung in the air, warm and inviting—but Y/N hesitated. The offer was tempting, but the underlying tension between her and Jungkook made it complicated.

“I don’t know, Hobi…” she began, voice wavering. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

J-Hope’s smile softened, and he took a step closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

“Is it… because of Jungkook?” His eyes sparkled with gentle teasing, but there was genuine care beneath it. “Everyone’s noticed, you know. The way you two look at each other—the tension that’s been building since he got back.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by his straightforwardness. She hadn’t expected anyone to be so perceptive.

He chuckled softly. “The guys talk about it a lot. They remember that night before he went to the military—the night you two were… close.”

Her cheeks flushed, heat rushing to her face. She bit her lip, uncertain whether to deny it or confess.

J-Hope’s expression was kind but honest. “No shame in it, Y/N. It’s clear there’s something between you two. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.”

She looked down, wrestling with her feelings—the fear of opening old wounds, the desire for something more, and the uncertainty of what that something might be.

The room felt smaller, the distance between them shrinking as the truth lingered in the air.

After a long pause, Y/N finally met J-Hope’s eyes. “Maybe you’re right,” she whispered.

J-Hope’s grin returned, bright and reassuring. “Good. Because whatever happens, we’re here for you. And who knows? Tonight might be the start of something new.”

Y/N nodded slowly, heart pounding—not just from the night’s events, but from the possibility of what could come next.

Outside the door, the distant hum of the crowd and the pulsing beat of the music reminded her that this world was fast and unpredictable. But for now, she allowed herself a moment of quiet hope.

They ended up in a small, tucked-away Korean BBQ place — the kind of late-night spot that didn’t need a name, only the smell of grilled meat spilling out into the street to draw people in.

It was nearly 1 a.m., but the private room was already buzzing when Y/N walked in with J-Hope.

Laughter bounced off the walls. Jin was mid-story, animated as always, hands flying everywhere while Jimin leaned into him, half-laughing, half-mocking. Taehyung was fiddling with the grill tongs, pretending to be the “meat master,” while Namjoon poured everyone water with such focus it looked like he was defusing a bomb.

Y/N hesitated at the threshold.

Until she saw him.

Jungkook.

Sitting near the far end of the low table, his denim jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his plain white t-shirt stretched just right across his chest. His hair was still damp from the show, pushed back lazily, revealing that sharp jaw and those dark, unreadable eyes.

He looked up when she entered.

And for the briefest moment—one second, no more—it was like the noise disappeared. Like she was the only person in the room.

Then Jimin shouted, “Y/N! Yah, finally! Come sit!

Hobi guided her inside with a soft nudge, and she slipped off her shoes, squeezing in between Taehyung and Namjoon. Not too far from Jungkook… but not next to him, either.

“Eat, eat,” Jin said, piling her plate high without waiting for her to speak. “You’re family now.”

Someone threw a piece of pork belly on the hot grill and it sizzled instantly, sending up a wave of smoke and scent that made Y/N’s stomach rumble.

The atmosphere was loud and easy, but her body was tense.

Jungkook hadn’t said a word.

But she could feel him.

Every time she laughed too loud, every time she reached for the lettuce, she felt his gaze flicker toward her. A glance here. A pause there. Heat beneath the surface.

It was subtle, but it was undeniable.

And the others weren’t subtle at all.

“So,” Jimin said, eyes glinting as he chewed. “Y/N, how’s it feel being back with the crew? Especially with Jungkook around again?”

The room buzzed with quiet laughter.

Y/N looked down at her rice.

Taehyung didn’t even hide his grin. “Yeah, the tension backstage was… whew. Thick. Like ramen noodles.”

“Thicker,” Jin added helpfully. “Udon-thick.”

Hobi raised his eyebrows at her, mock-innocent. “You sure you’re just here for makeup, Y/N?”

She nearly choked on her kimchi. “You’re all insane.”

But her cheeks were warm. And Jungkook?

Still silent.

Until he finally looked at her—straight on.

His voice cut through the table, low and even: “Let them talk.”

She froze. Everyone else did too.

He didn’t take his eyes off her as he added, “We know the truth, don’t we?”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even playful.

It was something deeper. Something real.

And for the first time that night, Y/N wasn’t sure if her heart was racing from embarrassment… or from everything she couldn’t say.

The room burst back to life.

Once Jungkook dropped his cryptic “we know the truth,” the rest of the guys lost it.

“Ooooooh,” Jimin howled, nearly choking on his lettuce wrap. “He really said that.”

“So dramatic,” Taehyung said, clutching his chest like he’d just heard a confession on a K-drama. “Was that the opening monologue of a romance drama or what?

“I’m crying,” Namjoon muttered into his beer glass. “I swear you two are living in a fanfiction.”

Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing so hard her sides hurt. “You guys are so annoying.”

“No, no, we’re just invested,” Jin grinned. “This is better than Love Alarm.”

J-Hope, still grilling meat like a professional, raised the tongs like a mic. “Y/N, tell us the truth—on a scale from ‘meh’ to ‘melt my bones,’ how spicy was that one night before Jungkook enlisted?”

“Hobi!” she shrieked, half-laughing, half-dying of embarrassment.

“C’mon,” Jimin said, elbowing her gently. “We all know you’ve seen the tattoo.”

Everyone froze in mock horror.

Jin gasped. “The chest extension?”

“Oh, so it is real,” Namjoon said with a smirk.

Taehyung leaned in dramatically. “Did you… kiss it?”

Y/N buried her face in her hands, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “I hate all of you.“

But the way her eyes sparkled said otherwise.

And the best part?

Even Jungkook was laughing.

Leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, his smile was that full, bunny-toothed grin—the one he rarely showed. He was blushing faintly, but not mad. Just watching her. Enjoying the chaos.

“Didn’t know you guys were so curious,” he said coolly.

“Oh, we’re nosy as hell,” Jimin shot back.

“And protective,” Taehyung added, poking his chopsticks at Jungkook. “But mostly nosy.”

Y/N wiped her eyes. Her cheeks were sore from smiling. It was rare to feel this light—especially after the emotional whirlwind backstage—but here, with them, it felt like home.

She picked up a piece of meat and dropped it on Jungkook’s plate.

“There,” she said, smirking. “You earned it. For surviving the interrogation.

Jungkook glanced down at his plate, then back up at her. “You feeding me now?”

The table erupted again.

“OH my god,” Jimin groaned, covering his face. “I can’t do this.”

“Just make out already,” Jin muttered. “And give us peace.”

Y/N laughed, head tipping back, feeling warmth bubble in her chest—not just from the soju or the teasing, but from something deeper.

Something like belonging.

The laughter hadn’t died down — if anything, the room had only grown louder. Jin was now reenacting a dramatic slow-motion version of Y/N “discovering” Jungkook’s chest tattoo, complete with gasps and exaggerated sound effects. Taehyung added background music on his phone, some over-the-top piano ballad from a 2008 K-drama OST.

Y/N was crying laughing, her cheeks warm and her stomach sore from how much fun she was having.

Somewhere between Hobi pouring more soju and Jimin complaining about how “nobody respects the vocal line anymore,” the conversation circled back—like it always did—to Jungkook.

“You’re seriously not gonna tell us what it looks like?” Taehyung asked Jungkook, who was now reclining comfortably in his seat, arms crossed, sipping his water like he had all the time in the world.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “You’ve all seen it. Why are you acting like it’s top secret?”

“I haven’t,” Y/N chimed in suddenly, tone light and mischievous as she reached for a piece of grilled mushroom.

The table paused—just for a beat.

Jungkook’s eyes lifted slowly to meet hers.

Y/N smiled innocently, but her voice carried the exact kind of heat that turned playful into dangerous:

“I mean, I don’t really know the tattoo… not up close. But…” — she shrugged — “I wouldn’t mind seeing it someday.”

The table exploded.

Jimin screamed, literally falling onto Namjoon’s shoulder.

“NO. MA’AM.”

“WHAT DID SHE JUST—”

Taehyung slapped the table so hard his chopsticks flew.

“YAH?!”

Even Hobi choked on his lettuce.

Jin just nodded solemnly. “She’s one of us now.”

Namjoon muttered something about needing a therapist.

But Jungkook…

He didn’t laugh.

Not right away.

He just looked at her.

And that look—God.

There was no mistaking the spark that flashed behind his eyes. Amusement, yes. But more.

Something dark and amused and dangerous.

He took another slow sip of his water, then tilted his head slightly, still holding her gaze.

“That so?” he said, voice smooth.

“Someday might come sooner than you think.”

The air thickened.

Everyone felt it.

Even the guys got a little quieter. Not out of discomfort—just knowing when the joke had crossed into real territory.

J-Hope, the eternal mood-balancer, clapped his hands. “Aaaaand that’s our cue to call for dessert!”

Y/N laughed again, trying to breathe, trying to act normal. But her heart was beating a little faster. Her eyes flicked back to Jungkook just once.

He was still watching her.

Still smiling.

But differently now.

Like he was counting the seconds until “someday.”

The night had begun to settle, the air outside still warm from the lingering summer heat, but softened now by the late hour. The laughter from dinner echoed faintly as they left the restaurant, the BTS boys still bantering and pulling each other into goodbyes.

Y/N stood just outside the entrance, her makeup bag slung over her shoulder, the cool breeze brushing her cheeks. She didn’t expect it when Jungkook stepped beside her.

“I’ll take you home,” he said simply.

No hesitation. No question.

Just that low, quiet voice. Gentle, but firm.

She blinked, taken aback. “You… sure?”

He nodded once, already unlocking the passenger door of a sleek black SUV parked nearby. “It’s late. You helped us all tonight. Let me return the favor.

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to—but because the idea of being alone with him again made her pulse flutter.

But she got in.

The drive started quiet. City lights blurred past the window, and the hum of the tires on asphalt filled the silence. Jungkook had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, fingers drumming softly to a song only he could hear.

Y/N watched him out of the corner of her eye.

It was strange. After all the noise, the teasing, the chaos of the group—this silence felt heavier than anything.

She cleared her throat. “You were amazing tonight. On stage. I needed the second performance again on my phone“ you giggled.

He glanced at her, lips quirking up slightly. “Thanks. It felt good to be back.”

“And ‘Seven’…” she smiled to herself, staring out the window. “It hits different live.”

“You looked like you were enjoying it,” he said, eyes still on the road.

She laughed softly. “You mean when I almost spilled my water trying to film you?”

He chuckled, the sound warm. “Yeah, that.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t awkward. It felt… loaded. Like something thick in the air, waiting to be acknowledged.

Finally, she said it. Quietly.

“You didn’t say goodbye back then.”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first.

Then, he pulled into a small side street near her place and parked. The engine went silent. No more movement. Just the two of them, the hum of the city outside, and everything that hadn’t been said for over a year.

“I couldn’t,” he said finally. Voice low. Honest. “I didn’t trust myself.”

Y/N turned toward him, caught off guard by the rawness in his tone.

“I thought…” He paused, jaw flexing slightly. “If I said goodbye the right way, I wouldn’t leave. And I had to. I had no choice.”

She looked down, fingers nervously twisting the strap of her bag. “You could’ve at least left a message. Something.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

Silence.

But now it was his turn to speak again.

“I thought about you a lot. More than I should have.”

Her breath caught.

He leaned slightly closer, not touching, but closer. His voice dropped.

“And tonight… that little comment you made at dinner?”

Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting his.

He smiled—slow, almost cocky—but still soft around the edges.

“You’re still curious about the tattoo, huh?”

Her cheeks warmed instantly. “I was joking.”

“Were you?” he murmured.

Then his hand reached up—slowly—and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

That touch alone was enough to undo her.

“You shouldn’t play with fire if you’re not ready to get burned,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Her voice trembled, but she held his gaze. “Who says I’m not ready?”

That was the moment.

The air between them crackled.

He didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

But the promise of it hung in the space between their mouths—so close, so charged, so inevitable.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to let her breathe again, his smile was softer this time.

“I’ll walk you up.”

The elevator ride up to her apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet where every second stretched into a question. Every glance was a whisper of should we? And the air between them… was ready to ignite.

Y/N’s fingers shook slightly as she unlocked her door, the familiar click of the lock sounding so loud in the silence that followed.

She stepped inside, turned on the hallway light.

Jungkook followed.

And as she closed the door behind him, the soft thud of it shutting felt like crossing a line.

No turning back.

Y/N slipped off her shoes. “Do you want something to drink? Water? Or—”

But her voice faltered when she turned around and saw him watching her.

He was standing in the narrow hallway, still in his all-denim outfit, the white shirt beneath his jacket clinging faintly to his frame. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his lips parted like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

“I’m not thirsty,” he said.

And it wasn’t what he said, but how he said it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was charged.

She took one step closer. So did he.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “About thinking of you. About missing you.”

Her breath caught. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

His eyes searched hers.

“Because if I told you then… I wouldn’t have stopped.”

Then his hand reached for her—slow, but sure. His fingers brushed her cheek, then slid into her hair as he stepped into her space, eyes locked on her lips.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t gentle.

It was months of tension, guilt, want, and memory all at once.

His lips crushed hers with a hunger that made her gasp, her fingers clutching at the collar of his jacket. She could taste the leftover sweetness of soju and the familiar heat that had haunted her dreams for months.

Jungkook moved with purpose, backing her up until her shoulders hit the wall, never once breaking the kiss. His hand slid around her waist, gripping her hip like he was claiming her—like he had to make sure she was real.

She tugged at his jacket. He let it fall.

Her hands slid under the hem of his white shirt, fingertips grazing skin—warm, solid, the faintest edge of his abs tightening beneath her touch.

And then she felt it.

The tattoo.

inked into his shoulder… but now extended, traced down over his chest, disappearing beneath his shirt.

He pulled back just enough to catch her expression. His smile was dangerous.

“Still curious?” he asked, breathless.

Y/N nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Show me.“

And just like that, he stripped off the shirt.

Slowly. Intentionally.

The fabric lifted, revealing inch after inch of warm skin, hard muscle, and ink—dark lines and shadows that traced down across his collarbone and onto his chest. Her eyes followed it, mesmerized, lips parting.

“You can touch,” he said, voice low. “I want you to.”

She stepped forward, hands resting on his bare chest. Her fingers traced the tattoo slowly, then her lips followed—soft kisses over the ink, down the line of his collarbone.

His breath hitched. “Fuck…”

That one word unraveled them both.

He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed her against the wall again, his mouth on her neck now—biting, soothing, teasing—hands sliding beneath her shirt, exploring with the kind of hunger that came from waiting too long.

Y/N was gasping, clawing at his skin, her voice a whisper against his ear:

“You left me burning for a year, Jeon.”

His answer was a growl, low and deep:

“Then let me burn with you now.”

And he did.

Again and again.

Until the only thing left between them was sweat, skin, and the sound of two hearts finally finding their rhythm again.

Y/N woke to warmth.

Not just the sunlight gently seeping in through the thin curtains — but the steady, solid heat of Jungkook’s body wrapped around hers. His arm draped heavy over her waist, his legs tangled lazily with hers, and his breath soft against the back of her neck.

And he was still asleep.

She could tell by the rhythm — slow, deep — and by the way his hand twitched every now and then against her stomach, as if holding her tighter even in his dreams.

Her eyes fluttered shut again.

For a while, she just lay there — letting herself feel it. His skin against hers. The quiet peace of a moment that didn’t feel rushed, or borrowed, or dangerous.

Just… theirs.

Then, softly:

“You’re awake.”

His voice was rough — sleep-heavy, low, and deeper than usual

She smiled, eyes still closed. “So are you.”

He hummed, pressing a gentle kiss between her shoulder blades. “Didn’t want to be. But you’re so warm, it’s distracting.”

She laughed under her breath, turning slightly in his arms so she could face him.

Jungkook was barefaced — hair messy, lips pink, his eyes still half-closed. But beautiful. Soft and unguarded in a way she rarely saw.

“You drool,” she said, grinning.

He groaned. “No, I don’t.”

“You absolutely do. You were cuddling me like a human pillow.”

“You’re small and soft. That’s not my fault.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to sit up — but Jungkook pulled her back down without effort, wrapping both arms around her like a human blanket.

“You’re not going anywhere yet.”

“But—”

“I’ve waited over a year to wake up next to you. I’m taking my time.”

And just like that, her heartbeat flipped again.

He was staring at her — not with lust, not with nerves — but with that quiet, open gaze that felt… dangerous. In the best way.

“Did it feel real to you?” she asked softly.

His thumb brushed against her hip beneath the blanket. “It feels more than real.”

She swallowed. “I don’t want to overthink this. Or ruin it.

“You’re not,” he said immediately. “I swear.”

There was a pause.

Then he reached up, brushing hair from her face.

“I was scared to see you again,” he admitted. “Backstage, when I first walked in and saw you… I almost lost it. You looked the same. But different.”

“Different how?”

“More… sure of yourself. Even when you ignored me,” he teased, smirking.

She poked his chest. “You deserved it.”

He caught her hand gently, threading their fingers together. “Probably. But I couldn’t stop looking at you. I still can’t.”

Her cheeks burned — and she hated how easy he made her smile.

Then:

“What now?” she asked quietly.

Jungkook didn’t rush to answer. He studied her face like he was memorizing every curve, every freckle, every shade of doubt in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I want to find out. With you.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that the world outside was loud, complicated, or unsure.

Because here — in her bed, wrapped in sheets and sleepy affection — they were sure

For now, that was enough.

[jungkooksmytype]

So well written!!!!! The tension on my gawddd

✶ BLOODY CRAWLING BACK TO YOU

in which... you absolutely hate your co-worker, the insufferable Jeon Jungkook. but you're badly hurt, and somehow, your feet led you to his door.

pairing: jungkook x f!reader ✶ ( secret agents au ) word count: 7.7k content warning: smut ( mdni ) ✶ angst ✶ mentions of blood, bruises, fights, sex, and lots of cursing. a/n: although I'm a sucker for the arctic monkeys original version, this one was inspired by hozier's cover of "do I wanna know". hopefully it's not too soft for what I've written, and if it is... well, sorry bout that !

⋆ 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒂𝒚...

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 was biblical—like the city itself had decided you were a stain it needed to scrub off the map.

You staggered through alleys slick with city grime, rainwater swirling in neon puddles at your feet. Every step punched a fresh flare of agony through your side, where your coat clung wetly to the blood seeping from beneath. You didn’t know if your ribs were bruised, fractured, or split like kindling—but every breath felt like dragging lightning into your lungs and hoping you didn’t catch fire.

They’d said four men. Maybe five.

They’d lied. It had been closer to eleven—if you were counting the one catapulted through the window. You’d clawed your way through that hell. Fought like an animal in a trap. And you’d gotten what you came for. The hard drive burned cold and hard against your belly, its weight heavier than steel.

But now you were bleeding.

And somehow, your body—battered, burning—had walked you here.

Of all places.

To him.

You stood at his door, water dripping off your soaked clothes to pool at your feet, hand raised in mid-air, suspended in hesitation. The alley behind was too quiet. The storm outside sounded muffled, like the world was pressing in from all sides and this was the eye of it.

You hated him.

You hated him with an intensity that tasted like smoke and felt like lust. Hated his smirk. His arrogance. His voice. His eyes. His mouth. Hated how often you imagined it against your skin, even now.

But you couldn’t walk another block.

And you couldn’t risk what was in your hidden pocket. Couldn’t risk losing yourself out there when you'd already lost too much.

Your fist met the door before your pride could stop it. The knock echoed through the porch. You turned your head, checking behind you out of habit, expecting a shadow to crawl from the storm. Nothing. Another knock, this time louder—sharper, more frantic. Pain bit at your side, sharp as a blade twisting. You doubled slightly, hand pressed harder over the heat blooming beneath your ribs.

And then the door jerked open.

And there he was.

Jeon Jungkook.

Fucking hell.

His black hair was a mess—still damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower, frowzy strands falling across his forehead. His raven eyes, sharp as always, scanned you in a single, sweeping glance. No flicker of surprise. No warmth. Just that same infuriating coolness that always made your blood boil.

“Seriously? Where the fuck have you been? Losing a fight with a sewer?”

His voice was a cold blade, smooth and deadly.

You didn’t reply. You looked past him instead, scanning the dark corners behind his shoulder—checking for threats, anything to distract from his judgment.

“Hi to you too,” you muttered, lips twisting in a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. Sarcasm was armor, and you wrapped yourself in it fast.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with his arms crossed like he’d been expecting you—and maybe he had.

That was the thing about Jungkook. He knew your tells like battle scars. And he used them.

"Can I come in?" you asked, the words rasping out before you could steel yourself. Your voice cracked, just slightly, under the weight of everything you were trying not to show. "Please."

That made him pause.

Jungkook wasn’t used to you asking for anything—let alone pleading.

He didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside, eyes never leaving yours.

You passed him like smoke, brushing too close, too fast, but not fast enough to miss the heat radiating off his skin. You didn’t look at him again. Couldn’t.

“Thank you,” you muttered, half breath, half defeat.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

You and Jungkook had been orbiting the same hell for too long. Tossed together by whatever bastard thought pairing oil with fire was a great tactical move. You worked like wolves. Clashed like storms. And when it mattered, you covered each other’s backs with snarls and bloodstained fists.

Still, you had rules. Self-made. Non-negotiable.

No drinking with him.

No sleeping in the same room.

No letting him see you bleed.

No showing up at his door when you were breaking.

Too late.

The couch called to your bones, but his voice cut through the air like a whip. “You’re soaking wet.”

You rolled your eyes, dragging a hand through your drenched hair. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Your fingers found the back of the sofa, steadying yourself as exhaustion clawed at your spine. Your clothes felt like lead. Your skin itched from the dried blood you knew clinged underneath. If you closed your eyes, you were done for. So you didn’t.

He moved to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Leaned against the frame, arms folded, every muscle taut beneath the hold of a black shirt. The battered—and quite edgy—fabric hugged his torso like it wanted to be torn off. His sweatpants hung dangerously low, a taunt all on their own.

Your gaze flicked down. Just once.

Big mistake.

"I’m assuming you got it?"

The husky scrape of his voice pulled your head up. You stared for a beat, then moved to the table in the kitchen like your legs weren’t screaming with every step.

"What do you think?" you bit back, reaching into your jacket and yanking out the hard drive. You chucked it at him without ceremony. “Prick.”

He caught it with the kind of lazy precision that always pissed you off. No flinch. No reaction. Just a long look, like he was trying to read past the rain and bruises to what lay underneath.

But your coat was still on. Your secrets still safe—for now.

You slumped into a chair. He moved beside you, sliding his laptop across the table and plugging in the drive.

"‘Kay then, let's just throw the thing around so we lose the leverage we have and money we won’t be paid for."

You allowed yourself to shut your eyes for a second, and leaned your head against the wall behind you. “Dramatic as ever.”

The clicking of his keyboard filled the room. Rhythmic. Familiar. You focused on it like it might keep you conscious.

“What took you so long then? Are you that out of shape?”

A small laugh escaped, tight with pain. “As if.” You shifted in your chair, wincing as fire flared under your ribs. “They lied. There were more of them than their intel promised. A lot more,” you muttered, voice brittle with leftover rage.

The keyboard stopped.

You opened your eyes to find him staring.

“How many?”

You let out a breath. Winced again. “Ten? Maybe twelve? I didn’t exactly count heads while they were trying to break mine open.”

His expression faltered.

Just a crack. A flicker. Barely there—quick enough that anyone else might’ve missed it. But you saw it. The sharp flash of something unspoken that darted through his gaze like a blade—gone just as quickly as it came.

He stood slowly. Like he was bracing for impact. Like he could already taste the blood in the air. His movements were quiet, calculated. An animal not yet sure if it needed to strike or mend.

“You’re hurt.”

The words were low, almost a growl. Not concerned. Not yet. But deadly focused.

“Not really.” You shot back too fast. Too automatic. The deflection barely made it past your lips before another sharp wince cut through you, slicing clean under your ribs like a warning. “I’m just soaked… and sore. Pretty normal after rain and knocking out a few men.”

His gaze sharpened.

Whatever he’d been doing on his laptop no longer mattered. Jungkook stepped closer, leaving the glow of the screen behind like it was nothing. His full attention snapped to you like the click of a safety being released.

His eyes dragged over you—slow, deliberate. Mapping out every flinch, every shiver of pain beneath your soaked jacket. You felt stripped bare, despite the layers you still wore. You hated that look. Hated how closely he could read you. Like his fingers weren’t the only things that could undo you.

You shifted back in your seat instinctively, tension rippling down your spine.

But his voice cut through your retreat like iron.

“Take that off.”

The command didn’t even try to be soft. You saw the way his jaw tensed around it, like he hated how much he wanted to say it—and how badly he meant it.

Your breath stilled. An unholy cocktail of defiance and heat clawed up your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“You're drenched,” he said, cool and precise, but his tone wasn’t nearly as detached as he wanted it to be. “You're shaking. And now I can bet my ass you're bleeding too.”

His eyes dropped—too focused, too dark—and locked onto your side. His voice lowered, rough like gravel. “Just get in the bathroom.”

Oh. Oh. He was fucking serious.

And that made you want to punch him.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed the heat rising in it—rage, maybe. Or something worse. Your fingers curled tight against your thigh, jaw grinding. “You can ready your ass then ‘cause you couldn’t be more wrong!”

But even you didn’t believe that. Your body throbbed in agreement, every nerve screaming betrayal beneath the slick black of your sleeves. You knew how to fake strength. But you were running out of it.

You stood. Slowly. Painfully. If you could just make it to the door—

“You have the package,” you muttered, trying to keep your spine straight, even as your knees threatened to fold. “I already did my part. Now you keep it safe.”

You turned your back to him. The mistake was thinking he’d let you go.

You barely made it four steps before his hand was gripping the collar of your jacket, yanking you to a halt. “Just get in the fucking bathroom, for fuck’s sake!”

"Or what?" You spun, fury lashing in your tone, a snarl curling your lips as your fingers fumbled furiously with the zipper.

You would leave his place with or without the damn jacket. You didn’t care. This was a mistake—coming here, letting him see you like this, giving him even an inch of something he could hold over you.

"Or I'll fucking make you," he growled, yanking the jacket from your shoulders as the zipper finally gave way.

The motion twisted your arms awkwardly, pain lancing through your side with a white-hot burn. You faltered. A sharp breath escaped you as your knees buckled.

He caught you immediately.

And when he steadied you, it wasn’t with roughness. It wasn’t with victory.

“Sorry. Fuck—I'm sorry.” His voice dropped, rough and ragged, hands gently guiding you back upright. “Just… please, let me help you.”

Your head fell forward, forehead brushing the side of his shoulder. Not from affection. From sheer exhaustion. From not having the strength to keep up the fight.

When you finally opened your eyes again, his were already watching you, one hand dragging through his hair in a clear sign of restraint. His chest rose and fell beneath that clinging shirt, his breath a little too uneven.

“Look—you came to me. You’re already here.” His hand returned to your hip, grounding and firm. “Let me just take a look at that.”

You opened your mouth, ready to throw another snarky line just to keep the rhythm of control in your corner, but before you could, he was already steering you—gently, insistently—toward the bathroom.

“Jungkook—”

His hand shot up near your mouth, not touching, just fingers curling in the air like he was this close to losing whatever thread of patience he had left.

“Just—shut your pretty mouth for a second.” He turned to open the bathroom door, not waiting to see if you obeyed. “Get in. Take that off.”

He nodded toward your shirt and gave the smallest push to your lower back. “I’ll be right back. No arguing.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind you.

His bathroom was bigger than expected. Clinical. Sterile. Almost too neat for someone in this line of work. But it made sense, in that strange, maddening way Jungkook always did. Controlled chaos in the field—total discipline at home.

The dim light spilled down the tiled walls in long, moody shadows. The floor was freezing under your bare feet as you peeled off your shirt, every movement stiff with pain. Your fingers trembled, but you managed it.

Your cargo pants stuck to your thighs, soaked and heavy. You unfastened them, sliding them low enough to access the damage—only to the curve of your hips. Anything more and your pride would unravel too.

You sank onto the closed toilet lid in just your open pants and a black sports bra, arms bracing hard on the basin. Your breath came shallow, dizzy from blood loss.

The door swung open, startling you.

You jerked, arms flying up to cover your chest. “You could always knock.”

“And miss the show?” His voice was low, shameless—but it didn’t bite. There was no cruelty, only that maddening velvet steel that was his signature.

He stepped in slowly, kneeling before you with a med kit tucked under one arm, movements deliberate and devastatingly calm. The sight of him like that—on his knees, flushed skin and damp hair, inked arm flexing beneath that cursed black shirt—made your stomach twist violently.

Desire, or pain. Maybe both.

“Just give me that—I can manage,” you said, reaching for the bottle of antiseptic in his hand.

But his fingers wrapped around yours, guiding your arm down with a tenderness that disarmed you more than any threat. “No, you can’t.”

He looked at you—really looked—his eyes falling to the crimson trail running from your ribs, jaw tightening as he exhaled. “This’ll sting.”

His hands hovered over your skin, the gauze paused midair. He wasn’t moving. Just staring at your torso like it told a story he hated reading.

You shifted. “Well?”

That snapped him out of it.

He pressed the antiseptic to your wound and your world exploded.

“Son of a—”

“Breathe.” His voice was a rasp, low and oddly soft, his free hand finding your hip. His fingers didn’t press—just steadied. A quiet promise not to let you fall.

And for a second, you let him hold you like that.

You lost track of everything once he peeled the bloodied gauze away, his movements deft and careful. Jungkook picked up a hooked needle with the same deadly focus you’d seen him use while disarming a bomb or loading a gun. His teeth came down to snap the nylon thread, the noise sharp in the bathroom’s too-quiet air. Your breath hitched.

Modesty didn’t matter now. Not with the sweat on your brow, the taste of copper in your mouth, and the burn that spread from your side like a live wire. You uncurled your arms from your chest and gripped the basin and wall behind you, knuckles whitening, fingers digging into porcelain.

“Oh, God…”

You didn’t mean to say it out loud.

He noticed—of course he noticed. Jungkook’s eyes darted to your face. Then his hands came down to your knees, grounding you with a touch that was unexpectedly steady. Unexpectedly warm. Like an anchor.

You couldn’t stop staring at the needle, though.

Your gaze clung to it like it might jump at you. You weren’t new to fieldwork—scars littered your skin like a patchwork of every mission that had gone sideways. But stitching? That was personal. Up-close and brutal. It wasn’t the pain that got to you. It was the implication. The intimacy of being opened and closed again in someone else’s hands.

Worse than all that was him seeing you like this.

Panicked. Fraying. Human.

“Hey.”

His voice slipped through your spiraling thoughts.

Then his hand was on your face—firm and unrelenting. His fingers curved under your jaw and tilted your chin down, forcing your eyes to meet his. He looked thunderous, but not in the way you’d grown to expect. Not cruel. Not smug. He looked… patient. Focused. Like he was trying to will the fear out of you.

“You really need the stitches, baby,” he said, and the nickname unraveled something low and sharp inside your chest. “I don’t have anesthesia—But I’ll make it quick, I promise.”

You blinked at him, momentarily mute.

It wasn’t just the pain—it was the softness, the way he said baby like it was a secret he hadn’t meant to let slip. You didn’t know if you wanted to slap him or lean into him.

Your chest tightened. So you nodded, barely.

“That’s it. Keep your eyes on me.”

And then he stitched.

The pain came instantly. Sharp and molten. Your whole body flinched, muscles locking as you grabbed your discarded shirt beside you and shoved it into your mouth to muffle the cry. It was either that or scream.

But you didn’t look away from him.

Not once.

Even through the haze of agony, you couldn’t ignore how he looked up at you between every pull of the thread. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lashes casting shadows over cheekbones sharpened by the low light. That little scar he had on his left one. Every few seconds, his eyes found yours, like he needed to make sure you were still breathing.

And worse—you liked that he was watching.

His fingers moved too near your skin, grazing the edges of you, slow and precise. With each tug of the needle, a jolt ran through your spine. Not all from pain. Your body was buzzing, alive in a way that made you clench your jaw and hate every molecule of awareness you had.

Because why did he have to be this close?

Why did you want him closer?

You took the shirt out of your mouth and swallowed hard. The tension in your voice matched the tension on your skin. “You always do this?”

He didn’t look up. “Do what?”

“Play medic for strays?”

His jaw clenched tight, shadow gathering under his cheekbone. His hand paused on the final stitch, threading the knot harder than needed. His silence was louder than a curse.

He tossed the needle aside like it had burned him, shoving the med kit across the tiles with a careless flick of his hand.

“Only the ones that run into traps alone.”

The words cut deeper than the stitches.

His hands hovered in his lap, still curled into fists. You watched his teeth bite down on his bottom lip, hard enough to make that faint, telltale line dent his cheek. The one that only showed when he was furious. When he was trying to hold back.

You knew that look. You’d seen it too many times. He always wore it before things exploded.

“You should’ve told me,” he said finally. His voice was raw, softer than before. A confession, almost.

You couldn’t handle that softness.

Your gaze dropped to the floor, jaw tight. “It’s just a scratch,” you muttered, but the words rang false in your ears yet again.

He sat back on his heels, eyes still burning through you. “Just a scratch,” he repeated, the laugh hollow. “Yeah, right.”

The silence that followed wrapped around you like a vice.

Not peaceful. Not even quiet. It throbbed—the kind of quiet that made your skin prickle and your lungs tighten. It felt like something had cracked open between you, and neither of you knew how to close it.

You moved to stand, needing air, space—anything that wasn’t this. But before your muscles could engage fully, his hand came down, flat and sure, against your thigh.

Not a grip.

Not a threat.

Just there.

“Don’t,” he said.

You made the mistake of meeting his raven eyes.

Electricity. That’s what it felt like. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the dark brown whole, and there was something feral clawing behind them. Something wild. Untamed.

Not hate.

Need.

“I’m not staying,” you whispered, barely able to push the words past the burn in your throat.

Jungkook rose in one fluid movement. He was suddenly there, towering over you, too close, too solid, the heat of him crowding the air.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

The words were a promise. A warning. Maybe both.

He turned his back to you before you could respond—walked to the sink like the conversation was over. He scrubbed his inked knuckles hard, the water hissing as it hit the porcelain, blood swirling down the drain in thin, ghost-red streams. He didn’t look at you once.

But he didn’t have to.

He thought you’d stay.

So you stood. Fast. Pain stabbed through your side, but adrenaline burned hotter. You clutched your wet shirt like a weapon, storming for the door with your pride clenched so tight it nearly suffocated you.

He moved before you could touch the handle.

“What is it now? Huh?” His voice snapped like a whip. “What’s the hurry?”

He stood in front of the door like a sentinel. Like he’d expected this after all. His body blocked every inch of escape.

“I’m going home,” you bit, hand flying to the knob. “You have the damn drive, you don’t need me to run it. I’m done here.”

His hand clamped over yours, solid and immovable. His grip was hot, skin calloused. Like steel locked against silk.

“You were bleeding just a second ago, goddammit! You’re hurt. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you out of here.”

Your voice dropped, venomous. “You don’t get to decide.”

Jungkook leaned in, so close you could feel the fire of him, smell the faint cotton-and-cigarette scent clinging to his skin—a contradiction so sharp it made your breath hitch. His voice came out low, all grit and fury, the heat of it brushing your cheek like a threat.

“I do when my co-worker is falling apart and pretending to be fine. You’re not going the fuck out there like that and that’s final. I didn’t stitch you up only for you to drop dead.”

You didn’t speak. Not with words.

Your body did.

You shoved him.

Hard.

Your palms collided with his chest and he staggered back, spine hitting the door with a thud that echoed like a gunshot. His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his neck. And for a second—just one second—you thought he might lunge. There was that flare in his eyes again. That glint of the monster you knew better than most. Want tangled with rage. But he didn’t move.

He just stood there, breathing hard, teeth clenched behind those pierced lips he didn’t part. The way he stared—like he could rip you apart and worship you in the same breath—lit something molten in your chest.

Then, abruptly, he turned his face away, playing nervously with the loops piercing his bottom lip. Calmed himself. Swallowed it all.

“I’m running you an ice bath,” he muttered, voice flat but dragging like smoke over gravel. “It’ll help with the bruises. Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You stood there, vibrating with the fury and the pull, while he moved like a storm through the bathroom, filling the tub. You could hear the splash of the water hitting porcelain, could see the slow swirl of mist rising where frost met heat. Jungkook crouched and pulled something from behind the tub—a coiled noose of silver tubing, a trickle system you hadn’t noticed. Typical. Always had a backup.

“There’s clean towels there,” he said, passing you on his way out, pointing to a cabinet with one long finger. His shoulder brushed yours—intentionally or not, it didn’t matter. It burned. “Don’t lock it,” he added without looking at you, already opening the door. “Just in case something happens. I won’t come in. Just—spare me from having to barge through it, will you?”

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him like a full stop.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the water. You exhaled slowly, peeling away the rest of your clothes as you hated yourself for complying so easily. The sports bra clung to your skin like a second wound, and your pants stuck as if determined to keep every painful inch of the night stitched to you. Your underwear followed. Cold air rushed in against your naked skin, but it wasn’t the chill that had your blood racing.

You stood over the tub for a moment, teeth sinking into your lip as your fingers hovered. Then, jaw tight, you slipped in.

It was ice.

Literal ice.

You hissed, biting down a scream as the freezing water bit into your bones like knives. But you didn’t get out. You let it happen. Let it burn the heat off your skin. Let it numb the ache in your side and slow the beat of the panic still coiled in your gut.

You stayed submerged there until the pain was dulled by another—the kind that started to settle in your fingertips, the subtle ache of skin flushing blue at the nails.

That’s when you moved. Slowly. Deliberately.

You rose, dripping and goose-pimpled, wrapping yourself in the thick towel you found exactly where he said it would be. Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore, your brain spinning in that hollow, too-calm way that meant you were still in survival mode.

Your eyes fell to your soaked clothes on the floor and tugged at your bottom lip again. Maybe you could use Jungkook’s drier and then call a cab or something. You gulped drily, looking down on yourself and the towel that hid even less than your previous attire. 

But then again, the feeling of having the wet clothing itching back your skin, tormenting your wounds, made you want to yell. 

You decided by leaving them in a heap in the corner and opened the bathroom door with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall right across from the door.

Waiting for you.

Like he knew you wouldn’t bolt.

Like he dared you to.

His eyes dragged up your form slowly, drinking in the towel, the steam curling around your hair, the flush in your cheeks—not just from the water. His lips parted slightly, breath shallow, but he didn’t speak.

The silence between you screamed enough.

He exhaled like he was trying to drag the edge off himself, and you stood there in a trance, waiting for him to move first in this chessboard you stood on every time you were face to face. 

“It’s late. Take my bed,” Jungkook said finally, shoulders tensing, fists balled up inside the pockets of his sweatpants. “The couch is a wreck and you’re not curling up on the floor like some damn street cat.”

Your laugh cut through the air, sharp and disbelieving. “Don’t fucking order me around.”

“Oh, I will, since you bled all over my bathroom and all that,” he shot back without missing a beat, turning down the hall like he’d already won. He didn’t even check if you were following, but of course you did—seething and restless and not quite finished.

Jeon Jungkook was the king of final words. He collected them like weapons. Filed them sharp and threw them with intention. You doubted he even knew how to end a sentence without stamping it in blood.

When he reached his bedroom, the sight of his rumpled sheets made you pause in the doorway. They looked like him. Dark and messy and lived-in. He strode over to a dresser, fingers trailing over the wood as if the casualness could fool either of you. It didn’t. His every movement was intentional—controlled, like he was holding himself together at the seams.

“I’m not staying,” you said again, softer this time. A warning, or maybe a plea.

He didn’t turn around. “You are.”

Then his gaze lifted—through the mirror perched above the dresser. It met yours with devastating precision, and the current in the room sparked like something struck metal.

The bedroom shrank. The walls leaned in. The air felt heavier with every breath you stole, your pulse thudding traitorously against your skin.

You felt everything too much—the towel clutched tight around your chest, the damp fabric molding to your curves; the tendrils of wet hair brushing along your spine; the sting of cold air on your bare thighs. Your nipples peaked beneath the cotton, begging for a little more friction.

Jungkook turned finally, grabbed a shirt from the drawer—white, of all things—and tossed it to you with a flick of his wrist, eyes somewhere over your head. “I’ll dry your clothes after you put that on.”

You caught the shirt with one hand, inhaling as it settled in your grip. It was soft. Lived-in. You could smell him on it.

He gestured with a jerk of his chin. “Bed’s clean.”

You rolled your eyes instead of answering. Arguing now was pointless.

You could dig your heels in, sure. But your body ached. Your side pulsed. Outside, the rain hadn’t let up for hours. And the bastards you’d escaped tonight weren’t going to rest easy. If they were hunting, you weren’t up for round two.

Plus, he did say he would dry your clothes for you. You’d have to wait for that anyway.

Jungkook watched your stance shift—read the surrender in your silence like the tactician he was. Deciding it was safe, he stepped forward, back to the mirror, facing away from you.

He gave you privacy. As if it mattered anymore. As if he hadn’t already seen you stitched and half-naked, skin marked with blood and bruises.

Still, you waited.

You kept your eyes locked on his broad back, on the way his shoulders tightened when you didn’t immediately move. He wasn’t relaxed—he was steel braced for impact. Like he knew what would happen if he turned again.

You let the towel slip. Slowly. Let it fall in a whisper at your feet before grabbing his shirt and tugging it on. It clung in places, soft cotton sticking to damp skin. His scent curled around you, confusingly comforting, irritatingly intimate.

You tugged at the hem—useless. It barely brushed your thighs.

“Of all the black shirts you own, you had to choose the white one for me? For real?”

He turned then—and froze.

His eyes dropped again. Just for a second. Took in the stretch of your legs, the curve of your hips, the little puddle starting to soak through the shirt as you brought your hair all to one side. His throat bobbed.

And when his gaze snapped back to yours, it was searing.

“I’m fine,” you found the need to reassure him, stepping forward. Too close. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“I know,” he said hoarsely, voice wrecked. “That’s the problem.”

His eyes were wild—something caged came back, clawing just behind them once more. Like if he stayed a second longer, he’d do something neither of you could undo.

And so, he bolted.

“I’ll finish checking the drive,” he barked, already halfway through the door, not sparing a glance back, closing it behind him.

You were left alone, blinking in the sudden silence, his scent still clinging to your skin, your blood still thrumming like a war drum.

You crossed the room slowly, each step softer than the last, until your legs hit the edge of his bed. And then, without thinking too hard, you slipped beneath his sheets, still warm from his body.

And for the first time in hours, you let exhaustion win.

Your eyes felt too heavy to open, but it was your own voice that betrayed you first—a soft medley of a moan and a whimper, curling out of your throat like it hadn’t asked for permission.

Everything smelled like him.

The cotton warmth of Jungkook’s bedsheets clung to your skin, soaked in his scent, and it made your limbs feel heavier, your thoughts more tangled. You shifted beneath its weight, your body aching and too warm under the covers. A chill skittered down your spine regardless.

Was there a window open?

You clenched the pillow under your head, breath catching as another whimper slipped out, softer this time, needier. “Jungkook,” you whispered into the sheets, the sound too raw for comfort, too real.

And then you felt it—that presence.

Like a sixth sense, prickling beneath your skin. The faint light beneath the door drew the silhouette of a man carved out of stillness, perfectly rigid, perfectly silent.

Your pulse surged.

Maybe he hadn’t heard. Maybe you were imagining it. Fever dreams could do that.

But your breathing turned shallow, and the room spun slightly, dragging your consciousness fully awake. You could feel him, even without seeing his face. You could feel the way his attention wrapped around you from the other side of the door like a noose waiting to tighten.

And then your mouth betrayed you again, raspy from sleep and dry with nerves. “Are you coming in or not?”

The silence fractured.

The door creaked, slow and deliberate. The knob turned with a soft click, and then he was there.

Jungkook’s eyes latched onto yours like a hook in the gut. Gone was the usual sharpness, replaced by something raw—wide and glassy, like he’d just lost a fight with his own thoughts. His hair was a darker mess than earlier, like he’d run his hands through it in frustrated loops. His face looked shadowed, haunted. Sleep hadn’t touched him.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, heat flashing beneath your skin. The thin sheet pooled at your hips, clinging to the sweat and fever coating your bare legs.

He just stood there.

“I tried the couch,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. Like it hurt to speak.

You swallowed. Hard. “M-My clothes are probably dry now, I’ll go—”

“No.” His voice cracked with something too sharp to be gentle. He gripped the frame of the door with both hands, like he needed to anchor himself or else he’d do something reckless. “Stay. It’s not that.”

His eyes followed your leg sliding beneath the sheets, and your breath stilled.

“What is it then?” you asked, trying not to let your voice tremble.

Jungkook hesitated—then his jaw clenched, breath flaring through his nose. “I kept hearing you… couldn’t sleep.”

You licked your lips, nodding faintly. “I think I’m breaking down in a fever.”

That was all it took.

He stepped inside, slow like he was wading through quicksand. As if afraid you might flinch. His knees met the edge of the bed and he hovered there, wavering fingers finally lifting to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the slope of your neck. His touch was gentle, hesitant. Like he was afraid to confirm what he already knew—but hungrier for the permission to touch you than he should’ve been.

You didn’t look away.

Your eyes stayed locked on his while his palm lingered against your pulse. And there was heat there, not just from the fever. Your thighs shifted under the sheets, friction teasing your skin in all the wrong—and right—places.

“So?” you asked, breathless.

Jungkook didn’t respond right away. His hand was still on your neck, fingers grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear. His lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Let me… uh, let me check on the stitches.”

He pulled his hand away too slowly, reluctantly, and the air felt colder where he’d been. You nodded faintly, heart hammering, remembering suddenly—damn. You were still only wearing his shirt.

You swallowed again and tugged the covers higher over your hips before raising the hem of his shirt. You stopped right under your breasts, baring the stitched flesh to his eyes.

His breath caught audibly.

He didn’t say a word. Just reached out, and when his fingers found the edge of your wound, they were soft. Reverent. He traced the perimeter of the bruising like he was learning it by touch.

Your eyes fluttered. You hadn’t expected that kind of delicacy from him. But it was undoing you in pieces.

Then his fingers drifted lower. Barely an inch, grazing your skin like they had no business being there—but made themselves welcome anyway. Your stomach coiled, every inch of you taut with anticipation. And when he reached your lower belly, your breath hitched and a moan slipped out.

He froze.

“I—” he whispered, mentioning to pull back his fingers. “I should stop.”

You were faster.

Your hand shot out, seizing his wrist, eyes blazing. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

His breathing turned frantic, eyes wide and searching your face like it was a war he didn’t want to win.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” his voice trembled but made no move to get out of your hold. “You have a fever and—”

“And I’d say the same if I hadn’t one,” you interrupted, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt until his lips hovered over yours.

Jesus, you had to be fucking delirious. 

You struggled to pin his gaze, feeling the burning of your wound from holding your abs tight from the position you were in. But you weren’t stopping this. 

He growled low, like something deep in him finally snapped—and crashed his mouth onto yours.

Your fingers threaded through his hair instantly, tugging with just the right amount of pressure. He moaned into the kiss, biting your lower lip, devouring you with an intensity that blurred every line you’d drawn.

Clothes started melting away, yours first. Jungkook’s mouth only left yours to slide his t-shirt over your head. Then his hands ran all over your naked back as he trailed a path from your neck to the sweet spot beneath your ear, lowering you back down. 

His tongue lashed and you could feel his body was heat and tension and want as you pulled him closer to you. “You’re mine.” he whispered.

God, you needed his clothes gone. 

You tipped your head back into the pillow, a whimper falling out of your mouth as you savored the warmth of his mouth back on your throat. The faint sting of his hand brushing against your ribs completely subsided by the knee he had between your legs, occasionally brushing against your core through the sheets. 

“For tonight,” you teased with a grin. 

Jungkook fisted your hair and covered your mouth ardently, and you moaned feeling his damn tongue all the way down between your legs where you needed him most. Your toes curled in pleasure. 

You didn’t know if it was the burning fever taking control over your body or your own unbridled desire, but you needed him closer, needed to feel his skin on yours. 

You started clawing his black t-shirt impatiently and he chuckled against your mouth, bringing his hand to the collar of it, pulling it out for you. 

His heat poured onto your torso immediately and you shivered, letting your fingers glide over his narrow waist, getting under the waistband of his sweatpants and pulling them down to his thighs. 

When you mentioned doing the same with his boxer briefs, mind dizzy as you felt him hard beneath it, he gripped your wrist, halting your movement. 

“God, you’re killing me,” he lifted himself inches off your face, staring deeply, voice wrecked with need. “We can’t—”

“I told you. This is not my first rodeo,” you said against his mouth. “And I don’t want to think about all of this. Just finish what you started.” 

Jungkook growled and his hand came down on your collarbone, pushing you. You fell back down onto the pillow, gasping as your hair fanned around you. He got up, baring his teeth, yanking his sweatpants and briefs all the way down. 

Your heart started thumping in your ears, heat firing your chest, neck, cheeks, as your eyes drifted up his body. Your own burning for him. 

Fuck. Perfect golden skin. Tight stomach, narrow waist. Toned arms, one of them inked to the knuckles—a devil in the night ready to pounce. 

Killing smile. 

Gentle, so fucking gentle with you tonight. 

Jesus, you really were fucking delirious. 

You clenched your thighs, but he kept pinning you down with his eyes, clearly unhappy about you being injured as well as you not wanting to think about the repercussions of what was going on between the both of you. Which you found adorable because his eyes kept darting to your breasts and then to your thighs as you peeled the sheets from them and watched him struggle to breathe. 

Jungkook was as untamed as you were, and he couldn’t stop the storm coming any more than you could. 

Suddenly, all of him was stretched above you, fitted against your body like sin. He squeezed your thigh, pushing it down on the mattress, and you spread your legs wider. A whimper left your mouth when he came down grinding on you. Your back arching, eyes closing as he sucked a nipple into his mouth. 

“Mmm,” you fisted his hair back again, relishing on the softness of his raven locks.

His hips dipped again, rolling against you, and you bit your lips, pulling his face toward your mouth. “You have—” you tried as another roll of his body made you clench. “Ah—please tell me you have something.” 

He looked up to your eyes, smiling. “Yeah.”

You bit his lower lip, dragging your teeth as he gasped and squeezed your under-thigh. You locked one ankle on his lower back, pushing him into you. 

“Ah, fuck,” he moaned.

His body stretched as he reached for his bedside table, opening the drawer and haphazardly pulling out its contents until he found what he was looking for. Your mouth only left his neck once he rose up, taking out a condom, looking down at you from between your legs. 

Jungkook’s eyebrows were etched in anger as he tore the wrapper with his teeth. His eyes never leaving your body as he tossed it and fisted his cock. 

Instinctively your hand came down to rub your clit and he groaned. 

He looked like a god staring down on you as he rolled the rubber on. Your head swarmed with the vision, your fingers working faster, tummy coiling expectantly. 

“You’re so fucking hot it hurts,” he breathed hard, coming down on you again. Your eyes locked as he reached between you to guide himself. 

Your hands snaked around his neck, one tugging at the hair on his nape as he crowned your entrance, pushing inside just barely. You couldn’t help but clench. “JK…” and he groaned in response. 

“You’ll be crawling back to me,” he whispered, pressing himself deeper and deeper. 

You moaned, relishing how he stretched you.

“You can run away as much as you like,” he kept going, grunting as his inked knuckles wrapped around your neck. “Throw a tantrum for all I care…”

He sank into you, filling you to the brink, so deep, stretching you so completely, that a single cry torn straight from your throat. 

“But after tonight, you’ll be crawling back to me,” Jungkook growled. “Again and again—You’ll be fucking mine.” 

His mouth crashed into yours, making you moan, bringing your legs to the small of his back as he withdrew and sank back in deeper and harder.

“Oh, fuck,” your back arched off the bed. 

Your breathing became labored as he propped himself with his other hand, staring you down as he plunged into you over and over. He gave a little squeeze on your neck, and you clenched around his cock, making him moan, dipping his head back for a moment. 

Jeon Jungkook felt so good. 

God, he felt amazing on top of you. 

You clawed your way from his pecs, down to his abs, and you felt it tighten under your touch. His pace turning unruly, wild.  

You spread your legs wide, as wide as they would go, dazed with fever and how good it felt the deeper he went. “Nhg, you feel so fucking good—fuck,” he gasped. 

“I need–” you held onto him and he sucked the air groaning, “Harder, JK.” he rolled his hips into you on command. 

God, you were spiriling. 

Your hands snaked around his waist, and you digged your nails into his ass, helping him roll into you harder, as you met him halfway. 

Sweat glistened your bodies, and it was getting hard to breathe. You couldn’t give a damn if the stitches would tear, the lush pressure of him on top of you, inside of you, kept your mind reeling. 

You’ll be fucking mine, he had said. 

You already were. 

“Jungkook, I–” you gasped, trying to mold his body to yours as your orgasm started building. “Jungkook–”

“What, Jungkook, what?” he teased. 

But your mouth came to the curve of his neck and collarbone instead, biting and moaning as he kept ramming your spot over and over. 

Your nails dragged down his back, burning his skin as you arched into him. You cried out as you found your release, the world spinning, your body wrecked as euphoria crashed into you. 

Holy shit. 

Jungkook came completely undone a few erratic thrusts later, with the sexiest moan you’d ever heard in your life. He managed to hold himself from collapsing on top of your wound, shifting gently to the side. 

You were both a tangled and panting mess. You closed your eyes, enjoying his heavy breathing on your mouth. 

You felt his hand snaking to your hair again, turning your head to the side. He pecked on your mouth slowly until you opened for him, not helping the whimper as your tongues collided again. 

“Jungkook, what?” he asked again lazily, his eyes barely opening, hazy with pleasure. “What was it that you were going to say before?”

A laugh rumbled on your chest, low. You nuzzled your nose on his and although you were unable to remember what the hell you were about to say, you decided to do what you did best—tease him. 

“Oh, nothing… I was just going to say that, uhm, I hate you.” you kept your eyes closed, waiting for his reaction. 

When he didn’t utter a single word, you opened one of them to see his eyebrows were angry and he tilted his head in that way you fucking loved to tease him about it. 

“You do know I’m literally still inside you—?” 

You snorted, rolling to the side and claiming his mouth once more. 

God, you were fucked. 

© ACHERONSOCIETY / 2025, all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim this work as your own.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part five)

part five ; bergamot and cedar

warnings ; extreme alcohol consumption!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

a/n ; WE ARE SOOOO BACK. and before i get screamed at, this is 12k words worth of longing. slowburn to the max. i truly do not think i could have made this anymore devastating if i wanted to. on the one hand, we have oc who might be the blindest bat in all the land, and then we have jungkook who is just ready for the taking. open. honest. unfortunately and undeniably obsessed. (and if you thought they were kissing in this chapter or the next two, ha. i laugh. i read emhen and lynn painter for a living, i live laugh love slowburns. but also more one shots coming your way to hold over while we're in this drought) there's a LOT going on in this chapter so read slow my pookies, rome wasn't built overnight. i shall be waiting patiently on the sidelines!!! (also be gentle i crashed out in @httpsincity's dms already about how i lowkey hate this but oopsie daisy.) ENJOY!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Tonight’s no longer about your comfy blanket fort and ice cream binge while watching Suits. 

Regretfully, your night now involves you, in a swanky penthouse while surrounded by unwelcoming coworkers, chugging some fancy Chardonnay like it’s the elixir of social survival. 

You enjoy being just another face in the crowd. It’s like joining an exclusive club where the only requirement is to take up space. You've spent countless hours trying to fit into places that had all the warmth of a refrigerator, but tonight, you’ve squeezed yourself into so many nooks and crannies that it's starting to feel like a pro sport. 

Blending in has become so natural that you’re starting to welcome it. 

Rihanna’s currently belting out something about not stopping the music, and honestly, who knows what else she’s saying at this point. You’re three sips into your wine and the world’s gone a little fuzzy around the edges. 

Emma? Yeah, you’ve completely misplaced her in this vortex of comfy couch heaven. Seriously, this couch is like a supportive, heavenly embrace that’s saying, “Stay here, forget about the outside world!” And let’s be real, no one needs the outside world when you’ve got a plush throne and this kind of wine buzz. 

You take another sip of your wine and it takes all of your might not to spit it back out when you watch Emma wrap an arm around Paul like she’s the man in the situation. 

You mentally file that for Monday’s debrief where you’ll inevitably make fun of her for her poor choices. 

The guest list for this afterparty is pretty bleak. There’s twenty other correspondents from different news outlets, all mingling under one roof, not one remotely worth speaking to for more than five minutes. 

After reluctantly agreeing to attend, you had opted to take a solo Uber to the location Emma texted you. When you arrived, Jungkook was lounging by the entrance as if he had been existing solely for you to push through the heavy glass doors. Luckily, you noticed him before he noticed you — you credit that to how you secured your spot on the aforementioned couch. 

Plus there’s also this lingering scent of his whiskey and his cedar-y cologne and his newfound love for vodka sodas making a home in your nostrils, and it’s making you incredibly lightheaded. 

From a young age, you’ve always been hyper-vigilant, attuned to details that often go unnoticed by others. You caught things other people would let fly under their noses. A raised voice behind a closed door. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway at the wrong hour. 

It’s mostly why journalism fits you like a second skin. Control disguised as curiosity. Authority masked as observation. There’s power in knowing more than you’re supposed to, tucking details into the fissures of your mind. 

If you can anticipate the story, stay one step ahead, maybe everything else will stay in its place. Maybe you will too.

(That’s the illusion you like best. That if you’re the one asking the questions, no one can ask them of you.)

Sometimes though — rarely, frustratingly, devastatingly — you miss things. 

Hence why you overlook the sound of Jungkook’s footsteps crossing the penthouse. Or the way he grins as he flops next to you on the couch you were deliberately occupying alone.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of a glance. He’s already won more than enough of your time. You raise your wine glass to your lips tentatively, eyes wandering across the room, trying to find anything else to fixate on besides him. 

But then your eye twitches slightly when you look down to your right. You see the clear liquid in a glass cup in his hand, lime wedge resting silently on the rim. Hm. 

There’s a growing list of unhelpful facts about Jungkook that your brain seems determined to catalog. Are you prepping for a bar trivia night (category Jungkook for 500 points) that you don’t remember signing up for? 

“What’s up with these vodka sodas you’re pawning off me?” You’re still not looking at him. He’s really leaned on this copycat act heavily tonight. 

“What’s up with you ditching the crowd for this couch?” He shifts ever so slightly beside you, as if testing the couch for its comfort to understand why you could possibly be holed up here.

“I’m evolving.” You snort, finally turning to peer at him. You don’t know why you do it but you regret it upon impact. Your body isn’t entirely sure what it’s looking for. 

The soft glow from the overhead lights the structure of his jaw. You never realized how strong it is; he could probably chop wood with that kind of bone. In his hand, his drink looks comically tiny compared to the rest of him. 

His brown eyes meet yours trepidly. “Well,” he starts, lifting his glass in some form of solidarity. “If you’re wondering, I only switched to vodka so I could end my night on a high note. Whiskey makes me introspective after one too many.”

“Oh, right.” Your eyes hone in on the cheek scar he has. Seriously, is this dude part of a secret fight club you don’t know about? Where would he possibly obtain such a thing? “I doubt your definition of introspection is the same as mine.”

“Hm.” He hums thoughtfully. “You’re in a mood now.”

Well, the invitation to the afterparty you didn't want to attend and the fact that he’s sidled up beside you all comfy and cozy definitely isn't contributing positively to your mood.

You tip your head toward him, skull landing right on the back of the couch. “I’m in a penthouse with people I barely tolerate, watching Emma flirt with a man who listens to NPR and Joe Rogan unironically. Shoot me now or forever hold your peace.”

He fake shoots a gun at you with his two nimble fingers before settling back into comfortable silence. His shoulder skims yours briefly as he exhales, and your spine jolts a little at the contact. It’s not intentional, but it’s enough to make you wonder why your body always seems to notice his. 

You take another lengthy sip of wine. You wonder if he’ll let you have a sip of the vodka soda in his hand. You’re not sure what persona you were trying to slip into when you poured yourself a glass of the buttery wine.

“Kinda starting to miss my whiskey though,” he says after another moment slips by. “But I guess this makes more sense tonight.” 

Your brows furrow. Numerous sharp comments twitch on your tongue, some you want to say out loud and others you want to mash down. You were never really good at swallowing your words, though. “You switching it up for me?” 

The look that flashes across his features is filled with amusement. “Obviously. Didn’t want to smell like a distillery when I inevitably ended up next to you.” 

Your pulse skips awkwardly. Luckily you’re trained to recover quickly, even when someone says something you’re not expecting. “Oh,” you clack your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “So you planned on sitting here.”

“You weren’t saving this spot for me?” 

Your eyes dart around the room frantically, like you’re searching for someone you can latch on to save you from the rest of the conversation. What was once your safe haven couch has now become that old plastic-covered couch in your grandparent’s living room they refuse to get rid of and no one sits in but them. 

But when you size up your contenders, you realize your options are desolate. Between Emma and Paul, and Jenna and her husband, and Sana, who has now even found herself a companion, there’s no one to run and hide with. No one but Jungkook. 

“In your dreams, Jeon.”

“In my dreams, you do way more than just save this spot for me,” he retorts confidently. 

The man clearly doesn’t have a single crumb of dignity left. 

With a roll of your eyes, you let another sip of your wine drip down your throat. “Okay.” You brush past his previous comment with nothing but a clearing of your throat. "What's your take on the night?”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Bleak.”

Funny, you think to yourself. You thought the same earlier. 

“Very bleak indeed.”

“I think I had a better time two weeks ago when I was watching that intern from Reuters try to flirt with the CNN correspondent in the elevator than tonight.” He sighs upon the memory re-entering his brain. 

You let out a short giggle before catching yourself, and his eyes angle themselves toward you at the sound. As if his eyes and your laugh were two opposite ends of a magnet.

“Are you sure she was flirting? I’m also privy to being forced to speak to annoying ass coworkers,” you tease.

“She probably was.” His eyes flick down to the fabric of your red dress that has bunched up at your hips slightly, then back to your own glazed-over ones. 

There's a moment of silence that lingers long enough in the air that, under normal circumstances, would be awkward. But because it's you and Jungkook, you’re grateful for the fact his voice isn’t blaring in your ear for once. Gives you a second to avert your attention to Emma or the bar or the glass doors or literally anything else. 

“I mean..” He breaks you out of your thoughts. “..at least she was trying.”

You hum in agreement. “Is that what this is? You trying?”

You want to kick yourself the moment it leaves your mouth. Why the fuck did you just say that? If it was him trying, you wouldn’t even want that anyway. In fact, you detest it and—

“Would it work if I was?”

Your body turns to his fully, wine and vodka and lemon drop clouding your thoughts, your judgment. It brings you inevitably closer to Jungkook, knee brushing his, and you do your best not to notice. “Depends on what you’re trying for.”

His lips twitch gently and you look away. You know that if you continue to look at him, continue to make eye contact with his lips or his cheek scar, you’re going to need to get up, walk right out those glass doors, and order the fastest Uber of all time. 

“I’m just talking.” His fingers tap rhythmically against his glass. “Thought we were allowed to do that now.”

It feels like a pebble has lodged itself in your throat. You’ve spent years perfecting your craft, avoiding any and all signs of potential thawing. Because if you weren't fighting him, what were you doing? 

Jungkook being tolerable — let alone, likeable — is not something you’ll allow tonight or possibly ever. 

You glance down at your hands awkwardly. “Right. Talking.”

He leans forward until he’s in your line of vision again. You catch a whiff of his scent, the cologne that now apparently lives in the folds of your subconscious. It hits you that he knows exactly what he’s done, that he’s perfectly aware of the effect he has on you — albeit, little to none, but still present. 

He opens his mouth like a fish out of water, pauses halfway, and snaps it back shut. There’s a look on his face you haven’t seen before. An anxious swarm of bees buzz in your throat, and the more he sits there silently, the worse they feel. 

But then it’s as if he went through a full system reboot, screen turning back on in high-definition. “So, what would you be doing if you didn’t come here?” He leans back against the couch. 

A puff of air falls from your lips as if to expel the taste of Jungkook’s cologne from your mouth. “I don’t know. Probably watching Netflix. I also just got this new charcoal face mask I want to try. You?”

He takes a small sip of his drink. “Rewatching Suits right now. I had it paused on Season 3, Episode 5. Fucking love Harvey.”

Your head whips to face him. You don’t know why the idea of him watching the same exact show as you matters (because it doesn’t. Everyone watches that show.) but your heart does some ridiculous thing in your chest. You ignore it to the best of your ability, placing a hand over your ribs as if it'll ease it. 

“You would love Harvey,” you retort, rolling your eyes so far back they nearly roll across the floor and order another glass of wine. 

He furrows his brows, eyes glinting like they always do when he senses a battle on the horizon. “Harvey’s the man, so I’m not gonna defend myself.”

“Harvey would be nothing without Donna,” you remind him, pointing a finger in the air. 

“Well, you are forgetting that Donna is madly in love with him.” He points out, swirling his drink, like he’s been spending considerable time analyzing fictional workplace dynamics.

“Oh, so you’re saying that a woman can’t be successful without the motivation of love?” Your eyebrow arches. There is a logical fallacy in this argument and now you’re way too determined to prove him wrong. 

His own competitive instincts flare to life. “No. I’m just saying, they are a package deal.”

“If that's what you want to call it.” You take a contemplative sip, nearing the stem of your glass. “Plus, I'm pretty sure he was the one in love with her. Power dynamic was completely reversed.”

He pauses. Clearly considers your perspective. Then goes completely rogue in a league of his own. “Isn’t that the crazy thing about love? I swear, you can never choose who you want. It’s always someone ridiculous. Poor Harvey.”

“Didn’t know I was talking to the love prophet,” you say, and there’s genuine amusement in your voice rather than normal tactical mockery. 

“I know a thing or two about a thing or two.”

“Is Jungkook Jeon a secret hopeless romantic? Do you spend your days reading Emily Henry novels and praying for a long lost love to show up at your doorstep?” Your body reacts before your mind can, poking him in his ribcage playfully. The muscle is hard and barely budges against your finger. There’s also an image manifesting in your head of Jungkook with a girlfriend, and the flutter from earlier snakes its way back into your stomach. 

“No, you clown.” The word slips out with enough endearment to make you laugh. You hardly notice it, but he pauses to watch the sound fall from your lips. “I just… know things. I know how to love someone.”

The statement hangs in the air like it’s supposed to be some sort of confession. Like it’s monumental news to know how to love someone, or to be in love. It’s the most normal thing you’ve heard, but you’re not entirely sure you ever thought Jungkook was capable of it. 

“Oh, really?” You lean into him gently, his knee brushing against yours again for a millisecond. 

“I do.” He lifts his chin confidently. 

“Prove it,” you answer automatically, brain operating solely on auto-pilot.

“Huh?”

The challenge lands with the weight of a gauntlet at both your feet. 

“Prove you can love someone.” Your eyes hold his. He has incredible eye contact, even after a night of drinking. Maybe this dude really is the love prophet. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, sincerely confused. 

“Here.” You gesture between you two with your near-empty glass, creating an invisible stage for whatever performance you’re about to request. His knee moves away from yours, and your heart tugs a little at the seams. “Compliment me. Be nice. I know that might be challenging for you and all, but I really want you to dig deep in that heart made of ice.”

“How is that supposed to—”

“Can’t back out now, Jeon.” You only use his last name when you’re serious, and he knows this. It’s been established since your very first debate in college. “I’m wilting over here.”

“I–” He starts, then stops, and for the first time since you’ve known him, Jungkook looks genuinely uncertain. 

“Imagine,” you barrel on. “I just slipped into the ballroom. I look around, overwhelmed by all the beautiful people. And then — oh, wow, there you are. The love of my life.”

The way he’s looking at you right now tells you that maybe this was the most abysmal idea of all time. You’re never going to drink alcohol again. 

You clasp your hands over your chest dramatically. “I waltz over and—”

“I like your dress,” he blurts out. “Makes your eyes look really fucking nice.”

It’s a crude compliment. Superficial, even. But it comes out like it escaped from his brain. Your entire body tenses up and your ears ring and the grip on your wine glass disappears completely.

The glass falls to the couch with the same effect as a pin dropping. The ballroom fades into irrelevant background white noise, and it’s just you and Jungkook, who apparently uses curse words in compliments and sends nerve-ending tingles to your spine these days. 

“Thats, uh—” You cough a few times while you rack the entire dictionary in your mind to find words that suffice. “That’s one way to do it.”

“Is that not a compliment?” There’s confusion laced into the words, eyebrows furrowing anxiously. 

“Only if you mean it,” you manage to get out. Your voice sounds like you just swallowed a vat of cement. 

“Why wouldn’t I?”

The question comes out so simply and matter-of-factly, that it makes literally everything worse. As if he’s genuinely confused as to why anyone would offer you an insincere compliment.

“Okay.” He takes over the conversation, which you thank God for, because your journalistic self is no longer in the mood to speak. “Now you compliment me.”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head stubbornly, reaching for your wine glass on the couch only to realize it is still very much empty. You need more liquor if you’re going to sit here all night. “That’s not part of the agreement.”

“We have agreements now?” He arches an eyebrow. 

“Shut up. I am not complimenting you.” But there’s something panicked in your tone. Returning his vulnerability terrifies you more than great white sharks do. 

“C’mon, one thing about me.” He leans into you again. He needs to stop doing that before you pass out from a new medical emergency you’re coining as fragrance inhalation. 

You scramble to come up with something, eyes darting across the room like players on a football field. “How about I hit you over the head with my glass instead?”

“Oneeeee, come on,” he coaxes. 

“No.”

“Okay, so you’re saying you’re a virgin loser who doesn’t know how to compliment a man?”

He always knows which nerve to hit to provoke a response. 

“You’re hardly a man,” you snort. “But alright.”

“One.” He holds up a singular finger. 

“This goes against my morals, you know that right?” You’re practically squirming now. Being nice to him conflicts with a very fundamental aspect of your worldview. 

“The universe will make an exception.” He wiggles his eyebrows tauntingly. 

And then you freeze before alcohol makes a decision for you.

“You smell really good.”

You realize that somehow, in the space of this ridiculous conversation, this is the most honest you’ve been in a while. 

Compliments about appearances are one thing, but noticing how he smells — yeah, he’s going to make fun of you for this until the apocalypse happens. 

The smile that was once beaming on his face slides right off. It’s gone with so much ease that you start worrying you said something wrong, like maybe he uses the same cologne that his dead grandpa gave him. But there’s no retort, no bite-back, nothing but silence amongst a rush of noise that seems to dissipate into the background. 

But then a smirk slowly grows on his features and the moment is gone as soon as it came. “Hmm, wanna sniff me?”

You kind of feel like you’ve been hit by a freight train. He tuts disapprovingly, and you can't understand why you're suddenly struck by the desire to drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness for praising his scent.

“Bitch, where’s your drink?”

Emma’s voice slices through the noise, startling you enough that your shoulders shake and the invisible thread tethering you to Jungkook snaps in half. 

You jerk your head toward her, eyes wide like you’re a kid who got caught drawing dicks on a library book. She towers over you, cheeks a rosy glow, hair tousled, Paul in tow behind her like he’s some kind of accessory. 

“I…I finished it?” Your voice is still scratchy from your unfortunate confession. 

Emma eyes you suspiciously. “Finished it? And you didn’t get another one because..?”

Great question, Emma. Didn’t get another one because you were too busy getting complimented by your arch nemesis and then promptly inhaling him right after. 

You shrug. It’s not actually that serious. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Mhm.” She smirks and plops down on the other side of you, pushing Paul to stand up beside her like he’s her bodyguard. 

“Anyway, hiii,” she sing-songs to Jungkook, finally noticing his presence. “Still here?”

All Jungkook does is nod, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, he actually looks… confused? Scared? You can’t piece it together. 

Emma turns back to you obliviously. “You know what you need?”

“To go home?”

She scowls. “More alcohol, dumbass.”

“Fuck no,” you reply instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Alcohol has been your worst enemy tonight. One more glass of it and who’s to say what you’ll do next?

“Yes,” she insists, standing up and struggling to pull you by the wrists like your bones are made of rocks. “You’re being way too chill tonight. It’s creeping me the fuck out. Come on.”

And then your feet are betraying you and propping you upright. You flatten out your red dress a little. Now that you think about it, the dress isn’t actually as uncomfortable as you thought it was. Maybe you’ll wear it again. 

As you mobilize away from the couch, away from Jungkook without a single word, you shoot a final glance over your shoulder. 

Jungkook’s sprawled out, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, cufflinks rolled up and showing off those tattoos. His head tilts as he locks eyes with you. 

Your heart stutters like a scratched CD. 

Damn it. 

You look away before you can do something stupid like walk back.

How many glasses of wine has it been?

Three? Four? Perhaps two too many, considering you’re now having an existential crisis about grapes. 

How is wine even made? Like actually made? There’s something having to do with stomping, possibly. Feet? Is someone out there just… squishing grapes with their toes in a field and packaging it up for your consumption? That feels illegal. You should look into it on Monday. 

Shaking your head, you try to orient yourself in space and time but that makes the room spin a little. Who let you drink this much?

Oh, right. Emma did. (And Jenna, but you’ll spare her tonight.)

The penthouse has completely transformed. Where was once a coffee table has now been turned into a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the open-plan living room. It truly has no business being a dance floor; it’s slippery and someone’s shoe was abandoned in the corner. 

Fifteen people remain scattered around the room. Five others have gone missing entirely — two of those being Jenna and Greg, who you last saw doing tequila shots with a Senior Correspondent from New York times. 

Blue Tie Guy even made an exit too. Left Emma and Paul in the dust. Now it’s just you, lingering  near them like an unpaid chaperone. 

A 2000s hit blares over the speakers that makes your chest fizzle with nostalgia. It might be JoJo, or early Rihanna. Either way, there’s synth and bass and you’re quite enjoying yourself. 

But, whatever. Back to the wine. How does one ferment wi—

“What are you thinking about?”

Emma’s eyes peer at you expectantly, as if you’re on the cusp of some great big revelation you need to share with her. 

“I’m thinking about wine.” You blink back at her, a stupid drunk smile on your face. 

She nods at your words. “As one does.”

You babble on, having been given the green light by Emma. “Also, like, how it’s made. Is it fermented? Or do people step on grapes and hope for the best?”

“Probably both. Maybe that’s how we got rośe, it’s like foot juice but cuter.” Emma’s cheeks are flushed, lashes batting furiously as one does when they’re trying to fight the alcohol haze out of their eyesight. You would know because you’re also trying to do the same. 

“Cheers to whoever invented that,” You raise your glass to hers and clink it softly. 

She turns her body away from her newfound lover, leans into you with all the subtlety of a booming explosion. “Also I’m pretty sure Paul and I held hands four times tonight.”

“Oh, god.”

That’s the only two words you can find in your vernacular to respond.

“He’s kinda good at it.” Her lips curve upwards into a sheepish smile, like she’s talking about her crush from the playground. 

“Holding hands?” you ask incredulously.

“Very good.” She shakes her head in agreement. “Was his friend nice to you?”

Sure, if you qualify nice as the most boring man you’ve ever had the displeasure of speaking to. 

“He was okay. Not my type.” You wave her off with your free hand, because from what you know about Emma, feeding into her delusions will never end well for you. 

“And what is your type, missy? I swear I’ll never know.” She pokes your side, toothfully grinning at you. 

The thing is, you’re not entirely sure. You’re not a complete loser, despite all signs pointing to yes, she is a virgin who has never touched a man. You’ve had sex with finance boys, nerdy guys, the whole shebang. However, you’ve only ever had one boyfriend, and you’re certain that if Emma met him, she wouldn’t find any striking resemblance to you.  

“Not blue tie guy, I’ll tell you that.” You snort. 

That answer seems to suffice for her, because she turns around to entertain Paul and leave you to your never-ending thought spiral again. 

What is your type?

You guess, if you're being truly honest with yourself, you want someone smart. Someone witty. Maybe someone who smells good. Or someone who remembers things about you. That’s important. 

In a world that makes you scream to be heard, all you really want is someone to listen to your whispers. 

Your eyes peek over at Emma, ready to resume your jokes about the wine industry or ask if she has any of those shrimp cocktails left in her bag, only to be met with sheer horror. 

She’s now dancing with Paul. 

They are fully slow dancing in the middle of a penthouse with 2000s throwbacks blaring in the background. Paul’s head is tilted like he’s trying to smell her shampoo. You might die. 

You giggle in disbelief. What the fuck. This is your friend, your partner in crime in journalism. You’re going to lose her to a man who owns loafers with tassels. 

You’re also a little too drunk to care properly.  

The song changes, right in tune with Emma and Paul’s dancing. More RnB, less college frat party based in 2006. A Doja Cat and Jack Harlow song you only recognize because Spotify has been pushing it on you for weeks. 

It’s a pretty sensual song for a work afterparty. Who approved this playlist? Was it Emma?

You sway a little on your feet. A half-drunk, eyes closed movement where your hips catch the rhythm. The stem of your wine glass dangles precariously between two fingers.

“Enjoying yourself?”

He really needs to stop creeping up on you like this. 

Your eyes shock themselves back into awareness. Out of all the five people who had left, it seems that Jungkook was not one of them. He’s standing right in front of you, tattoos on full display and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. You can see a bit of the hardened muscle underneath. 

And suddenly your brain no longer cares about the music. It only cares about your red dress, his woodsy scent that lives in the crevices of your mind, tangled knees and crude confessions that probably shouldn’t have happened. 

He’s holding another vodka soda as if the first ten weren’t enough. His big brown eyes glimmer under the light, like honey.

Damnit. 

“Not everything is about you, you know?” you retort quickly. You spin the stem of your glass to keep your hands busy. 

“Never said it was.” His eyes drop to your glass briefly. “Looked like you were about to make out with that glass though.”

“It’s been more dependable than most men tonight,” you taunt, crossing your arms over your chest protectively. 

“Still no prospects?” He stares right through you. He’s smiling, but something you don’t recognize in his eyes has shifted. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Gonna go and tell them all I have cooties or something?”

“Cooties is juvenile.” He replies with mock seriousness, and his eyes are fonder now before delivering the world’s most diabolical statement of all time. “Chlamydia seems more likely.”

Your jaw drops in actual shock. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He chuckles lightly, then lets his gaze drift over your shoulder. His face morphs into sympathetic horror. “Have they been like this all night?”

You follow his line of sight to Emma and Paul who are still engaging in some kind of mating ritual you don’t recognize. They might as well have raw sex in front of you two.  “Yeah. they have.”

“God, I’m sorry.” And he sounds like he means it. 

“It’s okay,” you shrug. “I’ve been enjoying the little dance circle I created on my own. Extremely sophisticated choreography going on here.”

As if summoned by your words, the music gets louder, and more people drift to the emergency dance floor. Jungkook tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, as if pondering his words before letting them tumble out.

“Can I join this dance circle,” he asks tentatively, “or is it a really exclusive membership situation?”

You tap your chin, pretending to consider the offer. There’s pros and cons to both (although the cons are gruesome.) “Oof. Just closed applications. Terrible timing on your part.”

“Anything I can do to secure entry?” He half-smiles at you. Why is he fighting so hard to join this imaginary dance circle?

Never mind that — what the hell are you doing? You’re creating hoops for him to jump through just so he can dance with you at an afterparty you should’ve left from 30 minutes ago. 

But then you remember a very specific afternoon in your Public Policy seminar where Professor Chen posed some stupid question about market inefficiencies, and Jungkook — Mr. Always Has The Answer, Jungkook — completely spazzed on the answer. You’d watched him stumble through his explanation, clear as day that he was guessing. You’d raised your hand promptly after, mostly because the correct answer was burning a hole through your brain and you couldn't stop yourself. Ten extra points on the midterm exam later, Jungkook didn’t even say great job.

“Hmm.” you pause dramatically. “Negative externality and information failures are both examples of…”

He glares at you in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Entry fee is an entry fee, Jeon.” You cross your arms again around your chest. “Standards must be maintained.”

Jungkook stares at you like he’s trying to figure out whether you’ve completely lost your mind or if this is part of the tango you two have awkwardly been doing around each other all night. 

“Market failures.”

Damn. You weren’t expecting him to know that. 

“Professor Chen is rolling over in his bed right now.”

His grin expands triumphantly. “So about that dance circle membership…”

Over the beat of your heart hammering away in your chest, you can barely think about anything but the terrifying prospect that maybe, possibly you actually want him to join your ridiculous one-person dance party. 

“You want it that bad?” you say, softly. 

His eyes don’t waver from yours. “What’s wrong with that?” 

Jungkook says it so plainly as if desire is the most casual thing in the world. Like he hasn’t spent years purposefully interrupting you at briefings, cutting your questions short, stealing your quotes. 

But now he wants to dance with you. 

“I can think of five reasons off the top of my head.”

“Alright, let's start with number one.” He responds with a twinkle behind his eyes. 

“You’re so…” you trail off. The words are in there somewhere. You just can’t get them to come out without sounding like you care. “...weird”

He lifts his drink in your direction. “Guilty as charged.”

“So… “ You let yourself study him for a second. Under this light, his tattoos are a sharp contrast to the rest of his golden skin. His biceps strain underneath his shirt. His lips are flushed, plump and pink and pillowy. “if I let you into my elite dance circle.. what’s in it for me?”

“Your one person party becomes a two person party.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, complete with a shrug. “Is that not good enough?”

To mask the sensation building within you — something you would label as shyness, if that term didn’t seem so utterly absurd, a feeling that radiates warmth from your core —  you put on a facade of indifference and say, “Probably not, but you’re lucky I’m drunk.”

“Incredibly lucky. You don't normally spend this much time with me by choice.”

He’s not wrong. Sober you would’ve ejected him from this conversation approximately four hours ago. 

"Didn't know you were itching for my time, Jeon.” You try to joke, but your voice comes out a little warbled. 

He opens his mouth as words are about to exit, but decides against it. You need to say thanks but no thanks and go do something sensible like eavesdrop on the correspondent from Politico that’s somehow still here. 

Your hand tugs at your dress, and Jungkook’s eyes follow your movement. There’s a pause where you look at the expanse of the dance floor behind him and really think about it. Mull over your options. There’s still time for you to go home. Some new Rnb song comes on, and you wonder if anyone else notices how suggestive this whole setup is. 

Your breath trips over itself as you look back up at him. Your options are pretty dull right now, but the wine in your hand makes your mind up for you. 

“I don’t really… dance.” The two of you hover at the edge of the crowd. You move to stand next to him, eyeing the stragglers that are left. He looks over at you, peers down through his lashes. You’re searching for any excuse, a distraction, anything else.

“Neither do I.” He replies nonchalantly. “I was gonna sway slightly and hoped nobody noticed my lack of rhythm."

“So we're both frauds,”  you laugh. “Two people who can’t dance. What could possibly go wrong?"

“Everything.” He responds without hesitation. “Absolutely everything.”  

He places his drink on a nearby side table. For a guy who claims not to dance, he’s stepping into you with all the confidence of a professional. 

There’s probably a few inches of space between you. Maybe more. But his eyes can’t seem to leave yours. 

You pick up your previous motions; sway left, to right. His body echoes the movement. You feel vulnerable, laid bare, completely open in front of a man who is basically a stranger to you. 

His shoulder brushes yours gently. You can feel the heat of him like a sunburn before it settles in. You want to press down and see just how hot it is. 

“This is terrible.” Your lips press into a tight-lipped smile. 

“Horrific,” he whispers back. You have to tip your head back to read his lips. You never realized how tall he really was when you were busy arguing with him. 

You burst out into a fit of giggles. It’s all too much — the dancing, the music, him.

Wine is a liar. Wine is whispering that his body heat mingling with yours is completely fine. Wine, you’re beginning to suspect, might be the most dangerous wingwoman you’ve ever encountered. 

Your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. Looser and lighter. And then somehow your body is drifting closer to him like a maelstrom of water lapping on top of a shore. In this crowded sea of people, it’s just you and Jungkook.

You need to look away from him. This is bad, bad, bad news. If you stand even a millimeter closer to him, you’ll be close enough to finally analyze the moles on his face that connect like constellations in the sky. So near that you could just reach out and grab one with your hand.

Nothing about this is funny anymore. 

It’s not funny that your mind flips back to Rosalie, back to the DM, back to your eyes in the dress you’re wearing, back to his scent that envelops you like a warm hug. It’s not funny that Jungkook is running through your mind like a flashback reel. 

And before you’re about to do something monumentally idiotic, like ask who that girl was that he’s interested in, the universe stops you. 

Your feet entangle themselves mid-step, and you trip forward into his body. Broad arms wrap around you, propping you upright before you can fully land on the floor. Jungkook looks down at you, lips slightly parted. His hands are warm against your skin. Really warm. Like a human furnace wrapped around your biceps. 

Jungkook hums softly, his breath brushing against your face. There’s hardly any space left between you now. You’ve lost any and all trains of thought. 

Fuck. If he were anyone else but Jungkook…

“I should… go home.” 

You absolutely should. You know this; it’s crystal-clear certain. You’ve been skating dangerously close to the edge of a cliff for the better part of the night, pretending the ground beneath your feet isn’t steadily crumbling away. This is exactly the point in the night when sensible intelligent people would extract themselves from whatever quicksand they’ve stumbled into. 

You should go home before you do something irreversible, like admitting that the way he’s looking at you right now makes your entire nervous system go into overdrive. 

“Yeah, maybe.” Jungkook says and fuck, it shouldn’t matter that he agrees with you. But it does. 

Because somewhere in your wine-soaked brain, maybe you thought he would protest. That he’d give you some ridiculous reason why leaving is a bad idea.

You find yourself cataloguing the exact shade of brown in his eyes and wondering what would happen if you just… didn’t go home. If you stayed in this moment where the rest of the penthouse fades to black and the only thing that matters is the way he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally figured out how to solve. 

“Right. Well, I’m going to go home,” you say again because apparently once wasn’t enough. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince — you or him.

Jungkook shifts on his feet, and it seems like only then does he realize his hands are still on you. He snatches them back so quickly it almost stupefies you. “Yeah, totally. Makes sense.”

You both blink at each other like two actors stuck in a scene with no director. 

“I’ll… walk you out,” he offers, lifting his shoulders, trying to play it casual. His hands slide back into his pockets, knuckles twitching slightly when they disappear into the fabric, and your stomach churns with the knowledge he’s just as off balance as you are. 

You pretend to hesitate. “That’s not necessary.”

“I know,” he replies, already moving towards the glass doors. “But I’m still doing it.”

Something simple and stubborn has exited his mouth yet again. You want to hurl your shoe at him. 

The walk to the exit is eerily domestic. He trails behind you, as if to make sure you won’t slip and slide on these floors again. Once you’re past the heavy doors, you pass the hallway where someone’s making out against the wall — you check twice to make sure it’s not Emma and Paul — and Jungkook doesn’t even laugh, which is alarming. 

You glance behind you. “No commentary? I expected at least one snide remark.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “I thought about it.”

At the end of the hall is the coat check. You give your name and the attendant disappears into an inconspicuous room while you two stand there in silence. Again. 

You pull your phone out of your handbag just to have something to do, thumb brushing over the screen like you're monitoring something urgent, when really all you’re doing is checking the weather in Cupertino. 

You have absolutely nothing to say to him. Nothing. 

Your entire vocabulary — curated over years of university, sharpened through interviews with politicians — has apparently decided to go on leave. It’s honestly hilarious in the most mortifying way possible. 

Your career is built on the ability to extract meaningful quotes from unwilling subjects. The irony isn’t lost on you that you, someone who gets paid to ask the right questions at the right time, have been rendered speechless by someone who you could normally argue with for hours. 

The attendant returns with your coats, and you take it, fumbling with the sleeves. Jungkook grabs his own. Together, you walk towards the elevator, the sound of your shoes echoing like punctuation marks between thoughts.

You punch the button a few times with your pointer finger. An awkward silence spreads between you two, punctured only by the sound of Jungkook clearing his throat. 

“Okay, real question,” you say finally, eyes boring into the screen as you watch the elevator jump floors to come and save you.  “Are you trying to be nice? Or is this part of some scheme where you're gonna reveal you stole my credit card and you’re gonna hold it hostage until I agree to say something nice about your reporting?”

Jungkook cracks a smile. You can hear it in his voice when he speaks. “No evil scheme. Maybe I wanted five more minutes in a world where you don’t hate me.”

“Oh.”

What else are you supposed to say to that? 

The elevator dings and opens up in front of you. It feels like your stomach dropped somewhere to the vicinity of your feet. 

Jungkook coughs loudly. “Well? You going in?”

Your feet finally get the hint and trudge into the elevator. Your heart’s pounding loud enough that if he got just a little closer you’re pretty sure he could hear it. 

Time ticks like molasses in that tiny box as it transports you down 40 flights of stairs. You just want to get out as quickly as possible. There’s no telling what your mind will do next, and what damage it’s already done. 

Beside you, Jungkook doesn’t say a word. He stands a few inches away, looking like he’s trying to remember what planet he’s on. 

The warmth from the penthouse evaporates instantly when you step out of the elevator, nodding a farewell to the doorman. Goosebumps race down your arms as you push open the door, cool autumn air enveloping you. Your dress is criminally ill-equipped for this weather.

You mutter something under your breath about climate change. 

Digging into your bag with numb fingers, you pull out your phone, typing in your address furiously. Every letter feels unnecessarily complicated after liquidating the bar.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

You try to lighten the mood. “Ordering my uber. Unless you were planning to carry me home on your back, in which case I’ll cancel it.”

Jungkook snorts. “I mean, I did a pretty intense back workout the other day.”

You tap the confirm button on your Uber. “Okay, Hercules. Let me know when you’re offering sleigh rides. I’ll knit you a red suit and attach a bow to my head.”

Uber arriving in 4 minutes. 

You tuck your phone back into your bag. He stands there, looming over you like a guardian angel. “You good? You’ve gone very… pensive.”

“A man can’t think?” He fights back a smile. 

“Dangerous pastime.”

“Funny. You’ve said that before.” His eyes squint at you. 

“Yeah, because that was the time you decided to challenge Senator Jones about his own voting history without your notes in front of you.” You chuckle at the memory. 

“Boldness is a virtue,” he says, lifting his chin. 

“Getting eaten alive is a consequence.” There’s an ache in your head slowly starting to take form. 

“I was on my best behavior tonight and somehow I still got roasted.” He huffs out a laugh. 

“I know.” Your breath clouds the air between you. “It was very unsettling.”

“I’ll take that as a thank you.”

There’s a hum of traffic, the sound of Washington bustling, even at this late hour, in the distant background. You feel the cold all the way to your kneecaps. 

You wish the ground would open up to swallow you whole. 

Rocking back on your heels, you mumble, “You know you really don’t need to wait. You can go back inside, or.. home.”

“I’ll wait to make sure you don’t get kidnapped.” He’s completely deadpan when he says it. 

“Very noble of you.”

“I read a book about feminism once. Felt wrong to leave you alone.” He kicks a pebble with his polished shoe. 

You scoff, pulling your coat tighter around you. “If you believe in feminism, then you should leave me be to fend for myself.”

“You’re drunk, [Y/N]. I’m fine right here.” He responds sternly, and that shuts you up. 

The stars twinkle overhead in the night sky. You’re close enough to the suburbs that you can count every one if you wanted. 

A pair of headlights round the corner. Your heads both snap at the sound of the engine, your Uber slowing to a crawl as it pulls up to the curb. The driver leans across the front seat and waves over at you. 

Jungkook moves closer, squints into the window like your bodyguard. “This yours?” He turns his head to you. 

“No, I'm just getting into strangers' cars now,” you mock, feet shuffling in the direction of the backseat. 

Your hand reaches the handle, barely grasping your fingers around it before you hear “[Y/N]?”

“What?” You pivot and face him. You didn’t really think there was anything left to say. Unless he thought of the world’s wittiest comeback to your last dig. 

The light from the entrance of the building casts little shadows across his features. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his slacks. 

“Just… don’t let this get to your head or anything,” he pauses, swallows, looks you up and down again for what you think might be the millionth time in the past five hours. “You looked really pretty tonight.”

Pretty?

Your brain short-circuits. A full screen crash, blue screen, Mac rainbow wheel of doom. 

It doesn’t look like he’s trying to flirt with you. On the contrary, actually. It looks like he just wanted you to know. 

Your pulse is climbing Mount Everest. The memory of his voice saying those words is already stitching itself into the fabric of your red dress.

You nod at him, a small smile playing upon your lips. Your fingers fumble for the handle and this time, you rip open the back door. Slipping inside, the door slams shut behind you. 

The driver doesn’t speak as he drives away from the curb, from the penthouse, from the afterparty you should’ve never went to, from Jungkook.

You don’t dare look out the window to check if he’s still there.

The driver pulls up to the parking attendant, sharing a few words as you shakily open your phone up. Your heart rattles inside your chest like loose change in a vending machine. 

But what if he’s still there? you think, what if he’s waiting for you like he always does outside of press rooms and briefings to catch you?

So your head turns slightly to look out the back window as the driver ends his exchange with the attendant. 

Jungkook is still waiting at the curb. Still waiting for you.

Monday rolls around with the grace of a semi-truck reversing over your skull.

Somehow, you’re still nursing the hangover of the century. Your head is pounding like it’s been struck by a baseball bat, and your stomach is flip-flopping around the lone bite of a chocolate chip muffin you managed to eat earlier. In total, you probably scraped together about 4 hours of sleep all weekend. Even your teeth seem to throb in protest. 

You also spent countless hours trying not to replay Jungkook calling you pretty in your head. 

Which, to your dismay, you failed at. You replayed it�� a lot. 

What was that exactly? A prank? You’ve spent 48 hours cycling through every possible explanation except the one that might actually be true.

And now, as reparation, you’ve been dropped right back into the gladiator pit. 

In the dingy interview room, your elbows dig into the arm of your chair, notes scattered like landmines in front of you.

You need to recalibrate. You’re not going to let some Friday night fluke ruin your Monday morning murder. 

It’s been a week since you and Jungkook were in contact with Monroe, and even though you know exactly what angle you want to play, there’s still some residual anxiety bubbling inside you. You reread a paragraph you wrote a few days ago about Monroe’s version of the vote count night, highlighter cap tucked between your teeth.

You hardly notice the door creak open, halfway through scribbling your opener when a familiar sigh breaks through the air, followed by the thump of a human sitting in the chair next to you. 

“Hey.”

You blink at your notebook like you’ve forgotten how to read. Against your better judgment, you crane your neck to look over at him. 

He’s in a blue shirt with the collar unbuttoned, eyes sagging like he too, lost sleep over the things that were said Friday night. There’s a stupid half-smile on his face you want to wipe off.

Your body is not behaving. It’s doing that inconvenient swoop again, the one where the birds and the bees and the butterflies have some meetup in your stomach. You’re going to buy a shotgun and kill each one of them. 

“Hi.” is all you really have to offer this morning.

“...How are you?” His leg shifts uncomfortably.

“Don’t do that.” you warn, dropping the pen into your notepad. 

He lets out a soft chuckle, “That good of a Friday night?” 

“I’m still hungover, Jeon.” You’re not lying. You’ve gone through three Liquid IV’s already in the past 3 hours. 

He takes a quick scan over your body, and you shrivel a bit into your chair. “I can see that.”

“And I feel like I partially blacked out on Friday.” you continue on, “which was probably the only reason I tolerated you so much.”

“Tolerated?” He sounds borderline offended. It makes your skin prickle with joy. 

“Let’s make one thing clear.” You meet his eyes that are expectantly waiting for yours. 

“Which is…”

You pick up your pen and play with it to give your brain something to focus on other than his brown eyes that resemble chocolate chips from the muffin you had earlier.  “That thing you said? The… compliment?”

Compliment, confession, insult… they’re all blending together like synonyms. 

“Yeah?” He leans back in his chair like he’s settling in for a show, 

“Let’s just forget it. We can’t start being too nice to each other.” Your pen presses too hard into the note paper, ink bleeding into the sheet. 

“Why not? I liked soft you better.” Jungkook shifts more into you, like he’s trying to get a better look at your face. Like he’s trying to see the you from Friday.

“I am not soft.”

You’re about as soft as a brick in a cashmere sweater. 

“You are. You’re actually super nice when you’re wine drunk.”

And then you’re thinking back to those infinite glasses of chardonnay, the dance that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t. His comment about your eyes in the red dress. Pretty. 

You clear your throat and adjust yourself in your chair. “I am— did you not just hear me?”

“I did, but I’m enjoying how angry you’re getting over it.” His smile is all picturesque white teeth and twinkling eyes. 

You groan, facepalming. Your voice comes out all muffled. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“Ask my mom.” He shrugs. 

“Okay, just, enough. You heard what I said. Let’s go with that.” This conversation needs to end now before you have an aneurysm. 

“Whatever you say, bestie.”

You’re going to kill him and it’s not even the afternoon yet. 

Halfway through your retort — “first of all, you calling me bestie makes me want to rip my skin off” — the door swings open, both your heads swiveling like you’ve been caught passing notes in class.

The woman at the door, the one with the mysteriously timed week-long illness, saunters in. Monroe looks more like she was at an exclusive spa in the French Alps all week, not battling a severe strain of the flu. Her hair is done in a perfect blowout, neither a frizz or flyaway in sight, and she’s donning unnecessarily large black sunglasses. 

“Monroe,” you greet. “Glad you’re feeling better.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” she exhales, tugging her sunglasses off and folding them delicately between two fingers. “You know how it is. Some virus, probably something my trainer’s kid brought back from Aspen. I was a mess.”

You peer over at Jungkook, who meets your eye. A silent exchange of Aspen? Aspen.

“We managed,” he offers up with a smile. “Hope you’re back to a hundred percent.”

“Close enough.” She waves her hand like she’s chasing off a mosquito. “I’ve been living off bone broth and IV drips. I’m as good as new.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. You had a bag of hot cheetos and a three-day migraine. Maybe you should’ve looked into bone broth.

Monroe lowers herself into the chair across from you two. She smoothes a hand down her silk blouse, placing her phone screen down on the table. “So,” she starts, “do you two have anything good for me?” 

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth quirks up. 

“I’ve got about a thousand questions,” Jungkook taps his ballpoint pen against his lap. “But I need you to actually answer honestly.”

“Is that not what I've been doing?” Monroe asks innocently. 

You glance up from your notepad. “Yes, but… this is still off the record. We want the truth. The honest truth, before we go public.” 

There’s a brief pause on her end. Irritation flashes across her face. Or maybe it’s amusement — it’s hard to tell with women like Monroe. She’s polished to the point of opacity. 

“A hell of a demand from a junior correspondent,” she retorts cooly. 

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was worth it,” you say.

“At a certain point,” Jungkook adds casually, “we’d like to do these on the record.”

“As we agreed on,” you echo. Mark had made a very lucrative deal with you two. His end of the bargain needed to be held up. 

“Hmph.” Monroe makes an indignant noise in response. 

Your thumb brushes over the corner of your notepad. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go back to the very beginning this time.” 

Her brows lift, but there’s not a wrinkle in sight. Her plastic surgeon is working overtime. 

“Not the vote count night,” you clarify. “Before that.”

“Alright.” She’s visibly hesitant to your advances. Then again, she should’ve known what she signed up for when Mark sent two eager correspondents her way.

“So… when you two first met. What was that like?” you ask.

“That’s the angle you’re taking?” she snorts, delighted by your audacity. 

“It is.” You cross one leg over the other, attempting to seem as nonchalant as you sound. But your pulse ticks behind your jaw. It’s always a gamble when you go off-script, and your opener had nothing to do with this whatsoever.

“Is this amateur hour?” She tosses her hair over her shoulder dramatically. 

You snap your notepad shut. The sound recoils off the cream-colored walls. “Listen, public opinion right now isn't great. Without us, people think you’re just some money hungry cheater. If you want your story told, you’ll have to tell it right.”

She stares at you intently before pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers. You can practically hear the thoughts in her head ping-ponging back and forth. 

“You know,” Monroe remarks, “people always believe things without listening to both sides. I guess if you are listening to Delgado, you would think I'm some crazy obsessed woman.”

Oh. Oh. You’re getting somewhere. 

“Are you not?” Jungkook asks, like that’s the most reasonable follow up in the world. 

You shoot him a glare, but Monroe laughs loudly. 

“No. I'm not. I’m normally very poised.” You imagine so. The woman probably spends her days hanging out with her personal trainer and delaying the aging process as much as possible. 

“So, when you met him…” you press. You know you have her; her shoulders dip, her fingers toy with the hem of her skirt. 

“Well,” Monroe sighs, “we met like most people do. We were at a retreat in Virginia. A policy weekend thing. I saw him in real life for the first time.. and, I don’t know. I’d heard murmurings of him, nothing good.”

“What did you hear about him?” you ask, flipping your notepad open, writing furiously. 

She ticks off the words like items on a grocery list. “Arrogant. Obnoxious. Rich. Entitled. Do I need to go on?”

No, she doesn’t. Quite frankly, it sounds a lot like the man sitting next to you. 

“Got it.” You scribble the words on your page. “So when you two were finally in the same room?”

“It was electric. He’s electric.” Her tone wavers a little as she recalls it, and the vulnerability takes you aback. 

Your pen slows to a halt. “Really? This self-absorbed, entitled man?”

“Even the worst storms can light up a sky.”

That’s one way to describe a congressional sex scandal. 

She hunches toward you both, like she’s about to impart vast amounts of wisdom. “Have you two ever met someone who, the minute you meet them, it feels like your whole world shifts? Like they were put on this planet to haunt you?” 

You know about that in more ways than one. 

“Maybe.” Jungkook says. You’re keenly aware of how claustrophobic this room suddenly feels.

Monroe nods triumphantly. “That was us. It took one look, one conversation, and I knew it was going to be like that.”

“Was it… like that? While you two were fraternizing?" Jungkook questions. The edge in his voice has gone dull. 

She tosses her head back in laughter. “Definitely. He always had the upper hand, and I was chasing him while he dangled the carrot.”

A weird feeling settles in your stomach. You know what it’s like to chase, to want to matter to someone who doesn’t deserve it. 

“That couldn’t have been easy,” you offer. 

She exhales a slow breath. “You know, as a woman who’s incredibly intelligent, I’m used to men putting me down in rooms I’ve been made to feel like I don’t belong in. But with him, it was different. Like he wanted to hear what I had to say. I was important.” 

Your pen stills again. 

“So I chased him. I chased him until we couldn’t anymore.”

“So it wasn't one sided?” you ask without preamble. 

She eyes you, lets her gaze drag along your figure. “You tell me.”

You hadn’t planned on answering honestly but something about the heat in the air, the sting of your half-sober Sunday still clinging to you makes you mutter, “I don’t think so”

Monroe points both manicured fingers at you like you’ve just won a game show. “Ding ding.”

“Women on the Hill are spectacles,” she says. Her stare pins you where you sit. “We’re all too smart for our own good, and sometimes we’re made to feel otherwise. Haven’t you ever felt like that?”

“I have.” you admit. “More than once.”

“I entangled myself with him because I was his equal. In the past, I’ve never been someone's equal before. Men adored me, sure. But they never matched me. I just wanted that for once.” Her bracelets clink softly as she gestures. 

As you observe her, a wave of empathy washes over you. Each slight tremor in her voice reveals a vulnerability that calls out for compassion.

“I get it.” you say. The words taste sour on your tongue. “I’ve never had that.”

That earns you a sympathetic hum. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s exhilarating. When you find the man that loves your brain more than just you, you’ll understand why nothing else could ever work.”

Your laugh is stuck behind your ribs. 

“The last and only boyfriend I ever had thought I was too smart. He said girls like me should be seen and not heard.” Your fingers tighten on your notepad. 

And you don’t know when you ingested truth serum, but it flows out of you with ease. So easily that it makes you twitch in your chair when repeating the words out loud that have haunted you for years.

“What the fuck?” Jungkook blurts out incredulously, completely ignoring the audience in the room. It’s the first three words he’s said in minutes, and it punches through the room with force. His eyebrows are pulled taut, jaw tense. He blinks at you, like he’s trying to discern if he heard you right. 

“What the fuck.” He repeats when you make no move to offer up a response or explanation. Not that you owe him one.

But you feel like you need to calm him down before he gets up and throws his chair across the room. “It was a joke,” you murmur. “He said it jokingly.”

“Oh,” Jungkook curses under his breath, then goes, “Hilarious. Real knee slapper.”

His jaw is still clenched so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t cracked. His fingers flex on the armrest repeatedly.

Monroe’s eyes flicker between you both, intrigued. “Men are so fragile.”

Your pen tip presses an inky bruise into the paper. 

“Now you see it,” she says, like she’s handing you a mirror. “Delgado enriched my mind.”

It’s a pretty sentence, a poignant reflection on the bittersweet reality of having someone unexpected love you for exactly who you are.

You flip a page in your notes. “Public opinion of you right now… is not great.” 

“Oh?” One side of Monroe’s lips curl. 

“They all think you did it for money.” 

A humorless laugh escapes her. “That’s rich. I was never getting his money.”

You pause. Pen hovers above paper. “Then what did you want?”

“Him.”

There’s a desperate ache inside you that begs to be seen — not in fragments, not in convenience — but entirely. 

“Have you seen what he’s been saying?” Jungkook switches his pen from his left to his right. It’s a beautiful shade of black. You’ve noticed his signature pens lying around rooms sometimes. 

Monroe nods. “I have.”

“And?” He lets his pen fall to his lap. 

“I can’t let it bother me. If I let every man rewrite my story, I’d never get out of bed.” She rolls her eyes.

“Well, I’d love to rewrite your story.” He props his elbow on the armrest, eyes twinkling the way all journalists do when they’ve been presented with the opportunity to write. 

“We,” you correct. “We’d love to help rewrite it.”

There’s no way you’ll let him write this alone. This is your story as much as it is his. 

“Right. Both of you.” Monroe bemuses, lips quirking.

We’d love to rewrite it. 

We. 

When the hell did that start happening?

Nine years ago, you had a boyfriend. 

You didn’t necessarily want one. Didn’t go looking for it like most people did your age. 

See, your plan was always this — college, job, and pay your parents back for everything they did for you. There was no line item for ‘boyfriend.’

Once, when you were too young to understand the logistics of the world, you had sketched out your life with the precision of an artist, every detail carefully outlined. A prestigious Ivy League university, a fulfilling career as a journalist, a charming home for your family — each element of your future unfolded like a well-rehearsed script. The house you envisioned was nestled just down the road from your parents, a lovely two-story home with three cozy bedrooms that danced in your dreams. 

Even when you were ten, sharing a cramped bedroom with your family, you had determined that this would someday be your parents’. A token of gratitude for all their hard work, for everything they did to put food on the table. 

Then came him — the soft-spoken classmate who unexpectedly wove himself into the fabric of your life during your senior year of high school. He was a gentle soul, effortlessly blending into the background of your AP English class. He drew little attention to himself amidst the bustling energy of teenage life. 

And so you let your plan alter a little. You let yourself fall for someone to fulfill the void. You etched him into every crevice of your plan until there wasn’t a single part of it that didn’t include him. 

Despite how easily he fit into it all, he made an effort to undo it. He pulled away at pieces of yourself until there was nothing left to give. He took and took and took. 

And when you’re seventeen from a poor family that has had to make peace with owning nothing, you accept being taken from. 

So when you walk out of the interview room after your time with Monroe is up, after spending an hour talking about a man who is taking more from her than he’s giving, you run. Speed down the hallway as quickly as you can.

When you turn the corner, leaning against the cold wall to ground yourself, a quick patter of footsteps follow you but you try to ignore it. 

“Are you alright? You kinda ran out of there.”

Jungkook hides behind the wall, slightly out of breath, as if he too was maintaining your speed down the hall. His dark hair is tousled over his forehead.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You wave him off, hitching your bag higher on your shoulder. “Guess I’m still hungover.”

You attempt to laugh but it’s clear he doesn’t find that the least bit funny. 

“I thought it might’ve been because of what you said in there.” His words land between you like a dropped match on dry grass. 

“Huh?” You blink up at him. 

“That thing you said.” He clears his throat. Looks up at the ceiling like it might have the answer on how to ask what he’s asking properly. “Was that true?”

You know exactly what he means. You’re just too busy trying to find an exit route from this hallway. 

“What part?” you ask, because it buys you time. Maybe if you keep playing dumb, this whole conversation will dissolve and he’ll call you a dimwit so you can return to some sense of normalcy. 

“About what your ex said to you?” he says, quieter. “That you should be seen and not heard?”

The memory has followed you into adulthood like a shadow that forgot to disappear at night. 

“Jungkook, it’s fine.” You straighten your shoulders, looking down the empty hallway before looking back at him. “It was in the past. I don’t need you to pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you.”

“Sureeee.” You shift your weight onto your other foot. “Because this whole ‘intervention’ doesn’t feel at all like pity.”

“I’m not. I just… “ He struggles with the words for a second. “I just don’t think you should walk around thinking that he might be right.”

Hilarious, because that’s the exact thing you have been walking around thinking, ever since high school. Ever since someone looked at your ambition like it was a flaw, like being too intelligent made you less lovable. 

“Trust me, I don’t.” You lie right through the skin of your teeth. 

“Okay, good.” He pauses, eyes flicking from your chest that’s still heaving up to your mouth. “I wouldn’t have anyone to argue with if you started playing dumb for me.”

“I would never.” You push his shoulder playfully, hoping to blow out the fire behind his eyes. If anything, it just intensifies at your brief touch. 

Your attention splits when you hear someone heaving down the hallway, and Jungkook’s eyes gaze behind your shoulder at the sound of a poor man dying. 

When you turn, it’s Mark, who you actually forgot about a little after agreeing to write the piece on Monroe. You’re about to offer him an inhaler as he catches up to you, tie flung over his shoulder, bracing the wall for support, but he speaks before you can. 

“I’ve been looking for you two everywhere.” he gasps, “You’re quite the runners, aren’t you?”

You meet Jungkook’s eyes for a second, barely containing your laughter.

“Did someone chase you down here or is this some kind of fitness challenge?” Jungkook folds his arms as if he also didn’t just run down a similar hallway. 

Mark straightens, face blotchy. “I haven’t broken a sweat like that since the holiday party in 2019 when the heater combusted and it was like, a thousand degrees.”

Jungkook grins widely. “You okay, man? Need a defibrillator or something?"

“I need,” Mark pants, pointing between you both, “the two of you. That’s what I need. You’re not going to like it, but it’s urgent.”

Nothing good has ever followed a sentence like that. 

“By all means, continue to ruin my day,” you mutter under your breath.

Mark pulls out his phone, ignoring your snide remark. “Delgado’s team just announced he’s holding a surprise press conference in Manhattan on Friday. Monroe’s team, in retaliation, is doing one Thursday morning.”

“Wait, so…” you deadpan.

“They’re going head to head, pretty much.” Mark turns his phone towards you, showcasing his calendar that is color-coded to a T. “In New York. They’re spinning this like it’s some truth tour.”

You have a feeling the truth won’t actually be told here. 

“Listen, this could be huge. We need people in the room we can trust, people who know the case.”

Oh no. You know exactly where this is going. 

Your hangover headache returns with a vengeance. 

He must see it written in your face, because he goes, “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s all expenses paid.”

Your first instinct is to bolt. To fake a cough and say, “oh no, I think I have Monroe’s alleged flu.”

The last thing you need is a getaway to New York with Jungkook. You haven’t been in that city with him since graduation, when you took your respective seats as valedictorian and salutatorian. He tried to trip you as you were getting up to deliver your speech, but you dodged him in time. 

Jenna leaps into your mind as if she’s always lurked in there. The promotion. Senior correspondent. The raise. The money you could use to buy your parents that home. 

Mark keeps going, unaware of the war inside your brain. “Transporation is covered. Rooms covered. Media badges cleared for you. I can tryyy and squeeze you in the front row.”

Jungkook looks between you and Mark with an unreadable expression. 

You have a promise to uphold to yourself — a vow you’ve been building your life around since you were old enough to know what the word ‘eviction’ meant. 

“Fine. I’ll go.”

It surprises you when it leaves your mouth. 

“Yeah,” Jungkook echoes. “Me too.”

Mark claps his hands together gleefully like you just agreed to be his groomsmen at his wedding. “Amazing. I’ll work on sending all details to your emails. God, you two are the best.” 

He doesn't really say much more, spinning on his feet and clacking away on his phone already, whistling like he hasn’t put a dent on your weekend. 

Your stomach knots itself into a bow, and you pray New York won’t take more from you than you have left to give. 

masterlist + ask

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[svtimagination]

the stranger in my phone | jeon jungkook | eyes in the dark series

✦ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook × Female Reader ✦ Genre: Dark Angst, Fluff, Smut (18+) ✦ AUs: Stalker AU, Obsession AU, Hidden Identity, Texting Stranger → Dark Romance ✦ Chapter Warnings: Stalking, Harassment, Abduction, Aggression, Psychological Manipulation, Blood Mentions, Possessiveness, Non-consensual Undertones, Forced Intimacy, Obsessive Love, Trauma, Mental Instability ✦ Word Count: 3.1K ✦ Summary: A drunken text to a stranger draws Y/N into a flirty, thrilling exchange—unaware that the charming man on the other end is already watching her from the shadows.

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The bar hummed with life — the music low but steady, the clink of glasses blending with the sound of carefree laughter. The air smelled of liquor and a hint of mischief as you leaned back into the worn leather seat, your head just a little too light, your cheeks warm from the alcohol.

"Truth or dare, Y/N?" your friend teased, her voice lilting with the unmistakable glee of someone who'd had one too many drinks.

You grinned, biting your lower lip. "Dare."

A collective "ooooh" echoed around the table, your friends exchanging mischievous glances. That was your first mistake.

"Text a random number and flirt with them," one of your friends declared, a wicked smirk spreading across her face.

Your eyes widened, but the alcohol buzzing in your system made you bold. "Easy," you slurred with a laugh, unlocking your phone and randomly typing in a string of digits. No thought, no hesitation. Just reckless fun.

You: Hey there, handsome… are you this hot, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Your friends roared with laughter as you hit send. The screen blurred slightly before your eyes, but you kept going, spamming the number with playful, flirty texts.

You: I bet you look like a Greek god. Or maybe you're just a nerd in glasses… But hey, I like nerds.

Minutes passed. You were already moving on to another round of shots when your phone vibrated — once, then twice.

Unknown Number: Are you always this bold, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Your jaw dropped. "He replied!" you blurted, shoving the phone in your friends' faces. They cheered. "Ask him his name!" one of them giggled.

Your fingers moved quickly.

You: And who do I have the pleasure of drunkenly seducing tonight?

A pause.

Unknown Number: Jeon Jungkook.

The name made you blink. "Jeon Jungkook?" you muttered aloud. "Sounds… fancy." Your friends howled. "Maybe he's a CEO or something," one teased.

You shook your head, amused.

You: Ohhh, a full name? Classy. Let me guess — you're some hotshot businessman sitting in a glass office right now, counting your millions?

A longer pause this time. Your heart thudded lightly in your chest, the alcohol heightening every emotion.

Jungkook: Something like that.

You bit your lip. His responses were smooth, confident, but not pushy. It was… fun.

You: Well, Mr. Jeon, hope I'm not distracting you from making your next billion.

Jungkook: Trust me, sweetheart. You have all of my attention.

The words made your stomach flip — a dangerous mix of drunken courage and the thrill of talking to a stranger who seemed both charming and… intense.

What you didn't know was that Jeon Jungkook wasn't just some random businessman.

He was your stalker. And tonight, you had unknowingly handed him the perfect excuse to slip further into your life — all because of a silly, drunken dare.

-JEON JUNGKOOK POV-

The city glittered beneath the towering glass windows of my office, a perfect blend of cold steel and distant lights. Papers were scattered across my desk — contracts worth millions, deals that would make or break lesser men — but my mind was only half on the numbers. It always was these days.

The other half of me was… elsewhere. With her.

My Marionette.

The phone beside me buzzed, a single sharp ding slicing through the silence. I didn't expect a message — not at this hour — but when I glanced at the screen and saw the unfamiliar string of digits, a smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.

Her. My Y/N. My marionette I give her this name

I knew her number by heart — I'd memorized it long ago — but seeing her text me without realizing who I was? It was almost too perfect.

Marionette: Hey there, handsome… are you this hot, or is it just the alcohol talking?

The boldness of her words made me chuckle, a low sound that echoed in the empty office. Was she drunk? Probably. She only ever let her guard down when she thought no one was watching.

But I was always watching. Fingers steady, I let the moment simmer before replying.

Me: Are you always this bold, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Her response was quick — playful, teasing — her usual sharpness dulled by liquor, but the fire in her personality still sparked through the screen. I liked her like this. Vulnerable. Open. Unaware that she was texting the very man who watched her from the shadows.

She asked for my name.

Me: Jeon Jungkook.

I didn't lie — there was no need. My name meant nothing to her, not yet. To her, I was just a random businessman on the other end of a dare.

Marionette: Ohhh, a full name? Classy. Let me guess — you're some hotshot businessman sitting in a glass office right now, counting your millions?

If only she knew. I leaned back in my chair, my thumb brushing the edge of the phone as I stared at her message. She was teasing, playing, unaware that her every move — every smile, every drunken text — was threading deeper into the web I'd spun around her.

She wasn't just texting a random man tonight. She was texting the one pulling her strings.

My Marionette.

Me: Trust me, sweetheart. You have all of my attention.

Because she did. Always.

Her reply came almost instantly.

Marionette: Oof, smooth talker alert. I bet you say that to all the girls, Mr. Jeon.

I chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the silent office. She thought this was a game — a harmless, drunken exchange with a stranger.

If only she knew how long I'd been watching her, how many times I'd crafted scenarios like this in my head. Tonight, luck had simply handed me the perfect excuse to slip into her life without suspicion.

She chose me. Or at least, she thought she did. My Marionette had unknowingly tangled herself deeper into the strings I held.

Me: I don't talk to just any girl, Y/N.

I imagined her reaction — the way her lips would part slightly in surprise, wondering how I knew her name. She hadn't given it to me yet, and I didn't plan to explain how I knew. I wanted to see if she'd question it — if her gut would whisper that something was wrong.

Seconds ticked by. My fingers drummed against the dark wood of my desk, anticipation simmering in my chest.

Then — three dots appeared. She was typing.

Marionette: Wait… did I tell you my name?

Smart girl. But drunk. Vulnerable.

Me: It showed up with your number.

A lie — effortless, smooth. She wouldn't question it, not when she was tipsy and playing a silly dare. The perfect alibi. Her response came slower this time, and I imagined her biting her bottom lip, trying to piece together whether or not she'd slipped up.

Marionette: Weird… but okay. Guess you have me at a disadvantage now, Mr. Jeon.

My tongue ran along the inside of my cheek, my jaw tightening at her words. Disadvantage? If only she knew just how deep that disadvantage ran.

I knew where she lived. What time she left for class every morning. The café she liked to study at. The perfume she wore — soft and sweet, like vanilla and a hint of jasmine. The way she smiled when she thought no one was looking.

She wasn't at a disadvantage. She was utterly, completely in my grasp — and the best part? She had no idea.

Me: I like having the upper hand, Y/N. Don't worry — I'll be gentle.

The words hung between us — a playful threat masked as a flirtation.

Would she catch it? Would her heart stutter in her chest the way mine did every time I thought of her — every time I saw her through the lens of my carefully hidden obsession?

Another pause. Then…

Marionette: Gosh… you're good at this. Are you sure you're not secretly a heartbreaker?

I smiled.

Oh, sweetheart. I wasn't here to break your heart. I was here to own it.

The seconds stretched between her last message and my next move. I could almost picture her now — sitting in that dimly lit bar, a half-empty glass clutched between her fingers, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the attention of a so-called stranger.

A soft smile playing at her lips as she waited for my reply, completely unaware she was toying with the man who had already mapped every inch of her life.

She didn't even realize the spider she was flirting with was the one who had been weaving her into his web for months.

My Marionette.

The phone buzzed again.

Marionette: So you're sure you're not drunk too? Because I swear, no sober man flirts this good.

I let out a low chuckle, running my thumb over my bottom lip as I leaned back in my chair. The city lights reflected off the glass walls of my office, the stark contrast between my world and hers glaringly obvious. She was there — carefree, drunk, laughing with her friends.

And I was here — cold, calculating, yet sickeningly infatuated with the girl on the other end of the phone.

Me: Not drunk, sweetheart. Just interested.

Simple. Friendly. A lie wrapped in a golden bow.

Because my interest wasn't the fleeting kind she thought it was — the kind of attention that burned fast and faded faster. No, my obsession was a slow, simmering ache. A carefully curated madness.

She had no idea that I knew she preferred red wine over cocktails. That I knew which sweater she wore when it rained.

That I'd watched her through the café window for hours as she studied, chewing the tip of her pen when she got stuck.

To her, I was a random number. A stranger. To me, she was everything.

The three dots appeared again. My jaw clenched — not out of frustration, but anticipation. Every text from her was like gasoline on the fire already raging inside me.

Marionette: Interested? What's a hotshot businessman like you doing talking to a tipsy college girl like me?

I smirked. Cute. She thought she was playing the game. But I was the one who created the board.

Me: Maybe I like tipsy college girls.

I let the words linger — just enough innuendo to keep her hooked, but not enough to scare her off. It was a delicate balance — push, but not too far. Pull, but not too hard. Not yet.

Another buzz.

Marionette: You're dangerous, Mr. Jeon.

I let out a dark chuckle. Oh, sweetheart… You don't know the half of it.

-Y/N POV-

The bar felt warmer now — the lights a little blurrier, the music a little louder. Or maybe that was just the alcohol humming through my veins. Either way, I was drunk. Properly drunk.

Another shot slid down my throat, burning for half a second before settling into a warm buzz in my chest. My friends were still howling with laughter over something stupid, but my attention was glued to my phone — to him.

Jeon Jungkook.

The random guy I'd just been dared to text was… surprisingly fun. Smooth, confident — dangerously so — but not in a way that screamed creep. If anything, he was playing along with my drunken flirting, matching my energy. It felt harmless. Silly.

Or maybe the liquor was making me too bold to care.

Me: Jungkook… sounds too serious. What if I call you… Jumpy JK?

I giggled to myself, biting my bottom lip to stifle the sound. God, I was embarrassing.

The three dots appeared immediately. He was quick — too quick for someone who was "busy counting millions" like I'd joked earlier.

Jungkook: Jumpy JK? Sweetheart, I don't think anyone's dared to call me that.

I could almost hear the smirk in his text. It made my stomach flip for some reason — that stupid, annoying flip that happens when someone attractive pays a little too much attention to you.

Which was ridiculous. I didn't even know what he looked like.

Me: Well, there's a first time for everything, Jumpy JK. Consider me the trendsetter.

Another giggle escaped me. God, I was so drunk. He replied again — smooth as ever.

Jungkook: A trendsetter, huh? Should I be worried about what nickname you'll come up with next?

I grinned, my fingers moving faster than my brain.

Me: Hmm… how about Mr. Billionaire Bunny? Rich, smooth talker… but I bet you're secretly soft.

I didn't even know why I said that — something about the name "Jungkook" felt… youthful.

Like he was too polished on the surface but maybe — just maybe — there was something warmer underneath. Or maybe that was just the tequila thinking for me.

The dots appeared. Vanished. Appeared again. Was I throwing him off? Good.

Jungkook: Billionaire Bunny? Careful, sweetheart — you might be onto something.

Something about the way he called me sweetheart made my skin tingle — too warm, too familiar for someone I didn't even know. But I brushed it off. It was just flirting. Nothing more.

Right? I took another shot. The room spun a little, and my thumbs danced clumsily over the screen.

Me: If you're a billionaire, shouldn't you be doing… billionaire things? Not texting drunk girls in bars?

I expected him to deflect again, to play it off like he had before — light, flirty. But his next text felt heavier.

Jungkook: Maybe drunk girls in bars are more interesting than business meetings.

My heart thudded. It shouldn't have. It was just a text. Just a game. Right?

-JEON JUNGKOOK POV-

Billionaire Bunny.

The name shouldn't have amused me, but it did — not because it was clever, but because it was her. She could've called me anything, could've laughed at her own drunken jokes like she just did, and I still would've hung onto every word like a man starved.

Because it was Y/N. My Marionette. The girl who had unknowingly spun herself into my web long before tonight.

I leaned back in my chair, the city lights casting a cold glow across my office. My fingers tightened around the phone, the smooth surface suddenly too small — too fragile — for the weight of my obsession.

She thought this was a game. A drunken dare. A harmless flirtation with a stranger. But to me? It was a door she'd just opened — wide enough for me to step through, to slip further into her life with a smile and a name she didn't yet fear.

Jeon Jungkook.

Not her stalker. Not the shadow who followed her home. Not the man who memorized the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous.

Just a random businessman who happened to text back.

I was playing the role perfectly — friendly, flirty, a touch mysterious. Careful not to push too far too fast. She didn't know that every word she sent fueled something far darker inside me — an obsession that had grown roots so deep, even I couldn't cut them loose.

Her latest message blinked on my screen.

Marionette: If you're a billionaire, shouldn't you be doing… billionaire things? Not texting drunk girls in bars?

I smirked.

Me: Maybe drunk girls in bars are more interesting than business meetings.

It was a simple line — light, teasing — but I wondered if she felt the shift like I did. If she noticed how easily I turned the conversation back to her.

Would her friends tease her about it? Would she glance at her phone and feel the tiniest flicker of intrigue — wondering why a rich, successful man was bothering with someone like her?

Good. Let her wonder. Let the doubt creep in. Because that was the key to this game — not chasing her, but making her step closer. Making her want to know me. To trust me.

Even if that trust was built on nothing but lies. The dots appeared again.

Marionette: Oh? So you're saying I'm more fun than your boring billionaire life?

Me: Much more fun, sweetheart.

The word sweetheart lingered in my mind — a dangerous pet name, too familiar, too intimate — but I liked it. I liked the way I could slip it into conversation and feel her hesitation, the slight pause before she replied.

She noticed. Even if she didn't fully realize it yet — she noticed. And that was enough. For now.

The seconds dragged into minutes.

Her texts — the playful, drunken nonsense that had me grinning like a fool in this cold, sterile office — suddenly stopped.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, waiting for those familiar three dots to pop back up. They didn't.

Me: What's wrong, sweetheart?

Nothing. Unseen. Another minute passed. Then two. Then five. The small flame of amusement in my chest flickered — twisting into something darker. Colder.

She didn't just lose interest. No, not Y/N. She was drunk, still giddy and playful just minutes ago — and now, nothing?

Did she pass out?

The thought gnawed at me. The idea of her — slumped over at some dimly lit bar, surrounded by people who didn't know her like I did — was enough to set my jaw tight. She was too careless tonight. Too trusting.

Her friends were probably just as drunk — laughing, dancing, not watching over her the way I would have.

If I were there… I shut my eyes for a beat, breathing slow. I wasn't there — because she didn't want me there. Not yet. Not in the way I needed to be.

She still thought I was just a name on her screen — a random man she stumbled into by chance. Not the man who already knew the bar she was at.

The man who had followed her there once or twice before, lingering in the shadows just long enough to make sure she got home safe.

My fingers tightened around the phone, the plastic and glass creaking under the pressure.

I should leave it alone. Let her wake up tomorrow with a headache and a blurry memory of texting some smooth-talking "billionaire" — let her reach out first.

But the idea of her unconscious — vulnerable — made my skin itch. I had to know. I had to see. With a slow exhale, I typed one last message.

Me: Falling asleep on me already? Or did someone steal your attention, sweetheart?

No response. Unseen.

My jaw clenched.

I leaned back in my chair, the cold glass of the skyscraper window reflecting the dark smirk tugging at my lips. It was fine. Let her sleep. Because tonight was just the beginning.

She'd opened the door — and now, I wasn't going anywhere.

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A/N: How was the story, do tell me.... Also, if you want to be tagged, please feel free to drop a comment or send an ask<3

– DO NOT: repost, translate, copy, continue, or reimagine my work, and upload on different sites. this is mine. let it rest here.